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Tripoli

One to ten of you lesser men—these are the odds we crave:
For the ring of the sword, at the cry to board, is a song that befits the brave.
Board and burn, that ye well may learn, how American tars atone:
Borrow ye may, but there dawns a day when we come to claim our own!

Tripolitan pirate and Turkish thief, they had harried her there on the sunken reef,
Plundered, and robbed, and stripped her crew, for such was Tripoli law:
Lowered her barred and star-set flag, and run to her peak their pirate rag,
For the shaming of William Bainbridge and the fame of Jussuf Bashaw!
They had towed the wreck to the haven’s neck, and under the castle’s guns,
And bound and jailed all them that sailed as the Philadelphia’s sons:
So the frigate lay in Tripoli Bay, by the Molehead batteries pinned,
And along her flank, in a watchful rank, the guardian gunboats grinned!

Out of the Gulf of Sidra’s gales, a brig and a ketch, with flattened sails,
Slid toward Tripoli harbor as the sun ahead went down,
And, by the forts of Jussuf Bashaw pinned like prey in a panther’s paw,
The captured frigate at anchor saw, in the curve of the pirate town.
And one of the pair had the peaceful air of a merchantman landward led,
And one of the two a Maltese crew, in fezzes of flaming red;

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poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1902)
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A Cabin Tale

THE YOUNG MASTER ASKS FOR A STORY

Whut you say, dah? huh, uh! chile,
You 's enough to dribe me wile.
Want a sto'y; jes' hyeah dat!
Whah' 'll I git a sto'y at?
Di'n' I tell you th'ee las' night?
Go 'way, honey, you ain't right.
I got somep'n' else to do,
'Cides jes' tellin' tales to you.
Tell you jes' one? Lem me see
Whut dat one's a-gwine to be.
When you 's ole, yo membry fails;
Seems lak I do' know no tales.
Well, set down dah in dat cheer,
Keep still ef you wants to hyeah.
Tek dat chin up off yo' han's,
Set up nice now. Goodness lan's!
Hol' yo'se'f up lak yo' pa.
Bet nobidy evah saw

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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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De Stove Pipe Hole

Dat's very cole an' stormy night on Village St. Mathieu,
W'en ev'ry wan he's go couché, an' dog was quiet, too--
Young Dominique is start heem out see Emmeline Gourdon,
Was leevin' on her fader's place, Maxime de Forgeron.

Poor Dominique he's lak dat girl, an' love her mos' de tam,
An' she was mak' de promise--sure--some day she be his famme,
But she have worse ole fader dat's never on de worl',
Was swear onless he's riche lak diable, no feller's get hees girl.

He's mak' it plaintee fuss about hees daughter Emmeline,
Dat's mebbe nice girl, too, but den, Mon Dieu, she's not de queen!
An' w'en de young man's come aroun' for spark it on de door,
An' hear de ole man swear 'Bapteme!' he's never come no more.

Young Dominique he's sam' de res',--was scare for ole Maxime,
He don't lak risk hese'f too moche for chances seein' heem,
Dat's only stormy night he come, so dark you cannot see,
An dat's de reason w'y also, he's climb de gallerie.

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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Gignol

Addict of Punch and Judy shows
I was when I was small;
My kiddy laughter, I suppose,
Rang louder than them all.
The Judge with banter I would bait,
The Copper was a wretch;
But oh how I would hiss my hate
For grim Jack Ketch.

Although a grandsire grey I still
Love Punch and Judy shows,
And with my toddlers help to fill
Enthusiastic rows.
How jolly is their mirth to see,
And what a sigh they fetch,
When Punch begs to be shown and he
Jerks up Jack Ketch.

Heigh ho! No more I watch the play;
It is the audience

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poem by Robert William Service
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Bateese The Lucky Man

He's alway ketchin' doré, an'he 's alway
ketchin' trout
On de place w'ere no wan else can ketch at all
He 's alway ketchin' barbotte, dat 's w'at you
call bull-pout,
An' he never miss de wil' duck on de fall.

O! de pa'tridge do some skippin' w'en she see
heem on de swamp
For she know Bateese don't go for not'ing
dere,
An' de rabbit if he 's comin' , wall! you ought
to see heem jomp.
W'y he want to climb de tree he feel so
scare.

