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Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) with a friend
I have been reading all the poems I can find by Paul Laurence Dunbar, in order to create another top 30 countdown. Yesterday, when I got down from the hundreds to 55 poems in order, I knew I did not want to lose any more of his love poems. So I take a break from that top 30, to bring you the very enjoyable top 20 love poems written by Dunbar. He only lived to be 33, so when he writes of how an old man may feel about love as well as he does a young couple, as if he carried all of this within him, some full and long happy love life, we can recognize a gift. But, just as tuberculosis beat him physically to a young death, it seems at least alcohol kept him from being the great lover to his bride, then Alice Moore (pictured below, not above).
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#20
from
1899
Then and Now
Then
He loved her, and through many years,
Had paid his fair devoted court,
Until she wearied, and with sneers
Turned all his ardent love to sport.
That night within his chamber lone,
He long sat writing by his bed
A note in which his heart made moan
For love; the morning found him dead.
Now
Like him, a man of later day
Was jilted by the maid he sought,
And from her presence turned away,
Consumed by burning, bitter thought.
He sought his room to write–a curse
Like him before and die, I ween.
Ah no, he put his woes in verse,
And sold them to a magazine.
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#19
from
1901
Anchored
If thro’ the sea of night which here surrounds me,
I could swim out beyond the farthest star,
Break every barrier of circumstance that bounds me,
And greet the Sun of sweeter life afar,
Tho’ near you there is passion, grief, and sorrow,
And out there rest and joy and peace and all,
I should renounce that beckoning for to-morrow,
I could not choose to go beyond your call.
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#18
from
1901
Suppose
If ’twere fair to suppose
That your heart were not taken,
That the dew from the rose
Petals still were not shaken,
I should pluck you,
Howe’er you should thorn me and scorn me,
And wear you for life as the green of the bower.
If ’twere fair to suppose
That that road was for vagrants,
That the wind and the rose,
Counted all in their fragrance;
Oh, my dear one,
By love, I should take you and make you,
The green of my life from the scintillant hour.
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#17
from
1899
Love
A life was mine full of the close concern
Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast;
Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past.
A present came equipped with lore to learn.
Art, science, letters, in their turn,
Each one allured me with its treasures vast;
And I staked all for wisdom, till at last
Thou cam’st and taught my soul anew to yearn.
I had not dreamed that I could turn away
From all that men with brush and pen had wrought;
But ever since that memorable day
When to my heart the truth of love was brought,
I have been wholly yielded to its sway,
And had no room for any other thought.
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#16
from
1895
The Corn-Stalk Fiddle
When the corn ‘s all cut and the bright stalks shine
Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;
When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,
And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;
Then it’s heigho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,
For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.
And you take a stalk that is straight and long,
With an expert eye to its worthy points,
And you think of the bubbling strains of song
That are bound between its pithy joints–
Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,
With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.
Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
O’er the yielding strings with a practised hand!
And the music’s flow never loud but low
Is the concert note of a fairy band.
Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle
To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.
When the eve comes on, and our work is done,
And the sun drops down with a tender glance,
With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,
Come the neighbor girls for the evening’s dance,
And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle–
More time than tune–from the corn-stalk fiddle.
Then brother Jabez takes the bow,
While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,
Then Henry stops by Milly Snow,
And John takes Nellie Jones’s hand,
While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,
And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.
“Salute your partners,” comes the call,
“All join hands and circle round,”
“Grand train back,” and “Balance all,”
Footsteps lightly spurn the ground.
“Take your lady and balance down the middle”
To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.
So the night goes on and the dance is o’er,
And the merry girls are homeward gone,
But I see it all in my sleep once more,
And I dream till the very break of dawn
Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle
To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.
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#15
from
1895
After the Quarrel
So we, who ‘ve supped the self-same cup,
To-night must lay our friendship by;
Your wrath has burned your judgment up,
Hot breath has blown the ashes high.
You say that you are wronged–ah, well,
I count that friendship poor, at best
A bauble, a mere bagatelle,
That cannot stand so slight a test.
I fain would still have been your friend,
And talked and laughed and loved with you;
But since it must, why, let it end;
The false but dies, ‘t is not the true.
So we are favored, you and I,
Who only want the living truth.
