What will de Hypocrit do dat Day?

He will knock at de do' and be driven away

Driven away!
Driven away!

Dat Day what '11 light de sky?
De sun 'll rise des one hour high,
Den down dat sun will fall—
Come in, Seekers! Come in all!

What will de Church-Leader do dat Day?
He will tap at de do' and dey 'll ax him to stay—
Ax him to stay!

Ax him to stay!

Den when de Archangel sing

He'll hide his face behin' his wing;

Prayers 'll roll from sho' to sho'
And Praise 'll rise ter set no mo'.

Sinner and Hypocrit 'fo' dat Day,
Can't you come in and plead to stay-
Plead to stay?
Plead to stay?

UNCLE AARON'S GREETING

From 'Plantation Songs.' Copyright, R. H. Russell, New York, and used here by permission of the publisher and author.

What! Come back from Santiago?

And wearin' his arm in a sling-
Lawsy marcy, ole 'oman, hear dat!
Don't dat beat ev'ything?

Take my hat off the peg, Jerushy,
I ain't had it down for a year;
Git my long-tail-black out de chist dar.
You! Handle dat coat wid keer:
Dat coat done been th'oo th'ee sessions-
Ole master, his pa and his son—

You hatter have 'spec' for a coat

Dat's been th'oo de years like dis one.

Hu! Yu! Den, I'm stiff in de jints,
But walkin' 'll limber me some.
Git my cane out de cornder, Jerushy;
Now call dem boys: Lewis! oh, Lum!
Come go wid gran'pa to de Gre't House-
And come quick, you lazy young coons;
Yo' Marse Tom is done come fum de wars
Des teetotally kivered wid wounds!
I feel now sorter like a gen'leman,

Dar's virtue in dis coat, I believe,
To make me feel most like a scholar

Wid de larnin' dat ole master leave
A-hangin' around in dese pockets,
Or maybe slipped up in de sleeve.
I feel now as proud as a sojer
Off a day on a bravery leave.

ON THE PATH

Hol' up, chillen, de ole man 'bleeged to rest: Lemme set on dis log des a spell,

I must wait twel my strengt' rises some'atGood you cotch me-I most might a-fell! How quiet de fiel's and de country,

As still as de ole gin in June.

Dis a cu'us war anyhow,

Our war wa'n't played to dis tune!

Des Marse Tom, and some one or two mo', Few several gone to de fight

Marcy! in our war my master

And four hund'rd 'listed one night!
Ev'y one had his several hosses,

Nigger boy, nigger cook, nigger man;
Besides from dis ve'y plantation
Mos' a whole endurin' brass ban'.
And us melt and roll into bullets
Ev'y tea-pot and plantation bell,
And us took ev'y plow off de stock
When later us needed mo' shell.
And all day de ladies picked lint,

A-singin' to keep back de tears,

And de Quarter folks tried to raise corn
Wid a passel er scrubby ole steers,
'Caze our hosses all gone to de front,

And our mules gone pullin' de guns,
And dar wa'n't a white man to be seen-
To de front-all-fathers and sons!
Well times is obliged to change,

And de ole ways is mos' wo' out: Young folks, and new ways, and new warsWonder what dis new war is about: Never heard of no Spanyards in my timeDe Lord must have made 'em sence!

In Cuba? Freein' mo' niggers?

Dar's enough on dis side er de fence—

A passel er skittish, free darkeys

What won't let de ole folks larn 'em sense.

AT THE GREAT HOUSE

Marcy me! What's dat on de tower?
A Yankee flag des as sho' as I'm born!
Heah, chillen, slip down and hide

Right heah in dis high, rustlin' corn-
Dem Yankees sho' found dat Marse Tom
Had des done come home for a spell,
And dey done come and done took dat boy
To deir Dry 'Tugas Prison, or hell!
Dey done raise deir flag on our house!

Gracious me! What else is dey done?
I 'spec' neither man nor mouse

Is left-not nairy a one!

Is you crep' up and took a nigh look, Lum?

Des tell de ole man what you seeOle Marse and ole Miss on de gallery, As easy as easy can be?

Don' tell me; Is dat flag a-flyin'

What I think dat I think I see?

Yas. And Lewis, you say dat Marse Tom
Is come out on de front porch, too?
Is you tryin' to fool yo' gran'daddy,
Or tellin' him truf for true?

Well, come and le's go 'long and see
If dey is done surrender or not—
Is my Master done give up de place
Widout even parley or shot!

WHEN HE SEES HIS YOUNG MASTER

Lord, boy! Lord, chile! Lord, honey— Our boy wid his arm in a sling—

Didn' I teach you to ride! You-Sonny! Didn' I bait yo' fust hook? Ev'ything—

And to think you done been to de wars!
Yit dese arms can clarsp you onct mo'—
Bless de Lord for dis day, little massa!
Fer dis day!-But he-he! Ho-ho!

My soul, boy-De brass and de buttons-
Sojer-straps!—and des one heavy fight?
But-What's dis I see? Gracious me!
Tell me does my ole eyes see right?
Is-my boy heah got on de Blue?
Shoo-den-no-I scursely kin ax it—
Is you 'serted--and left us for true?
Don't you know dem grey cloze in de chist
In camphire laid up in de loft?

Don't you know how us cried when us fold 'em?
Even Marse hid a sob wid a cough.

Come heah! Boy! Tell me what is you done done?

Is I done load yo' fust musket

For you to be feared of a gun?

Huh! You laughin' at dis ole nigger?

Den tell me what all er dis mean,

'Caze dat flag and dese cloze is de beatenes'

Things my ole eyes even seen.

You say dat you follered Joe Wheeler

To de rifle pits down in Caney?

And you say Wheeler rallied 'em on

And won de whole glorious day!

Now, boy, dat talkin' sound good

In de good ole-fashion way.

But you say Wheeler rallied his men

Round dat flag, and led men from New York?

Den I sholy believe my senses
Gwine ac' like a mustang-and balk!
And us all one country now,
Same as had no great war at all?

Des call it de "late onpleasantness"
Gone like fust frost in de fall-
Well, boy! Time changes and changes,
Changes may be for better and all,

But you can't 'spec' a stupid ole nigger
To stretch his mind round de whole ball.
All I know is: Wid things gwine like you say
Den us nigh to de Golden Sho'

Whar dey eats des butter and honey
And whar Yankees ain't Yankees no mo',

MISTER FROG'S NOTE OF REGRET

From 'Fifty Folk-lore Fables.' Copyright, and used here by permission of the author.

MISTER FROG he been long time studyin' dat he ought to git married. Evenin's mighty long and lonesome him settin' on a mossy log on de side er de stream. D'rectly he 'gun to speak 'bout it sholy was wrong to put off gittin' married so long and he say:

'S wrong
To put it off

S' long

'S wrong!

All the little frogs hearin' Mister Frog say dat he is done wrong for to put off gittin' married so long, dey give him de

answer:

Yas 'tis! Yas 'tis!
Yas 'tis!

Dey keep up sech a 'larmment dat dey git Mister Frog 'sturbed in his mind and he collude dat he'll ax de nex' thing dat come along to marry him, and he couldn't a-done no better. 'caze de nex' thing he seed comin' was a little bit er brown bird, one des as bright as a mustee gal wid mollyglaster hair. No sooner did Mister Frog ax dat little bit er brown bird