Katherine D. Tillman, "Recitations" (Full text) (1902)
BY
Katherine D. Tillman
RECITATIONS
BY
Katherine D. Tillman
AUTHOR OF
LINCOLN'S PROCLAMATION; THIRTY YEARS OF
FREEDOM; AUNT BETSY'S THANKSGIVING; THE MEN MAKERS CLUB; HEIRS OF SLAVERY
SUITABLE FOR CHURCHES AND SCHOOLS
COPYRIGHTED
Printed by
THE A. M. E. BOOK CONCERN
631 Pine St., Philadelphia, Pa.
CONTENTS
Page
A Hymn of Praise 9
A Southern Incident 14
At Anchor 28
An Easter Lily 70
America's First Cargo of Slaves 72
Bashy 38
Black and White 65
Color 31
Clotelle—A Tale of Florida 10
Christmas Time 68
Don't Be Ashamed to Be Right 67
Faith's Vision 52
Epochs—Youth, Manhood, Old Age 81
In Ole Ca'liny 7
Idlers and Toilers 26
If You Are in the Right 34
Ida B. Wells 79
Line to Bishop Arnett 76
Our Cause 8
Oh, Africa! 29
Oh, Dear Southland 50
Phyllis Wheatley 24
Pipings of Dawn 85
Seeking the Lost 21
Sen' Me Back to de Souf 36
She who Never Had a Chance 41
Soul Vision 57
The Black Boys in Blue 62
The Negro
The Happy Christmas Bells 27
That Ye Be One 5
The Superannuate 32
The Heroes of the Iowa Conferenc 44
The Glad New Year 51
The Pastor 63
To-day 58
The Annual Celebration 59
The Worker's Song 56
The Blue Vein Club 75
Uncle Ned's Story 18
Uncle Ned's Return 47
Uncle Ike's Testimony 49
When Mandy Combs her Head 16
When Edie's in the Kitchen 54
THAT YE BE ONE
A dream I had of busy workers,
Followers of the Crucified,
Men and women of all races,
Laboring meekly side by side.
Prejudice and racial hatred
Had been buried 'neath God's love;
One great thought theirs souls united—
Men, to lead from Self, above.
Shone dark faces as if visions
Of God's glory beamed within,
Shone fair faces with like rapture
Over souls redeemed from sin.
Crumbled down the walls of darkness,
Perished Satan in his pride,
When the hosts of God united,
When they labored side by side.
"Ye are brethren," sweet the message
Until now an empty sound,
Now caught up by holy millions,
Echoed all the world around.
Saxon, Negro, Jew and Hindoo,
All had felt the quickening flame
That had made of every nation
One in Jesus' hallowed name.
Speed, the time, oh, glorious Father,
When in all reality,
Christians out of every nation
May be truly one, in Thee.
IN OLE CA'LINY.
'Twas in de merry month of May,
When down in ole Ca'liny
De winter to de springs gibs way,
An' de woods smell sweet and piney,
Hi inhis nes' de bluebird sang
Jas' lak he was in meetin',
All troo de woods de music rang
De po' slaves' ears a-greetin'.
'Twas den I sed de words ob love
O'er which «I long had pondered,
An' kissed de fus de little dove
To whom my heart had wandered.
She slipped her toil-worn hand in mine
As dere we stood togedder,
While oberhead de bright sunshine
Warmed up de sweet spring wedder.
But dat was May. December's bref
Came sweepin' o'er Ca'liny
An' all de flowers yield' to def
An' so, too, did my Biny.
I laid her in de woods to res',
De woods so sweet an' piney,
Where fus' I did my love confess,
Way down in ole Ca'liny.
OUR CAUSE
Time was when in the Black's defense,
In hours with awful perils dense,
Brave men stood up and plead his cause
And stormed against inhuman laws;
But now where clanked his heavy chain
His slavers would rebind again,
And from him freed but yesterday--
Take every manly right away!
Brave Sumner! Whittier! are ye gone!
Thou hast no like to call upon.
Garrison! Lincoln! We call in vain,
We shall not see thy like again.
Then be the Black his own defense,
And though his struggles be intense,
Fight hard, fight e'er for every right
That's granted by our Charter's might!
A HYMN OF PRAISE
Oh, God, when days were dark indeed,
When we were fast in Slavery's chain,
Thou then our parents' prayers did heed
And helped us freedom to obtain.
And when adrift upon the world
A child race 'mid the great and strong.
Thy banner o'er was unfurled
And gently were we led along.
Help us to e'er remember Thee
And e'er to endless homage pay
For all the great prosperity
Enjoyed by our race to-day.
CLOTELLE—A TALE OF FLORIDA
Clotelle! Orange-blossoms, "A lover and a grave."
"Sweets to the sweet," and laurels for the brave!
Can I tell the story as it was told to me
Down in Florida by the deep murmuring sea?