It was not good to nurse the lie;
‘T is well it died in harmless youth.
I go from you to-night to sleep.
Why, what’s the odds? why should I grieve?
I have no fund of tears to weep
For happenings that undeceive.
The days shall come, the days shall go
Just as they came and went before.
The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow
Though you and I are friends no more.
And in the volume of my years,
Where all my thoughts and acts shall be,
The page whereon your name appears
Shall be forever sealed to me.
Not that I hate you over-much,
‘T is less of hate than love defied;
Howe’er, our hands no more shall touch,
We ‘ll go our ways, the world is wide.
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#14
from
1901
Diplomacy
Tell your love where the roses blow,
And the hearts of the lilies quiver,
Not in the city’s gleam and glow,
But down by a half-sunned river.
Not in the crowded ball-room’s glare,
That would be fatal, Marie, Marie,
How can she answer you then and there?
So come then and stroll with me, my dear,
Down where the birds call, Marie, Marie.
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#13
from
1899
Dream Song II
Pray, what can dreams avail
To make love or to mar?
The child within the cradle rail
Lies dreaming of the star.
But is the star by this beguiled
To leave its place and seek the child?
The poor plucked rose within its glass
Still dreameth of the bee;
But, tho’ the lagging moments pass,
Her Love she may not see.
If dream of child and flower fail,
Why should a maiden’s dreams prevail?
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#12
from
1893
The Old Apple-Tree
There’s a memory keeps a-runnin’
Through my weary head to-night,
An’ I see a picture dancin’
In the fire-flames’ ruddy light;
‘Tis the picture of an orchard
Wrapped in autumn’s purple haze,
With the tender light about it
That I loved in other days.
An’ a-standin’ in a corner
Once again I seem to see
The verdant leaves an’ branches
Of an old apple-tree.
You perhaps would call it ugly,
An’ I don’t know but it’s so,
When you look the tree all over
Unadorned by memory’s glow;
For its boughs are gnarled an’ crooked,
An’ its leaves are gettin’ thin,
An’ the apples of its bearin’
Would n’t fill so large a bin
As they used to. But I tell you,
When it comes to pleasin’ me,
It’s the dearest in the orchard,–
Is that old apple-tree.
I would hide within its shelter,
Settlin’ in some cosy nook,
Where no calls nor threats could stir me
From the pages o’ my book.
Oh, that quiet, sweet seclusion
In its fulness passeth words!
It was deeper than the deepest
That my sanctum now affords.
Why, the jaybirds an’ the robins,
They was hand in glove with me,
As they winked at me an’ warbled
In that old apple-tree.
It was on its sturdy branches
That in summers long ago
I would tie my swing an’ dangle
In contentment to an’ fro,
Idly dreamin’ childish fancies,
Buildin’ castles in the air,
Makin’ o’ myself a hero
Of romances rich an’ rare.
I kin shet my eyes an’ see it
Jest as plain as plain kin be,
That same old swing a-danglin’
To the old apple-tree.
There’s a rustic seat beneath it
That I never kin forget.
It’s the place where me an’ Hallie–
Little sweetheart–used to set,
When we ‘d wander to the orchard
So ‘s no listenin’ ones could hear
As I whispered sugared nonsense
Into her little willin’ ear.
Now my gray old wife is Hallie,
An’ I ‘m grayer still than she,
But I ‘ll not forget our courtin’
‘Neath the old apple-tree.
Life for us ain’t all been summer,
But I guess we ‘we had our share
Of its flittin’ joys an’ pleasures,
An’ a sprinklin’ of its care.
Oft the skies have smiled upon us;
Then again we ‘ve seen ’em frown,
Though our load was ne’er so heavy
That we longed to lay it down.
But when death does come a-callin’,
This my last request shall be,–
That they ‘ll bury me an’ Hallie
‘Neath the old apple tree.
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#11
from
1896
A Florida Night
Win’ a-blowin’ gentle so de san’ lay low,
San’ a little heavy f’om de rain,
All de pa’ms a-wavin’ an’ a-weavin’ slow,
Sighin’ lak a sinnah-soul in pain.
Alligator grinnin’ by de ol’ lagoon,
Mockin’-bird a-singin’ to be big full moon.
