Classic Poem

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Down in Injianny (ez you may 'uv heard before),
The sweet, ol'-fashioned roses grow about the cottage door,
An' hummin'-birds go dartin' roun' the swayin' hollyhawks,
An' daisies edge the gardin paths where A mazindy walks.
The little boys plays hooky, an' they takes their fishin'-pole,
Or you kin hear 'em splashin' in the riffled swimmin'-hole,
An' other things is happenin' what you mustn't write about,
Or the Publishers 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

Wunst there wuz a little boy what didn't mean no harm,
But lived in Hancock County near a watermelon-farm;
He might 'a' been a lawyer, but wuz skeered o' bein' rich,
So took to paintin' signs an' things, an' actorin', an' sich,
An' singin' songs with chirp o' bird an' splash o' summer rain,
With here a tender, homey tale an' there a quaint refrain.
But don't you go a-makin' rhymes that folks can't do without,
Or the Publishers 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

There's lots o' fellers pennin' odes which somehow don't connect,
Becuz they think the major p'int is Hoosier dialect.
Now dialect is handy ez a means o' savin' time —
It often helps a lazy bard that's lookin' fer a rhyme;
But poetry is poetry, no matter what the tongue —
The lovin' thought, the lyric word appeals to old an' young;
An' ef you got the hang uv it there isn't any doubt
That the Publishers 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!