Den he made a bow jes like he’s gwine to make a speech in school,
    An’ walk’d jes ez proud ez Marse John over to untie his mule,

    W’en Sam’s foot fust touched de stirrup he know’d der wuz sump’n wrong;
    ‘Cuz de mule begin to tremble an’ to sorter side along.

    Wen Sam raised his weight to mount him, Caesar bristled up his ear,
    W’en Sam sot down in de saddle, den dat mule cummenced to rear.

    An’ he reared an’ pitched an’ caper’d, only ez a mule kin pitch,
    Tel he flung Sam clean f’om off him, landed him squar’ in a ditch.

    Wen dat darky riz, well raly, I felt kinder bad fu’ him;
    He had bust dem cheap sto’ britches f’om de center to de rim.

    All de plug hat dat wuz lef’ him wuz de brim aroun’ his neck,
    Smear’d wid mud f’om top to bottom, well, he wuz a sight, I ’speck.

    Wuz de folks a-laffin’?  Well, su’, I jes sholy thought dey’d bus’;
    Wuz Sam laffin’?  ‘Twuz de fus’ time dat I evah heah’d him cuss.

    W’ile Sam slink’d off thoo de backwoods I walk’d slowly home wid Lize,
    W’en I axed her jes one question der wuz sump’n in her eyes

    Made me know der wuz no need o’ any answer bein’ said,
    An’ I felt jes like de whole world wuz a-spinnin’ ‘roun’ ma head.

    So I said, “Lize, w’en we marry, mus’ I weah some sto’-bought clo’es?”
    She says, “Jeans is good enough fu’ any po’ folks, heaben knows!”

If homely virtues draw from me a tune In happy jingle or a half-sad croon; Or if the smoldering future should inspire My hand to strike the seer’s prophetic lyre; Or if injustice, brutishness and wrong Should make a blasting trumpet of my song; O God, give beauty and strength—­truth to my words, Oh, may they fall like sweetly cadenced chords, Or burn like beacon fires from out the dark, Or speed like arrows, swift and sure, to the mark.