Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb

      Fly away! thou heavenly one! —

      I do hail thee on thy flight!

      Sorrow? thou hath tasted none —

      Perfect joy is yourn by right.

      Fly away! and bear our love

      To thy kith and kin above!

      I can tetch thy finger-tips

      Ca'mly, and bresh back the hair

      From thy forr'ed with my lips,

      And not leave a teardrop thare. —

      Weep fer Tomps and Ruth– and me—

      But I can not weep fer thee.

      It's the curiousest thing in creation,

      Whenever I hear that old song

      "Do They Miss Me at Home," I'm so bothered,

      My life seems as short as it's long! —

      Fer ev'rything 'pears like adzackly

      It 'peared in the years past and gone, —

      When I started out sparkin', at twenty,

      And had my first neckercher on!

      Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer

      Right now than my parents was then,

      You strike up that song "Do They Miss Me,"

      And I'm jest a youngster again! —

      I'm a-standin' back thare in the furries

      A-wishin' fer evening to come,

      And a-whisperin' over and over

      Them words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"

      You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it

      The first time I heerd it; and so,

      As she was my very first sweethart,

      It reminds me of her, don't you know; —

      How her face ust to look, in the twilight,

      As I tuck her to Spellin'; and she

      Kep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her,

      Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me!

      I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it,

      And hear her low answerin' words;

      And then the glad chirp of the crickets,

      As clear as the twitter of birds;

      And the dust in the road is like velvet,

      And the ragweed and fennel and grass

      Is as sweet as the scent of the lillies

      Of Eden of old, as we pass.

      "Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower —

      And softer – and sweet as the breeze

      That powdered our path with the snowy

      White bloom of the old locus'-trees!

      Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it,

      And the echoes 'way over the hill,

      Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus

      Of stars, and our voices is still.

      But oh! "They's a chord in the music

      That's missed when her voice is away!"

      Though I listen from midnight tel morning,

      And dawn tel the dusk of the day!

      And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards

      And on through the heavenly dome,

      With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin'

      The words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"

      "Coon-dog Wess" – he allus went

      'Mongst us here by that-air name.

      Moved in this-here Settlement

      From next county – he laid claim, —

      Lived down in the bottoms – whare

      Ust to be some coons in thare! —

      In nigh Clayton's, next the crick, —

      Mind old Billy ust to say

      Coons in thare was jest that thick,

      He'p him corn-plant any day! —

      And, in rostneer-time, be then

      Aggin' him to plant again!

      Well, – In Spring o' '67,

      This-here "Coon-dog Wess" he come —

      Fetchin' 'long 'bout forty-'leven

      Ornriest-lookin' hounds, I gum!

      Ever mortul-man laid eyes

      On sence dawn o' Christian skies!

      Wife come traipsin' at the rag-

      Tag-and-bobtail of the crowd,

      Dogs and childern, with a bag

      Corn-meal and some side-meat, —Proud

      And as independunt—My!—

      Yit a mild look in her eye.

      Well – this "Coon-dog Wess" he jest

      Moved in that-air little pen

      Of a pole-shed, aidgin' west

      On "The Slues o' Death," called then. —

      Otter- and mink-hunters ust

      To camp thare 'fore game vam-moosd.

      Abul-bodied