‘Skeeter go a-skimmin’ to his fightin’ chune
(Lizy Ann’s a-waitin’ in de lane!).
Moccasin a-sleepin’ in de cyprus swamp;
Need n’t wake de gent’man, not fu’ me.
Mule, you need n’t wake him w’en you switch an’ stomp,
Fightin’ off a ‘skeeter er a flea.
Florida is lovely, she’s de fines’ lan’
Evah seed de sunlight f’om de Mastah’s han’,
‘Ceptin’ fu’ de varmints an’ huh fleas an’ san’
An’ de nights w’en Lizy Ann ain’ free.
Moon ‘s a-kinder shaddered on de melon patch;
No one ain’t a-watchin’ ez I go.
Climbin’ of de fence so ‘s not to click de latch
Meks my gittin’ in a little slow.
Watermelon smilin’ as it say, “I’ s free;”
Alligator boomin’, but I let him be,
Florida, oh, Florida ‘s de lan’ fu’ me–
(Lizy Ann a-singin’ sweet an’ low).
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#10
from
1896, this cover 1905
“Howdy, Honey, Howdy!”
Do’ a-stan’in’ on a jar, fiah a-shinin’ thoo,
Ol’ folks drowsin’ ‘roun’ de place, wide awake is Lou,
W’en I tap, she answeh, an’ I see huh ‘mence to grin,
“Howdy, honey, howdy, won’t you step right in?”
Den I step erpon de log layin’ at de do’,
Bless de Lawd, huh mammy an’ huh pap’s done ‘menced to sno’,
Now’s de time, ef evah, ef I’s gwine to try an’ win,
“Howdy, honey, howdy, won’t you step right in?”
No use playin’ on de aidge, trimblin’ on de brink,
Wen a body love a gal, tell huh whut he t’ink;
W’en huh hea’t is open fu’ de love you gwine to gin,
Pull yo’se’f togethah, suh, an’ step right in.
Sweetes’ imbitation dat a body evah hyeahed,
Sweetah den de music of a lovesick mockin’-bird,
Comin’ f’om de gal you loves bettah den yo’ kin,
“Howdy, honey, howdy, won’t you step right in?”
At de gate o’ heaven w’en de storm o’ life is pas’,
‘Spec’ I ‘ll be a-stan’in’, ‘twell de Mastah say at las’,
“Hyeah he stan’ all weary, but he winned his fight wid sin.
Howdy, honey, howdy, won’t you step right in?”
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#9
from
1899
A Letter
Dear Miss Lucy: I been t’inkin’ dat I ‘d write you long fo’ dis,
But dis writin’ ‘s mighty tejous, an’ you know jes’ how it is.
But I ‘s got a little lesure, so I teks my pen in han’
Fu’ to let you know my feelin’s since I retched dis furrin’ lan’.
I ‘s right well, I ‘s glad to tell you (dough dis climate ain’t to blame),
An’ I hopes w’en dese lines reach you, dat dey ‘ll fin’ yo’ se’f de same.
Cose I ‘se feelin kin’ o’ homesick–dat ‘s ez nachul ez kin be,
Wen a feller ‘s mo’n th’ee thousand miles across dat awful sea.
(Don’t you let nobidy fool you ’bout de ocean bein’ gran’;
If you want to see de billers, you jes’ view dem f’om de lan’.)
‘Bout de people? We been t’inkin’ dat all white folks was alak;
But dese Englishmen is diffunt, an’ dey ‘s curus fu’ a fac’.
Fust, dey’s heavier an’ redder in dey make-up an’ dey looks,
An’ dey don’t put salt nor pepper in a blessed t’ing dey cooks!
Wen dey gin you good ol’ tu’nips, ca’ots, pa’snips, beets, an’ sich,
Ef dey ain’t some one to tell you, you cain’t ‘stinguish which is which.
Wen I t’ought I ‘s eatin’ chicken–you may b’lieve dis hyeah ‘s a lie–
But de waiter beat me down dat I was eatin’ rabbit pie.
An’ dey ‘d t’ink dat you was crazy–jes’ a reg’lar ravin’ loon,
Ef you ‘d speak erbout a ‘possum or a piece o’ good ol’ coon.