Gentle muse, I now invoke thee,
Lend thy power while I shall tell
Men the story of a slave-maid
Of the bright-eyed slave Clotelle!
Light and tripping were her footsteps,
Beauteous both her face and form,
Yet no power could protect her
From the trader's golden charm.
Lived Clotelle on a plantation
Near the Gulf Stream's turbid wave
Lived through childhood's years unheeding;
She was but a helpless slave.
Sixteen years had lightly o'er her,
Tenderly o'er the maid had sped,
When the time came to Clotelle
That love's dreams her fancies led.
Cupid threw at her an arrow
Aimed at fair Clotelle his dart,
And love entered the recesses
Of her innocent young heart.
Dark her lover was and stately
As a prince of olden days,
And among slaves both old and young
Naught was heard of Pierre but praise.
Fate smiled on the poor slave lovers,
Oft they met in woodland bowers,
Oft exchanged love-vows in rapture
In those happy stolen hours.
Planned the two a little cabin,
Orange blossoms overhead,
Mocking-birds to lend their music;
Ah, those days too quickly sped!
But one day to the maiden
Sorrow, agony and shame,
For with words of subtile meaning
To her side her master, came.
Said the planter to the maiden,
"Thou art by far too fair to toil;
Hands like thine, so small and shapely,
Were not meant to till the soil."
"Come and be my loved companion,
Robed in silks and jewels rare;
'Tis no miser who entreats thee,
Come and all my riches share."
Shrank poor Clotelle from her master
With a countenance of shame,
While in low and tender accents
She sobbed forth her lover's name.
"I love Pierre, O worthy master,
And death with him beneath the sea
Would suit better far thy maiden
Than a life of shame with thee!"
Then the planter's brow grew clouded
And his voice both harsh and stern.
"If you thus my will defy, girl,
That I am your master you shall learn.
"You love Pierre, you say—my servant;
You prefer my slave to me,
Your love will but prove his ruin;
Never thou his bride wilt be."
Sank Clotelle's young heart with boding,
All her joy was turned to pain,
All the fond hopes she had cherished,
Vanished, ne'er to come again.
From that hour Pierre was doomed
By the planter's wish to die;
For he swore to see him hanging
Lifeless 'neath the southern sky.
At last accused of awful crime
Too hideous to breathe aloud,
Poor Pierre was hanged one fatal day,
Surrounded by a pitying crowd.
Clotelle gazed on him in anguish.
"Farewell, Pierre, my love," she cried.
"Farewell, sweet," to her he whispered,
Ere the fatal noose was tied.
When 'twas o'er, Clotelle stood silent,
Till her eyes the planter's met,
Then she ran like one demented,
Shrieking, "Pierre, thine am I yet."
Rushing to the water's edge,
Plunged she in its maddening foam,
And returned the planter, baffled,
To his princely, slave-bought home.
Rest in peace, Clotelle, sweet maiden;
Near the Gulf Stream's turbid wave,
Thou who for the love of virtue,
All untimely filled thy grave!
A SOUTHERN INCIDENT.
(Founded upon a true incident)
It was in a Southern city,
And the people from near and far
Clad in their august robes of wealth,
Crowded a passing car.
They quickly filled all the seats,
And then began to chat,
Of the weather, country, fashions—
From farms to the latest style hat.
An old colored woman
Came slowly struggling in,
And looked with hopeful glance
A pitying smile to win
On her arm an old worn basket
Hung awkwardly down in her way,
While to the strap she caught wildly.
Eighty years she'd seen if a day.
But men of vigorous manhood
And women young in years,
Kept their comfortable seats in silence
And found her a subject for jeers.
And then a young Southern woman,
And gladly the tale I repeat,
Rose in the car and said kindly,
"Here auntie, take my seat."
An electric shock thrilled the hearers,
She was an old colored woman, you know,
But they knew that the deed they had witnessed
Was as white as the falling snow.
The old woman comfortably nestled
In the depths of her cosy seat.
"Well, you is a rale lady,"
She sighed from her pleasant retreat.
"De Lawd bless you fo' yo' kindness;
You has he'p me mo' dan you kno',
But folks can see you's a lady
Dat nebber hab seen you befo'."
Three cheers for the Southern lady,
Who dared that act to do,
And speed the time when the Southland,
Shall be filled with such charity true.
WHEN MANDY COMBS HER HEAD
If there's one thing more than t'other
'Bout which something might be said,
And a subject that's important,
It's a colored person's head.
My Mandy's been to high school,
And she's got her books down fine;
She can figure like a lawyer,
And read Latin, line for line.
But there's one thing tries her spirit,
And an hour when tears are shed,
Oh, I hear the storm approaching
When my Mandy combs her head.
She starts at it Sunday morning,
Soon as ever she's done her work,
And begins to comb and pull
And to fume and sigh and jerk.
