A Plantation Ditty

De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top: “Who—who—is—you-oo?” En I say: “Good Lawd, hit ’s des po’ me, En I ain’t quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; I ’m po’ en sinful, en you ’lowed I ’d be; Oh, wait, good Lawd, ’twell ter-morror!” De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree: “Who—who—is—you-oo?” En I say: “Good Lawd, ef you look you ’ll see Hit ain’t nobody but des po’ me, En I like ter stay ’twell my time is free; Oh, wait, good Lawd, ’twell ter-morror!”

Collection: 
English
Frank Lebby Stanton
Sub Title: 
Humorous Poems: II. Miscellaneous

More from Poet

  • A Plantation Ditty

    De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top: “Who—who—is—you-oo?” En I say: “Good Lawd, hit ’s des po’ me, En I ain’t quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; I ’m po’ en sinful, en you ’lowed I ’d be; Oh, wait, good Lawd, ’twell ter-morror!” De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree: “Who—who—is—you-oo?” En I...

  • An Old Battle-Field

    The Softest whisperings of the scented South, And rust and roses in the cannon’s mouth; And, where the thunders of the fight were born, The wind’s sweet tenor in the standing corn; With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam, And blue skies bending over love and home. But still the thought:...

  • The Mocking-Bird

    He did n’t know much music When first he come along; An’ all the birds went wonderin’ Why he did n’t sing a song. They primped their feathers in the sun, An’ sung their sweetest notes; An’ music jest come on the run From all their purty throats! But still that bird was silent In summer...

  • A Little Way

    A little way to walk with you, my own— Only a little way, Then one of us must weep and walk alone Until God’s day. A little way! It is so sweet to live Together, that I know Life would not have one withered rose to give If one of us should go. And if these lips should ever learn...

  • The Mocking-Bird

    He did n’t know much music When first he come along; An’ all the birds went wonderin’ Why he did n’t sing a song. They primped their feathers in the sun, An’ sung their sweetest notes; An’ music jest come on the run From all their purty throats! But still that bird was silent In summer...