O, hit’s mighty nice, dis trav’lin’, an’ I ‘s kin’ o’ glad I come.
But, I reckon, now I ‘s willin’ fu’ to tek my way back home.
I done see de Crystal Palace, an’ I ‘s hyeahd dey string-band play,
But I has n’t seen no banjos layin’ nowhahs roun’ dis way.
Jes’ gin ol’ Jim Bowles a banjo, an’ he ‘d not go very fu’,
‘Fo’ he ‘d outplayed all dese fiddlers, wif dey flourish and dey stir.
Evahbiddy dat I ‘s met wif has been monst’ous kin an’ good;
But I t’ink I ‘d lak it better to be down in Jones’s wood,
Where we ust to have sich frolics, Lucy, you an’ me an’ Nelse,
Dough my appetite ‘ud call me, ef dey was n’t nuffin else.
I ‘d jes’ lak to have some sweet-pertaters roasted in de skin;
I ‘s a-longin’ fu’ my chittlin’s an’ my mustard greens ergin;
I ‘s a-wishin’ fu’ some buttermilk, an’ co’n braid, good an’ brown,
An’ a drap o’ good ol’ bourbon fu’ to wash my feelin’s down!
An’ I ‘s comin’ back to see you jes’ as ehly as I kin,
So you better not go spa’kin’ wif dat wuffless scoun’el Quin!
Well, I reckon, I mus’ close now; write ez soon’s dis reaches you;
Gi’ my love to Sister Mandy an’ to Uncle Isham, too.
Tell de folks I sen’ ’em howdy; gin a kiss to pap an’ mam;
Closin’ I is, deah Miss Lucy, Still Yo’ Own True-Lovin’ Sam.
P. S. Ef you cain’t mek out dis letter, lay it by erpon de she’f,
An’ when I git home, I ‘ll read it, darlin’, to you my own se’f.
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#8
from
1901
The Old Front Gate
W’en daih ‘s chillun in de house,
Dey keep on a-gittin’ tall;
But de folks don’ seem to see
Dat dey ‘s growin’ up at all,
‘Twell dey fin’ out some fine day
Dat de gals has ‘menced to grow,
Wen dey notice as dey pass
Dat de front gate ‘s saggin’ low.
Wen de hinges creak an’ cry,
An’ de bahs go slantin’ down,
You kin reckon dat hit’s time
Fu’ to cas’ yo’ eye erroun’,
‘Cause daih ain’t no ‘sputin’ dis,
Hit’s de trues’ sign to show
Dat daih ‘s cou’tin’ goin’ on
Wen de ol’ front gate sags low.
Oh, you grumble an’ complain,
An’ you prop dat gate up right;
But you notice right nex’ day
Dat hit’s in de same ol’ plight.
So you fin’ dat hit’s a rule,
An’ daih ain’ no use to blow,
W’en de gals is growin’ up,
Dat de front gate will sag low.
Den you t’ink o’ yo’ young days,
W’en you cou’ted Sally Jane,
An’ you so’t o’ feel ashamed
Fu’ to grumble an’ complain,
‘Cause yo’ ricerlection says,
An’ you know hits wo’ds is so,
Dat huh pappy had a time
Wid his front gate saggin’ low.
So you jes’ looks on an’ smiles
At ’em leanin’ on de gate,
Tryin’ to t’ink whut he kin say
Fu’ to keep him daih so late,
But you lets dat gate erlone,
Fu’ yo’ ‘sperunce goes to show,
‘Twell de gals is ma’ied off,
It gwine keep on saggin’ low.
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#7
from
1899
Communion
In the silence of my heart,
I will spend an hour with thee,
When my love shall rend apart
All the veil of mystery:
All that dim and misty veil
That shut in between our souls
When Death cried, “Ho, maiden, hail!”
And your barque sped on the shoals.
On the shoals? Nay, wrongly said.
On the breeze of Death that sweeps
Far from life, thy soul has sped
Out into unsounded deeps.
I shall take an hour and come
Sailing, darling, to thy side.
Wind nor sea may keep me from
Soft communings with my bride.
I shall rest my head on thee
As I did long days of yore,
When a calm, untroubled sea
Rocked thy vessel at the shore.