Affer two hour by de reever I hear hees leetle
song
Den I meet heem all hees pocket full of snipe,
An' me, I go de sam' place, an' I tramp de

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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The Oyster Schooner

W'at's all dem bell a ringin' for, a can
hear dem ev'ry w'ere?
W'at's bring de peop' togeder on de w'arf at
Trois Rivieres,
Dat happy crowd is look so glad, w'y are dey
comin' dere?
O! de reason dey're so happy w'ile dey're
waitin' dere to-day
Is becos de oyster schooner she's sailin' up de
bay
An' de caraquette an' malpecque will quickly
melt away
Affer she was t'row de anchor on t'ree reever.

For w'y dey mak' de fuss lak dat, an' nearly
broke deir neck,
Ain't dey got de noder oyster more better dan
malpecque
Or caraquette, dat leetle wan from down be-
low Kebeck?

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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Doc Sifers

Of all the doctors I could cite you to in this-'ere town
Doc Sifers is my favorite, jes' take him up and down!
Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big Bear,
And Sifers' standin's jes' as good as ary doctor's there!

There's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh,
But I'll buck Sifers 'ginst 'em all and down 'em any day!
Most old Wick ever knowed, I s'pose, was _whisky!_ Wurgler--well,
He et morphine--ef actions shows, and facts' reliable!

But Sifers--though he ain't no sot, he's got his faults; and yit
When you _git_ Sifers one't, you've got _a doctor_, don't fergit!
He ain't much at his office, er his house, er anywhere
You'd natchurly think certain far to ketch the feller there.--

But don't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous notions--as
The feller says; his odd-come-shorts, like smart men mostly has.
He'll more'n like be potter'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; er in
Some back lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin.

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Log Jam

1 Dere 'a s beeg jam up de reever, w'ere rapide is runnin' fas',
2 An' de log we cut las' winter is takin' it all de room;
3 So boss of de gang is swearin', for not'ing at all can pass
4 An' float away down de current till somebody break de boom.

5 'Here 's for de man will tak' de job, holiday for a week
6 Extra monee w'en pay day come, an' ten dollar suit of clothes.
7 'T is n't so hard work run de log, if only you do it quick--
8 W'ere 's de man of de gang den is ready to say, ` Here goes?''

9 Dere was de job for a feller, handy an' young an' smart,
10 Willin' to tak' hees chances, willin' to risk hees life.
11 'Cos many a t'ing is safer, dan tryin' de boom to start,
12 For if de log wance ketch you, dey 're cuttin' you lak a knife.

13 Aleck Lachance he lissen, an' answer heem right away
14 'Marie Louise dat 's leevin' off on de shore close by
15 She 's sayin' de word was mak' me mos' happies' man to-day
16 An' if you ax de reason I 'm ready to go, dat 's w'y.'

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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M'Sieu Smit

THE ADVENTURES OF AN ENGLISHMAN IN THE CANADIAN WOODS.

Wan morning de walkim boss say 'Damase,
I t'ink you're good man on canoe d'ecorce,
So I'll ax you go wit' your frien' Philéas
An' meet M'sieu' Smit' on Chenail W'ite Horse.

'He'll have I am sure de grosse baggage--
Mebbe some valise--mebbe six or t'ree--
But if she's too moche for de longue portage
'Poleon he will tak' 'em wit' mail buggee.'

W'en we reach Chenail, plaintee peep be dere,
An' wan frien' of me, call Placide Chretien,
'Splain all dat w'en he say man from Angleterre
Was spik heem de crowd on de 'Parisien.'

Fonny way dat Englishman he'll be dress,
Leetle pant my dear frien' jus' come on knee,

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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Intellectual Limitations

Parunts knows lots more than us,
But they don't know _all_ things,--
'Cause we ketch 'em, lots o' times,
Even on little small things.

One time Winnie ask' her Ma,
At the winder, sewin',
What's the wind a-doin' when
It's a-not a-_blowin_'?

Yes, an' 'Del', that very day,
When we're nearly froze out,
He ask' Uncle _where_ it goes
When the fire goes out?

Nen _I_ run to ask my Pa,
That way, somepin' funny;
But I can't say ist but 'Say,'
When he turn to me an' say,
'Well, what is it, Honey?'

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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