He’ah dat ole gray sinna
H’s jes brimful o’ gas,
Singin’ dat tomfool ditty
As he goes hobblin’ pas’! 
He betta be prayin’ and mebbe
H’ll git in de fold at las’! 
Yes, he’s gwine to de grabe up yonder
By de trees dar on de hill,
Where all alone by hisself one day
He buried po’ massa Will! 
You see dey war boys togedder;
To-day dey’d cuss an’ fight;
But dey’d make it up to-morrow
And hunt fur coons at night.

It wasn’t much ob a massa,
Ole missus made you see! 
Folks sed, “dem Walden niggas
Mought about as well be free.” 
Once dey went fur de turkeys,
Dat’s Rube and Massa Will,
Wid roastin’ ears fur stuffin’,
Made a barbecue behind de mill! 
But dey couln’d keep it secret,
Ole missus found ’m out,
An’ she vow’d to sell dat nigga—­
He was a thievin’ lazy lout,
He was a ruinin’ Massa Willum;
Dat fac’, she said, was plain;
She’d sell him!  On her plantation
He’d never set his foot again.

An’ suah befo’ de sun next day went down. 
To take dat nigga Reuben
A trader had cum from town. 
I guess she was glad to sell ’m
Fur she needed de money bad,
An’ meant to spen’ it mos’ly
In de schoolin’ ob her lad! 
But jes as dat ole trader
Had slipt de han’cuffs on,
We sees young massa cumin’
Ridin’ cross de lawn;
He stopped right dar afore ’m,
His face was pale as death,
With all his might he shouted,
Soon as he got his bref: 
“Take dem right off dat nigga!
(and jerkin’ his pistol out)
Take ’em off I tell you! 
An’ min’ what you’re about;
Or I’ll send you to de debil
Faster dan you ’spec to go.” 
Den massa trader dusted
And he didn’t trabbel slow.

* * * * *

Ah me! dem times seems like a dream,
It was so long ago! 
Ole missus died next year,
De war cum’d on at last
And all de Souf lan’ echoed
With de joyful freedom blast. 
We lef’ de ole plantation,
We trabbled de Norf lan’ thro;
Chilled by de winds in Winter,
In Summer drenched wid dew;
But we neber cum to Canaan,
Nor found de promised lan’,
And back to de ole plantation
We cum a broken ban’. 
But Rube had stayed heah faithful,
Stayed by his massa’s side,
And nussed him in de fever
Till in his arms he died;
But de freedum star in Hebben,
It brightens year by year,
An’ our chillun has foun’ de Canaan,
Oh yes! des foun’ it here;
So I don’t care what you call us,
De tribes ob Sham or Hem,
Dat blessed lan’ o’ promise,
Has come right home to dem.

THE LEGEND OF ST. BAVON!

Shaded lights were burning low—­
Muffled bells swung to and fro—­
Solemn monks were chanting slow—­
Chanting of the Crucified;
When the good St. Bavon died.

Oft had he trod the jeering street,
With bare and bleeding feet;
Leaving crimson-flecked the snow
In memory of his Master’s woe;