Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening before, Had well-nigh unjointed the stovepipe, to make it come down on the floor; And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had said, A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head. The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the face. The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' looks. And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue; And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say: "Them's my sentiments tew."
If I were hanged on the highest hill, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine! I know whose love would follow me still; Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine! I know whose tears would flow down to me, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine!
If I were damned o' body and soul, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine! I know whose prayers would make me whole, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine!
Who dat knockin' at de do'? Why, Ike Johnson--yes, fu' sho'! Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad You come down. I t'ought you's mad At me 'bout de othah night, An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite. Say, now, was you mad fu' true W'en I kin' o' laughed at you? Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.
'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad, An' a-mekin' out you's mad; Ef you's gwine to be so glum, Wondah why you evah come. I don't lak nobidy 'roun' Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown-- Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce! Cain't you talk? I tol' you once, Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.
Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. I's done all dat I kin do-- Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; Reckon I'd a' bettah wo' My ol' ragged calico. Aftah all de pains I's took, Cain't you tell me how I look? Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.
Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, She gwine ma'y Lucius White? Miss Lize say I allus wuh Heap sight laklier 'n huh; An' she'll git me somep'n new, Ef I wants to ma'y too. Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.