I shall take thy hand in mine,
And live o’er the olden days
When thy smile to me was wine,–
Golden wine thy word of praise,
For the carols I had wrought
In my soul’s simplicity;
For the petty beads of thought
Which thine eyes alone could see.
Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keen
For my welfare and my weal!
Tho’ the grave-door shut between,
Still their love-lights o’er me steal.
I can see thee thro’ my tears,
As thro’ rain we see the sun.
What tho’ cold and cooling years
Shall their bitter courses run,–
I shall see thee still and be
Thy true lover evermore,
And thy face shall be to me
Dear and helpful as before.
Death may vaunt and Death may boast,
But we laugh his pow’r to scorn;
He is but a slave at most,–
Night that heralds coming morn.
I shall spend an hour with thee
Day by day, my little bride.
True love laughs at mystery,
Crying, “Doors of Death, fly wide.”
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#6
from
1899
When the Old Man Smokes
In the forenoon’s restful quiet,
When the boys are off at school,
When the window lights are shaded
And the chimney-corner cool,
Then the old man seeks his armchair,
Lights his pipe and settles back;
Falls a-dreaming as he draws it
Till the smoke-wreaths gather black.
And the tear-drops come a-trickling
Down his cheeks, a silver flow–
Smoke or memories you wonder,
But you never ask him,–no;
For there ‘s something almost sacred
To the other family folks
In those moods of silent dreaming
When the old man smokes.
Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming
Of the love of other days
And of how he used to lead her
Through the merry dance’s maze;
How he called her “little princess,”
And, to please her, used to twine
Tender wreaths to crown her tresses,
From the “matrimony vine.”
Then before his mental vision
Comes, perhaps, a sadder day,
When they left his little princess
Sleeping with her fellow clay.
How his young heart throbbed, and pained him!
Why, the memory of it chokes!
Is it of these things he ‘s thinking
When the old man smokes?
But some brighter thoughts possess him,
For the tears are dried the while.
And the old, worn face is wrinkled
In a reminiscent smile,
From the middle of the forehead
To the feebly trembling lip,
At some ancient prank remembered
Or some long unheard-of quip.
Then the lips relax their tension
And the pipe begins to slide,
Till in little clouds of ashes,
It falls softly at his side;
And his head bends low and lower
Till his chin lies on his breast,
And he sits in peaceful slumber
Like a little child at rest.
Dear old man, there ‘s something sad’ning,
In these dreamy moods of yours,
Since the present proves so fleeting,
All the past for you endures.
Weeping at forgotten sorrows,
Smiling at forgotten jokes;
Life epitomized in minutes,
When the old man smokes.
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#5
from
1906
The Voice of the Banjo
In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic’s way,
Sat an old man, bent and feeble, dusk of face, and hair of gray,
And beside him on the table, battered, old, and worn as he,
Lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody:
“Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don’t be sad;
Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had.
Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last,
Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past.
“For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand,
When the Southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land;
And if love tales were not sacred, there’s a tale that I could tell
Of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely belle.
“And I speak to you of care-free songs when labour’s hour was o’er,
And a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door,
And of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap,
While you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, ‘Pap, pap.’
“I could tell you of a ‘possum hunt across the wooded grounds,
I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds,
You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that ‘s in me,
Build again a whole green forest with the mem’ry of a tree.
“So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind,
What care I for trembling fingers,–what care you that you are blind?
Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend;
But they ‘ll only find us mellower, won’t they, comrade?–in the end.”
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#4
from
1921
Weltschmertz
You ask why I am sad to-day,
I have no cares, no griefs, you say?
Ah, yes, ‘t is true, I have no grief–
But–is there not the falling leaf?
The bare tree there is mourning left
With all of autumn’s gray bereft;
It is not what has happened me,
Think of the bare, dismantled tree.
The birds go South along the sky,
I hear their lingering, long good-bye.
Who goes reluctant from my breast?
And yet–the lone and wind-swept nest.
The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by,
Why does a tear come to my eye?
Is it the March rain blowing wild?
I have no dead, I know no child.
I am no widow by the bier
Of him I held supremely dear.
I have not seen the choicest one
Sink down as sinks the westering sun.
