I think that though the clouds be dark, That though the waves dash o'er the bark, Yet after while the light will come, And in calm waters safe at home The bark will anchor....
"In the fight at Brandywine, Black Samson, a giant negro armed with a scythe, sweeps his way through the red ranks...." C. M. Skinner's "Myths and Legends of Our Own Land."
It was Chrismus Eve, I mind hit fu' a mighty gloomy day-- Bofe de weathah an' de people--not a one of us was gay; Cose you 'll t'ink dat 's mighty funny 'twell I try to mek hit cleah,...
Four hundred years ago a tangled waste Lay sleeping on the west Atlantic's side; Their devious ways the Old World's millions traced Content, and loved, and labored, dared and died,...
Want to trade me, do you, mistah? Oh, well, now, I reckon not, W'y you could n't buy my Sukey fu' a thousan' on de spot. Dat ol' mare o' mine? Yes, huh coat ah long an' shaggy, an' she ain't no shakes to see;...
Oh, de clouds is mighty heavy An' de rain is mighty thick; Keep a song up on de way. An' de waters is a rumblin' On de boulders in de crick, Keep a song up on de way. Fu' a bird ercross de road...
Love is the light of the world, my dear, Heigho, but the world is gloomy; The light has failed and the lamp down hurled, Leaves only darkness to me. ...
Darling, my darling, my heart is on the wing, It flies to thee this morning like a bird, Like happy birds in springtime my spirits soar and sing, The same sweet song thine ears have often heard. ...
I don't believe in 'ristercrats An' never did, you see; The plain ol' homelike sorter folks Is good enough fur me. O' course, I don't desire a man To be too tarnal rough,...
The moon has left the sky, love, The stars are hiding now, And frowning on the world, love, Night bares her sable brow. The snow is on the ground, love, And cold and keen the air is....
October is the treasurer of the year, And all the months pay bounty to her store; The fields and orchards still their tribute bear, And fill her brimming coffers more and more....
Done are the toils and the wearisome marches, Done is the summons of bugle and drum. Softly and sweetly the sky over-arches, Shelt'ring a land where Rebellion is dumb....
O Mother Race! to thee I bring This pledge of faith unwavering, This tribute to thy glory. I know the pangs which thou didst feel, When Slavery crushed thee with its heel, With thy dear blood all gory....
Oh, I am hurt to death, my Love; The shafts of Fate have pierced my striving heart, And I am sick and weary of The endless pain and smart. My soul is weary of the strife,...
Not to the midnight of the gloomy past, Do we revert to-day; we look upon The golden present and the future vast Whose vistas show us visions of the dawn.