( LONG ISLAND DIALECT )
Settin' round the fish-house door,
Sunset time er pretty near;
Tellin' stories — some er which
Would n't wish for ma ter hear.
Bijer 'n' the younger set
Squat behin' us mendin' seine,
'N' I heerd 'im talkin' low,
Laugh 'n' take her name in vain —
Her, my Jane!
Her, my youngest down ter York,
Workin' hard for me an' mine.
I wa'n't out'er slew thet hour,
Though I be 'most sixty-nine.
I rose up ter lay 'im low.
" Stan' off, neighbors, lemme be! "
But I dropped my hand, fer all
Knowed of some'h'n' black 'cept me,
I c'd see.
'N' I left 'em on the beach.
Now they all c'd have the'r say;
I made fer the woods, fer thet 's
All hurt creeturs' natchel way.
I can't cal'late how I got
Home, but ma was settin' there,
Black cat croonin' on 'er lap,
Lamplight shinin' on 'er hair,
White, f'm care.
Crazy-like I called 'em all,
Lide 'n' Vene, 'n' told 'em how
Her thet was the'r sister once
Wa'n't no sister to 'em now;
" Ner no child of mine, " says I;
" Ain't no talk of whose ter blame;
It's past pard'nin' when a child
Slimes the black creek-mud o' shame
On my name. "
But the farm looked changed, 'n' Jane
Seemed ter follow every place, —
Where I 'd go, I 'd see them curls
Bobbin' round 'er baby face,
Jest the same as when she 'd run
Crost the picle ter the gate,
(Me a-cartin' seaweed then),
Callin': " Wait, Janey says, wait!
Her 'll fix the gate! "
Jane she come back home at last;
Spite 'er ma, I 'd held my way,
Wrote 'er thet we cast 'er off,
'T wa'n't no use ter beg er pray.
No one talked of sin er shame
When they brought 'er through the gate,
An' I knowed 't wa'n't no success
Tryin' ter sour love inter hate —
Then, too late!
Fer ther' ain't no shame so black,
Ner no brandin' of disgrace,
Thet 's past pard'nin' when yer child.
Lays there with a dead, white face.
Best room was so dark 'n' still,
Seemed like she must hear me plain,
Whisperin': " Jane, fergive yer pa;
All them words o' mine was vain, —
Come back, Jane! "
Life ain't what it used ter be.
Maybe 't ain't fair ter the rest,
But sence the days er Prodergal
Folks seems to love the'r worst ones best.
I 'm gettin' well along in years,
Wimblin', 'n' weak, 'n' full o' pain,
'N' more 'n' more seems like she 's here
A-playin' round the floor — my Jane —
My little Jane!
Settin' round the fish-house door,
Sunset time er pretty near;
Tellin' stories — some er which
Would n't wish for ma ter hear.
Bijer 'n' the younger set
Squat behin' us mendin' seine,
'N' I heerd 'im talkin' low,
Laugh 'n' take her name in vain —
Her, my Jane!
Her, my youngest down ter York,
Workin' hard for me an' mine.
I wa'n't out'er slew thet hour,
Though I be 'most sixty-nine.
I rose up ter lay 'im low.
" Stan' off, neighbors, lemme be! "
But I dropped my hand, fer all
Knowed of some'h'n' black 'cept me,
I c'd see.
'N' I left 'em on the beach.
Now they all c'd have the'r say;
I made fer the woods, fer thet 's
All hurt creeturs' natchel way.
I can't cal'late how I got
Home, but ma was settin' there,
Black cat croonin' on 'er lap,
Lamplight shinin' on 'er hair,
White, f'm care.
Crazy-like I called 'em all,
Lide 'n' Vene, 'n' told 'em how
Her thet was the'r sister once
Wa'n't no sister to 'em now;
" Ner no child of mine, " says I;
" Ain't no talk of whose ter blame;
It's past pard'nin' when a child
Slimes the black creek-mud o' shame
On my name. "
But the farm looked changed, 'n' Jane
Seemed ter follow every place, —
Where I 'd go, I 'd see them curls
Bobbin' round 'er baby face,
Jest the same as when she 'd run
Crost the picle ter the gate,
(Me a-cartin' seaweed then),
Callin': " Wait, Janey says, wait!
Her 'll fix the gate! "
Jane she come back home at last;
Spite 'er ma, I 'd held my way,
Wrote 'er thet we cast 'er off,
'T wa'n't no use ter beg er pray.
No one talked of sin er shame
When they brought 'er through the gate,
An' I knowed 't wa'n't no success
Tryin' ter sour love inter hate —
Then, too late!
Fer ther' ain't no shame so black,
Ner no brandin' of disgrace,
Thet 's past pard'nin' when yer child.
Lays there with a dead, white face.
Best room was so dark 'n' still,
Seemed like she must hear me plain,
Whisperin': " Jane, fergive yer pa;
All them words o' mine was vain, —
Come back, Jane! "
Life ain't what it used ter be.
Maybe 't ain't fair ter the rest,
But sence the days er Prodergal
Folks seems to love the'r worst ones best.
I 'm gettin' well along in years,
Wimblin', 'n' weak, 'n' full o' pain,
'N' more 'n' more seems like she 's here
A-playin' round the floor — my Jane —
My little Jane!