The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI. Marshall Pinckney Wilder

      Haint no sense in wishin'—yit

              Wisht to goodness I could jes

      "Gee" the blame world round and git

              Back to that old happiness!—

                      Kindo' drive back in the shade

                      "The old Covered Bridge" there laid

                      Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak

                      My soul over, hub and spoke!

      Honest, now!—it haint no dream

              'At I'm wantin',—but the fac's

      As they wuz; the same old stream,

              And the same old times, i jacks!—

                      Gim me back my bare feet—and

                      Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!

                      And let hottest dog-days shine

                      Up and down old Brandywine!

      In and on betwixt the trees

              'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,

      Kindo' curdled with the breeze

              And the yallerhammer's tune;

                      And the smokin', chokin' dust

                      O' the turnpike at its wusst—

                      Saturd'ys, say, when it seems

                      Road's jes jammed with country teams!—

      Whilse the old town, fur away

              'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land,

      Dozed-like in the heat o' day

              Peaceful' as a hired hand.

                      Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor

                      O' the old bridge!—grind and roar

                      With yer blame percession-line—

                      Up and down old Brandywine!

      Souse me and my new straw-hat

              Off the foot-log!—what I care?—

      Fist shoved in the crown o' that—

              Like the old Clown ust to wear.

                      Wouldn't swop it fer a' old

                      Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!—

                      Keep yer King ef you'll gim me

                      Jes the boy I ust to be!

      Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal

              My best "goggle-eye!"—but you

      Can't lay hands on joys I feel

              Nibblin' like they ust to do!

                      So, in memory, to-day

                      Same old ripple lips away

                      At my cork and saggin' line,

                      Up and down old Brandywine!

      There the logs is, round the hill,

              Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift

      Out sunfish from daylight till

              Dew-fall—'fore he'd leave "The Drift"

                      And give us a chance—and then

      Kindo' fish back home again,

                      Ketchin' 'em jes left and right

                      Where we hadn't got "a bite!"

      Er, 'way windin' out and in,—

              Old path th'ough the iurnweeds

      And dog-fennel to yer chin—

              Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds

                      And cat-tails, smack into where

                      Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare

                      Us clean 'crosst the County-line,

                      Up and down old Brandywine!

      But the dim roar o' the dam

              It 'ud coax us furder still

      Tords the old race, slow and ca'm,

              Slidin' on to Huston's mill—

                      Where, I 'spect, "The Freeport crowd"

                      Never warmed to us er 'lowed

                      We wuz quite so overly

                      Welcome as we aimed to be.

      Still it peared-like ever'thing—

              Fur away from home as there—

      Had more relish-like, i jing!—

              Fish in stream, er bird in air!

                      O them rich old bottom-lands,

                      Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!

                      Wortermelons—master-mine!

                      Up and down old Brandywine!

      And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o' raw

              Gold and green,—jes oozy th'ough

      With ripe yaller—like you've saw

              Custard-pie with no crust to:

                      And jes gorges o' wild plums,

                      Till a feller'd suck his thumbs

                      Clean up to his elbows! My!—

                      Me some more er lem me die!

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