an’ let huh go! 
  He’s a fiddlah, now I tell you, an’ he made dat fiddle ring,
  ‘Twell de ol’est an’ de lamest had to give deir feet a fling. 
  Jigs, cotillions, reels an’ breakdowns, cordrills an’ a waltz er two;
  Bless yo’ soul, dat music winged ’em an’ dem people lak to flew. 
  Cripple Joe, de old rheumatic, danced dat flo’ f’om side to middle,
  Th’owed away his crutch an’ hopped it; what’s rheumatics ’ginst a fiddle? 
  Eldah Thompson got so tickled dat he lak to los’ his grace,
  Had to tek bofe feet an’ hol’ dem so ’s to keep ’em in deir place. 
  An’ de Christuns an’ de sinnahs got so mixed up on dat flo’,
  Dat I don’t see how dey ’d pahted ef de trump had chanced to blow. 
  Well, we danced dat way an’ capahed in de mos’ redic’lous way,
  ‘Twell de roostahs in de bahnyard cleahed deir th’oats an’ crowed fu’ day. 
  Y’ ought to been dah, fu’ I tell you evahthing was rich an’ prime,
  An’ dey ain’t no use in talkin’, we jes had one scrumptious time!

LYRICS OF THE HEARTHSIDE

LOVE’S APOTHEOSIS

  Love me.  I care not what the circling years
        To me may do. 
  If, but in spite of time and tears,
        You prove but true.

  Love me—­albeit grief shall dim mine eyes,
        And tears bedew,
  I shall not e’en complain, for then my skies
        Shall still be blue.

  Love me, and though the winter snow shall pile,
        And leave me chill,
  Thy passion’s warmth shall make for me, meanwhile,
        A sun-kissed hill.

  And when the days have lengthened into years,
        And I grow old,
  Oh, spite of pains and griefs and cares and fears,
        Grow thou not cold.

  Then hand and hand we shall pass up the hill,
        I say not down;
  That twain go up, of love, who ’ve loved their fill,—­
        To gain love’s crown.

  Love me, and let my life take up thine own,
        As sun the dew. 
  Come, sit, my queen, for in my heart a throne
        Awaits for you!

THE PARADOX

  I am the mother of sorrows,
    I am the ender of grief;
  I am the bud and the blossom,
    I am the late-falling leaf.

  I am thy priest and thy poet,
    I am thy serf and thy king;
  I cure the tears of the heartsick,
    When I come near they shall sing.

  White are my hands as the snowdrop;
    Swart are my fingers as clay;
  Dark is my frown as the midnight,
    Fair is my brow as the day.

  Battle and war are my minions,
    Doing my will as divine;
  I am the calmer of passions,
    Peace is a nursling of mine.

  Speak to me gently or curse me,
    Seek me or fly from my sight;
  I am thy fool in the morning,
    Thou art my slave in the night.