They's some don't know their A, B, Cs, As my uncle ust to say, And yit don't waste no candle-grease, Ner whistle their lives away! But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme No ringin' song fer to last all time, They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, As my uncle ust to say.
Whoever's Foreman of all things here, As my uncle ust to say, He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, And our round-up, night and day: And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west, And north and south, and worst and best I ain't got nothin' to suggest, As my uncle ust to say.
While with Ambition's hectic flame He wastes the midnight oil, And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, To rest him from his toil,--
Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, Above him spreads her wings, And fans the embers of his lips To ashes as he sings.
Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, Seein' sich craps! I'll undertake to say There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway Afore this season!--Folks is keerless tho', And too fergitful--'caze we'd ort 'o show More thankfulness!--Jes' looky hyonder, hey?-- And watch that little reaper wadin' thue That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground-- Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around The field--like it had nothin' else to do On'y jes' waste it all on me and you!
You think it is a sorry thing That I am blind. Your pitying Is welcome to me; yet indeed, I think I have but little need Of it. Though you may marvel much That _we_, who see by sense of touch And taste and hearing, see things _you_ May never look upon; and true Is it that even in the scent Of blossoms _we_ find something meant No eyes have in their faces read, Or wept to see interpreted.
And you might think it strange if now I told you you were smiling. How Do I know that? I hold your hand-- _Its_ language I can understand-- Give both to me, and I will show You many other things I know. Listen: We never met before Till now?--Well, you are something lower Than five-feet-eight in height; and you Are slender; and your eyes are blue--
Your mother's eyes--your mother's hair-- Your mother's likeness everywhere Save in your walk--and that is quite Your father's; nervous.--Am I right? I thought so. And you used to sing, But have neglected everything Of vocalism--though you may Still thrum on the guitar, and play A little on the violin,-- I know that by the callous in The finger-tips of your left hand-- And, by-the-bye, though nature planned You as most men, you are, I see, "_Left_-handed," too,--the mystery Is clear, though,--your right arm has been Broken, to "break" the left one in. And so, you see, though blind of sight, I still have ways of seeing quite Too well for you to sympathize Excessively, with your good eyes.-- Though _once_, perhaps, to be sincere, Within the whole asylum here, From cupola to basement hall, I was the blindest of them all!