Faith unto faith have I beheld,
For me, few solemn notes have swelled;
Love bekoned me out to the dawn,
And happily I followed on.
And yet my heart goes out to them
Whose sorrow is their diadem;
The falling leaf, the crying bird,
The voice to be, all lost, unheard–
Not mine, not mine, and yet too much
The thrilling power of human touch,
While all the world looks on and scorns
I wear another’s crown of thorns.
Count me a priest who understands
The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands;
Count me a comrade of the thief
Hot driven into late belief.
Oh, mother’s tear, oh, father’s sigh,
Oh, mourning sweetheart’s last good-bye,
I yet have known no mourning save
Beside some brother’s brother’s grave.
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#3
from
1899
She Told Her Beads
She told her beads with down-cast eyes,
Within the ancient chapel dim;
And ever as her fingers slim
Slipt o’er th’ insensate ivories,
My rapt soul followed, spaniel-wise.
Ah, many were the beads she wore;
But as she told them o’er and o’er,
They did not number all my sighs.
My heart was filled with unvoiced cries
And prayers and pleadings unexpressed;
But while I burned with Love’s unrest,
She told her beads with down-cast eyes.
_____
#2
from
1901
A Spring Wooing
Come on walkin’ wid me, Lucy; ‘t ain’t no time to mope erroun’
Wen de sunshine ‘s shoutin’ glory in de sky,
An’ de little Johnny-Jump-Ups ‘s jes’ a-springin’ f’om de groun’,
Den a-lookin’ roun’ to ax each othah w’y.
Don’ you hyeah dem cows a-mooin’? Dat ‘s dey howdy to de spring;
Ain’ dey lookin’ most oncommon satisfied?
Hit ‘s enough to mek a body want to spread dey mouf an’ sing
Jes’ to see de critters all so spa’klin’-eyed.
W’y dat squir’l dat jes’ run past us, ef I did n’ know his tricks,
I could swaih he ‘d got ‘uligion jes’ to-day;
An’ dem liza’ds slippin’ back an’ fofe ermong de stones an’ sticks
Is a-wigglin’ ’cause dey feel so awful gay.
Oh, I see yo’ eyes a-shinin’ dough you try to mek me b’lieve
Dat you ain’ so monst’ous happy ’cause you come;
But I tell you dis hyeah weathah meks it moughty ha’d to ‘ceive
Ef a body’s soul ain’ blin’ an’ deef an’ dumb.
Robin whistlin’ ovah yandah ez he buil’ his little nes’;
Whut you reckon dat he sayin’ to his mate?
He’s a-sayin’ dat he love huh in de wo’ds she know de bes’,
An’ she lookin’ moughty pleased at whut he state.
Now, Miss Lucy, dat ah robin sholy got his sheer o’ sense,
An’ de hen-bird got huh mothah-wit fu’ true;
So I t’ink ef you ‘ll ixcuse me, fu’ I do’ mean no erfence,
Dey ‘s a lesson in dem birds fu’ me an’ you.
I ‘s a-buil’in’ o’ my cabin, an’ I ‘s vines erbove de do’
Fu’ to kin’ o’ gin it sheltah f’om de sun;
Gwine to have a little kitchen wid a reg’lar wooden flo’,
An’ dey ‘ll be a back verandy w’en hit ‘s done.
I ‘s a-waitin’ fu’ you, Lucy, tek de ‘zample o’ de birds,
Dat ‘s a-lovin’ an’ a-matin’ evahwhaih.
I cain’ tell you dat I loves you in de robin’s music wo’ds,
But my cabin ‘s talkin’ fu’ me ovah thaih!
_____
#1
from
1895
A Negro Love Song
Seen my lady home las’ night,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel’ huh han’ an’ sque’z it tight,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f’om huh eye,
An’ a smile go flittin’ by–
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd de win’ blow thoo de pine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockin’-bird was singin’ fine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
An’ my hea’t was beatin’ so,
When I reached my lady’s do’,
Dat I could n’t ba’ to go–
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Put my ahm aroun’ huh wais’,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an’ took a tase,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An’ she answe’d, “‘Cose I do”–
Jump back, honey, jump back.
_____
Alice Moore Dunbar, Mrs. Paul L. Dunbar
_____
