English

A dying figure against the sky;
Laughter mocking a piteous cry;
Terror, silence, an anguished plea:
“Father, forgive them, they do not see!”

Piercing the darkness like singing flame,
“My Love shall enfold them!” the answer came.

A dying figure against the sky;
Laughter mocking a piteous cry;
Terror, silence, an anguished plea:
“Father, forgive them, they do not see!”

Piercing the darkness like singing flame,
“My Love shall enfold them!” the answer came.

Down in a deep dark ditch sat an old cow munching a bean-stalk.
Out of her mouth came forth strawberry, strawberry froth.

Do you remember when you heard
My lips breathe love's first faltering word?
—You do, sweet—don't you?
When, having wandered all the day,
Linked arm in arm, I dared to say,
—“You'll love me—won't you?”

And when you blushed and could not speak,
I fondly kissed your glowing cheek,
—Did that affront you?
Oh, surely not—your eye expressed
No wrath—but said, perhaps in jest,
—“You'll love me—won't you?”

I'm sure my eyes replied, “I will.”
And you believe that promise still,
—You do, sweet—don't you?

Dey tell me Joe Turner he done come,
Dey tell me Joe Turner he done come,
Got my man an' gone.

Dey tell me Joe Turner he done come,
Dey tell me Joe Turner he done come,
Come with fohty links of chain.

The Devil, having nothing else to do,
Went off to tempt My Lady Poltagrue.
My Lady, tempted by a private whim,
To his extreme annoyance, tempted him.

Death rode a pinto pony
Along the Rio Grande,
Beside the trail his shadow
Was riding on the sand.

The look upon his youthful face
Was sinister and dark,
And the pistol in his scabbard
Had never missed its mark.

The moonlight on the river
Was bright as molten ore,
The ripples broke in whispers
Along the sandy shore.

The breath of prairie flowers
Had made the night-wind sweet,
And a mocking bird made merry
In a lacy-leafed mesquite.

Death looked toward the river,

Crushed by that just contempt his follies bring
On his crazed head, the vermin fain would sting.
But never satire did so softly bite,
Or gentle George himself more gently write.
Born to no other but thy own disgrace,
Thou art a thing so wretched and so base,
Thou canst not e'en offend but with thy face,
And dost at once a sad example prove
Of harmless malice and of hopeless love,
All pride and ugliness—O how we loathe
A nauseous creature so composed of both!
How oft have we thy cap'ring person seen

Come back to me, O ye, my children;
Come back to the home as of yore;
As my longing eye peers through the vista of years,
Comes the heart-throbbing more and more.
I sit by the casement and listen
To the fall of the soft, sobbing rain,
E'en the winds gently sigh as if loth to reply—
In vain, fond mother, in vain.

Are ye gone for aye? Shall I no more hear
The ring and the din of glee?
Have my nestlings flown and left me alone?
Shall their faces, I no more see?
I sit, and I wait while the days go by,

Christ is a nigger,
Beaten and black:
Oh, bare your back!

Mary is His mother:
Mammy of the South,
Silence your mouth.

God is His father:
White Master above
Grant Him your love.

Most holy bastard
Of the bleeding mouth,
Nigger Christ
On the cross
Of the South.

Cap'n, I believe,
Cap'n, I believe,
Cap'n, I believe, believe, believe I'll die.

“Oh, no you ain't gonna die.
Come on with that motah!”