"'Taint no use to try to fix it.
Lord, I wish that I was dead!
Here I've worked hard for an hour
Trying to do something with my head."
Or it may be that at bedtime,
Just before her prayers are said,
Mandy gets the comb an' starts up
Working on her tired head.
How she'll fuss an' pull an' jerk it,
Working on that stubborn fleece,
'Till I hear her mother say,
"Mandy, stop an' get the grease!"
Like the oil upon the waters,
Things get better for a while.
The big comb it quits its jerking,
An' then Mandy tries to smile.
"Lord, I wish I'd been around there
When the Lord was giving hair;
While the white folks was a-getting,
I'd been sure to get my share."
Pap, if Gabriel blows for Judgement,
An' my name you don't hear read,
Don't you'n mammy get excited,
I'll be fixing of my head!
UNCLE NED'S STORY
Lay aside yo' books boys,
An' listen to ole Ned
While I tell to you a story
No man has eber read.
'Twas durin' ob de wah,
De wah ob sixty-three,
When thousan's ob brave Union men
Lef' home the slaves to free.
Way down on de ole plantashun
Was my wife Chloe an' I,
A takin' keer ob po ole Miss,
Who's den about to die.
De Union soldiers came one night,
An' said we'd soon be free;
An' dat we could go 'long o' them,
An' fight for liberty.
Now all had gone sabe us,
De slaves an' massa, too,
An' lef' us home to 'tend ole Miss,
Case dey'd alius foun' us true.
Now, I laks to be called hones',
But I ain' nebber took much stock
In de white folks a-praisin' me,
Dat used the auction block.
My Chloe she made a reg'lar feast
An' watched dem wid delight;
Until dey eat an' den prepared
To march out in de night.
I tied my few ole clo'es up quick,
An' tole Chloe do de same,
But dere she stood jes' lak a block,
An' me callin' her name.
"Come, Chloe, be quick, dey'll go away,
An' we nebber will be free.
Ain't you had enuf ob massa's whip,
An' 'nuf of slavery?
But Chloe she muttered 'bout ole Miss,
Almos' in de grave,
An' said she couldn' leave her den,
Ef 'twas her soul to save.
Chloe stayed, while I marched away
On de battle-fiel';
An' thoughts ob her kept me in heart,
My Chloe true as steel.
When all was done I hurried home,
But no Chloe a welcome gave;
By ole mistress' side she's buried
In a lonely Southern grave!
SEEKING THE LOST
Many Negro newspapers have from time to time
maintained a "Lost" column, for the purpose of
bringing together families that were sold apart
during the period of American slavery.
Is you de blessed editor
Dat brings de dead to life,
United sons an' darters,
An' husban's wid dere wife?
You is! Well I'se ole Mose,
I hails from Virginny,
I'se huntin' fer my long-los' folks,
Ole ooman' an' little Winnie.
On de banks ob de Missippy,
In ole Missouri State,
'Twas dar dey took my wife
When we fus' separate.
My other two chillen was boys,
Dey's livin' now wid me.
Ef I can fin' my wife an' gal,
How happy we will be.
I don' min' de money
I wants my wife an' chile,
I want to see my folks
I'se mourned for dis long while.
You don't know de sorrow
Dat's filled my heart for y'ars,
Nor de days an' nites da
I's spent in bitter tears.
My wife's name was Mandy,
An' sah, she was a cook,
An' one ob de fines',
Do' she don' use no book.
Why, Kernel Butler sed her cakes
Was fit for any king,
An' comp'ny time she was de one
Dat heaven's gates jes' opened wide
An' den she was a powah in prayer,
Fer when she prayed it seem
Dat heaven's gates jes' opened wide,
On all our souls to beam.
What made 'em sell her? Easy tole,
Dey cleared up de estate
At master's death an' all was sole
An' 'bliged to separate.
Li'l Winnie was de baby then,
'Twas thirty years or mo.'
Ef libin', she's a woman now,
An' Mandy's head's lak sno'.
Tink you kno' 'em? Winnie's yo wife,
Mandy's libin' in dis yeah town!
Praise de Lawd, an' you, too, mister!
Ole Mose' po' los' lams is foun'!
PHYLLIS WHEATELEY.
O little maid from Afric's slave coasts brought
By traders cruel to be put up and sold
As other goods by scheming merchants are,
A human life exchanged for senseless gold.
Rude, helpless child, right glad am I
That then thy lot and tender years
A woman's generous sympathies awoke
And thou wert christened with a woman's tears.
Oh, little did she dream that genius rare
Slumbered within thy childish brain,
Or that the time would come when thou
Wouldst lasting fame obtain;
But nurtured by a Christian woman's care
In all the graces true and sweet thou grew,
And soon the wise, the famed and the great
To pay thy genius homage quickly drew.
