Dey's dancin' in de cabin, Dey's spahkin' by de tree; But dancin' times an' spahkin' Are all done pas' fur me. Dey's feastin' in de big house, Wid all de windahs wide-- Is dat de way fu' people To meet de Christmas-tide? It's goin' to be a green Christmas, No mattah what you say. Dey's us dat will remembah An' grieve de comin' day. Dey's des a bref o' dampness A-clingin' to my cheek; De aih's been dahk an' heavy An' threatenin' fu' a week, But not wid signs o' wintah, Dough wintah'd seem so deah-- De wintah's out o' season, An' Christmas eve is heah. It's goin' to be a green Christmas, An' oh, how sad de day! Go ax de hongry chu'chya'd, An' see what hit will say. Dey's Allen on de hillside, An' Marfy in de plain; Fu' Christmas was like springtime, An' come wid sun an' rain. Dey's Ca'line, John, an' Susie, Wid only dis one lef': An' now de curse is comin' Wid murder in hits bref. It's goin' to be a green Christmas-- Des hyeah my words an' see: Befo' de summah beckons Dey's many 'll weep wid me. THE FOREST GREETING Good hunting!--aye, good hunting, Wherever the forests call; But ever a heart beats hot with fear, And what of the birds that fall? Good hunting!--aye, good hunting, Wherever the north winds blow; But what of the stag that calls for his mate? And what of the wounded doe? Good hunting!--aye, good hunting; And ah! we are bold and strong; But our triumph call through the forest hall Is a brother's funeral song. For we are brothers ever, Panther and bird and bear; Man and the weakest that fear his face, Born to the nest or lair. Yes, brothers, and who shall judge us? Hunters and game are we; But who gave the right for me to smite? Who boasts when he smiteth me? Good hunting!--aye, good hunting, And dim is the forest track; But the sportsman Death comes striding on: Brothers, the way is black. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY Sweetest of the flowers a-blooming In the fragrant vernal days Is the Lily of the Valley With its soft, retiring ways. Well, you chose this humble blossom As the nurse's emblem flower, Who grows more like her ideal Every day and every hour. Like the Lily of the Valley In her honesty and worth, Ah, she blooms in truth and virtue In the quiet nooks of earth. Tho' she stands erect in honor When the heart of mankind bleeds, Still she hides her own deserving In the beauty of her deeds. In the silence of the darkness Where no eye may see and know, There her footsteps shod with mercy, And fleet kindness come and go. Not amid the sounds of plaudits, Nor before the garish day, Does she shed her soul's sweet perfume, Does she take her gentle way.