Rise and Fall

We sit beneat’ de yampy shade,
My lee sweetheart an’ I;
De gully[2] ripples ’cross de glade,
Tom Rafflins[3] hurry by.

Her pa an’ ma about de fiel’
Are brukin’[4] sugar-pine;
An’ plenty, plenty is de yiel’,
Dem look so pink[5] an’ fine.

We listen to a rapturous chune
Outpourin’ from above;
De swee-swees, blithesome birds of June,
They sing to us of love.

She plays wid de triangle leaves,
Her hand within mine slips;
She murmurs love, her bosom heaves,
I kiss her ripe, ripe lips.

De cockstones[6] raise deir droopin’ heads
To view her pretty feet;
De skellions[7] trimble in deir beds,
Dey grudge our Iub so sweet—

Love sweeter than a bridal dream,
A mudder’s fondest kiss
Love purer than a crystal stream,
De height of eart’ly bliss.

We hear again de swee-swees’ song
Outpourin’ on de air;
Dey sing for yout’, an’ we are young
An’ know naught ’bouten care.

We sit beneat’ de yampy shade,
We pledge our hearts anew;
De swee-swees droop, de bell-flowers[8] fade
Before our love so true.

Farewell, dear Sir, a sad farewell!
An’ as across the deep you sail,
Bon voyage we wish you:
We love you deepest as we can,[1]
As officer an’ gentleman,
With love slncere an’ true.

Though often you have been our judge,
We never owed you one lee grudge,
For you were always fair:
So, as the sad farewell we say,
May Neptune guide you, Sir, we pray,
With ever watchful care.

But as you travel to our home,[2]
Sad are the strange thoughts which will come,
Bringin’ an aching pain;
That as this is a fitful life,
With disappointments ever rife,
We may not meet again.

Yet while our hearts are filled with grief,
The god of hope brings sweet relief
An’ bids us not despair:
Of all our thoughts we cannot tell,
But wish you, Sir, a fond farewell,
A farewell of good cheer.:

21st May, 1911.

Loved Clarendon hills,
Dear Clarendon hills,
Oh! I feel de chills,
Yes, I feel de chills
Coursin’ t’rough me frame
When I call your name,[1]
Dear Clarendon hills,
Loved Clarendon hills.

Wand’rin’, wand’rin’ far,
Weary, wan’drin’ far
’Douten guidin’ star,
Not a guidin’ star,
Still my love’s for you
Ever, ever true,
Though I wander far,
Weary wander far.

H. A. H., my frien’,
Ever cherished frien’,
I’ll return again,
Yes, return again:
Think, O think of me
Tossed on life’s dark sea,
H. A. H., my frien’,
Dearest, fondest frien’.

Ah, dear frien’ o’ mine,
Love me, frien’ o’ mine,
Wid that love of thine
Passin’ love of womenkin’,[2]
More dan love of womenkin’:
Clasp me to your breast,
Pillow me to rest,
Fait’ful frien’ o’ mine,
Truest frien’ o’ mine.

Though you may be sad,
Sorrowin’ an’ sad,
Never min’ dat, lad,
Don’t you min’ dat, lad!
Live, 0 live your life,
Trample on de strife,
Though you may be sad,
Always, always sad.

Loved Clarendon hills,
Cherished frien’ o’ mine,
Oh, my bosom thrills,
Soul an’ body pine:
Trough de wul’ I rove,
Pinin’ for your love,
Blest Clarendon hills,
Dearest frien’ o’ mine.

When you want a bellyful,
Tearin’ piece o’ one,[1]
Mek up fire, wash you’ pot,
Full i’ wid cockstone.[2]

Nuttin’ good as cockstone soup
For a bellyful;
Only, when you use i’ hot,
You can sweat no bull.[3]

An’ to mek you know de trut’,
Dere’s anedder flaw;
Ef you use too much o’ i’,
It wi’ paunch you’ maw.[4]

Growin’ wid de fat blue corn,
Pretty cockstone peas—
Lilly blossom, vi’let-like,[5]
Drawin’ wuker bees–

We look on dem growin’ dere,
Pokin’ up dem head,
Lilly, lilly, t’rough de corn,
Till de pod dem shed.[6]

An’ we watch de all-green pods
Stripin’ bit by bit;
Green leaves gettin’ yellow coat,
Showin dey were fit.[7]

So we went an’ pull dem up,[8]
Reaped a goodly lot,
Shell some o’ de pinkish grain,
Put dem in a pot.[9]

But I tell you, Sir, again,
Cockstone soup no good;[10]
From experience I fink
’Tis de wus’ o’ food.[11]

When de reapin’-time come roun’,
I dry fe me part;[12]
Sellin i’, when it get scarce,
For a bob a quart.[13]

When you need a bellyful,
Grip!n’ piece o’ one,
Shub up fire under pot,
Put in dry cockstone.

I dared not look at him,
My eyes with tears were dim,
My spirit filled with hate
Of man’s depravity,
I hurried through the gate.

I went but I returned,
While in my bosom burned
The monstrous wrong that we
Oft bring upon ourselves,
And yet we cannot see.

Poor little erring wretch!
The cutting tamarind switch
Had left its bloody mark,
And on his legs were streaks
That looked like boiling bark.[1]

I spoke to him the while:
At first he tried to smile,
But the long pent-up tears
Came gushing-in a flood;
He was but of tender years.

With eyes bloodshot and red,
He told me of a father dead
And lads like himself rude,
Who goaded him to wrong:
He for the future promised to be good.

The mother yesterday
Said she was sending him away,
Away across the seas:
She told of futile prayers
Said on her wearied knees.

I wished the lad good-bye,
And left him with a sigh:
Again I heard him talk—
His limbs, he said, were sore.
He could not walk.

I ’member when a smaller boy,
A mother’s pride, a mother’s. joy,
I too was very rude:
They beat me too, though not the same,[2]
And has it done me good?

NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.—This was a lad of fifteen. No doubt he deserved the flogging administered by order of the Court: still, I could not bear to see him—my own flesh—stretched out over the bench, so I went away to the Post Office near by. When I returned, all was over. I saw his naked bleeding form, and through the terrible ordeal—so they told me—he never cried. But when I spoke to him he broke down, told me between his bursts of tears how he had been led astray by bad companions, and that his mother intended sending him over-sea. He could scarcely walk, so I gave him tickets for the tram. He had a trustful face. A few minutes after, my bitterness of spirit at the miserable necessity of such punishment came forth in song, which I leave rugged and unpolished as I wrote it at the moment.