by Irwin Russell
I NEBBER breaks a colt afore he's old enough to trabbel;
I nebber digs my taters tell dey plenty big to grabble.
An' when you sees me risin' up to structify in meetin',
I's fust clumb up de knowledge-tree an' done some apple-eatin'.
I sees some sistahs pruzint, mighty proud o' whut dey wearin';
It's well you isn't apples, now, you better be declarin'!
Fur when ye heerd yo' markit-price, 't'd hurt yo' little feelin's:
You wouldn't fotch a dime a peck, fur all yo' fancy peelin's.
O sistahs!—leetle apples (fur you're r'ally mighty like 'em)—
I lubs de ol'-time russets, dough it's suldom I kin strike 'em;
An' so I lubs you, sistahs, fur yo' grace, an' not yo' graces—
I don't keer how my apple looks, but on'y how it tas'es.
Is dey a Sabbat-scholah heah? Den let him 'form his mudder
How Jacob-in-de-Bible's boys played off upon dey brudder!
Dey sol' him to a trader—an' at las' he struck de prison;
Dat comed ob Joseph's struttin' in dat streaked coat ob his'n.
My Christian frien's, dis story proobs dat eben men is human—
He'd had a dozen fancy coats, ef he'd 'a' been a ooman!
De cussidness ob showin' off, he toun out all about it;
An' yit he wuz a Christian man, as good as ever shouted.
It l'arned him! An' I bet you when he come to git his riches
Dey didn't go fur stylish coats or Philadelphy breeches;
He didn't was'e his money when experunce taught him better,
But went aroun' a-lookin' like he's waitin' fur a letter!
Now, sistahs, won't you copy him? Say, won't you take a lesson,
An' min' dis sollum wahnin' 'bout de sin ob fancy dressin'?
How much you spen' upon yo'self! I wish you might remember
Yo' preacher ain't been paid a cent sence somewhar in November.
I better close. I sees some gals dis sahmon's kinder hittin'
A-whisperin', an' 'sturbin' all dat's near whar dey's a-sittin';
To look at dem, an' listen at dey onrespec'ful jabber,
It turns de milk ob human kin'ness mighty nigh to clabber!
Last updated September 05, 2017