Thy verses with their meloncholy strain
Breathed from a soul so filled with poesy
Won my friends to thee, O Phyllis dear,
And made thy mistress more than proud of thee.
And Washington, our nation's chief,
Paid tribute to thee, gifted Afric maid,
Much pleasure found in lines thy dark hands penned
And thou with courtly praise did lade.
And England, too, applauded thee, dear one,
And read thy graceful verses with all pride.
Alas, that thou while in the bloom of life
Thy earthly task gave o'er—and died!
But, ah, thy memory still is green,
And Afric poets still are inspired by thee,
And thou wilt help them tune their harps
To grander strains of minstrelsy!
IDLERS AND TOILERS.
Heaven's great crowning day had come,
And all had gathered there,
And those who had no sheaves
Cried out in great despair.
"We ate and drank in thy presence
Whilst Thou passed through our street,
We knew Thee Lord, and now we pray
Thee give us welcome meet."
"Ye ate and drank in My presence,
While I passed through thy street,
And carelessly sat and feasted
With beggars unhelped at your feet.
For self ye wholly lived,
Despising Mine and Me.
Depart, ye ruined souls,
That worked iniquity.
"Far from earth's care and its sorrow
Ye lived your lives away.
Crowns are for the toilers,
Stand ye far back, I pray."
And abashed, the idlers vanished
Within a cloud of gloom,
While for' weary toilers
The heavenly hosts made room.
THE HAPPY CHRISTMAS BELLS
The happy Christmas bells are ringing,
The heavenly choir their anthems singing
The sweetest words of tongue or pen—
Peace on earth, good will to men!
A Saviour born in poverty
Brings to the world true liberty.
We sing the song angels sang then,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
The song the angels sang of peace
Its heavenly strains shall never cease,
Till discord from our earth shall flee
And then shall feel soul harmony.
Till man his brother's care shall feel,
And labor for his brother's weal,
And men of every tongue and race
The truths of Christ's great life embrace.
With heavenly hosts Him we adore,
Who all our sins and sorrows bore,
And upward still our songs ascend,
Peace on earth, good will to men!
AT ANCHOR
My bark, so tempest-tossed in days of youth,
Hath anchored now in seas of heavenly truth,
And peace, ne'er found in Pleasure's wanton ways
Now gently hallows all my passing days.
The work unblest, because an idol made
Down at the Cross, my soul at last hath laid
One lingering look at awful Calvary,
One look at Calvary's Christ, hath
Wrought this peace for me.
My faith, before so weak, is suddenly made strong,
I toil but worry not; all doth to God belong.
Dark often is my way, but songs in night time come
As happy pilgrims sing in sight of home.
Henceforth I tread but in the path He trod,
Henceforth I joy but in the love of God.
My life, my all to Thee, O blessed Christ, I give,
To Thee who suffered death that sinful men might live.
Farewell, unrest, and all my worldly pride
The Prince of Peace my soul hath satisfied.
My ship hath cast her anchor; all, all is well,
And mortal tongue can ne'er my soul's deep rapture tell.
OH, AFRICA!
Oh, Africa, dear Africa,
Upon thy sun-kissed shore,
Shall the sable sons of Hamite sires
Ne'er be masters more?
Or shall thy glowing splendors
Of earth and air and sky,
Except for alien nations
In dark oblivion lie?
Oh, canst thou not arise,
Dear children of the sun,
As in thy primal strength,
Before thy day is done?
Shall not thy old proud history,
Thy pyramids of stone,
Thy mummied kings, thy riches,
Arouse to crowns unwon?
The Sphinx, that wondrous marvel,
Shames on us more than thou,
With all thy former glory,
And naught but languor now.
The best king in the forest, the tiger
In his lair,
Still throw their lordly challenge
Upon the evening air.
But thou art torn and bleeding,
And thou dost not arise,
And all thy fair, fair country
Is searched by alien spies.
Throw down thy rude, dumb idols,
Thy gods of wood and stone,
No help is there in idols,
Help comes from God alone!
COLOR
There is a silent majesty which speaks
From lives of noble men
Of every nation, tongue and clime,
Beyond malicious ken.
And men with countenance as black
As skies of midnight hue
May yet be men of highest type
Of manhood strong and true.
And shall a thing of color be
A certain mark of infamy,
And shall all merit be despised
That's seen thro' color-blinded eyes?
Believe with sturdy Burns,
Manhood depends on worth,
And scorn the prejudice that spurns
The dark-faced men of earth.
THE SUPERANNUATE
Watch him totter down the street,
Haste the dear old man to greet.
From his steps so very slow,
And his voice so thin and low,
Nature doth to us relate
Leaves our superannuate!
But yesterday quite in his prime,
The foremost preacher of his time,
Warning in love old age and youth
To build their lives on Sacred Truth,
How Time did all his powers abate
And left him superannuate!
When first fell the dreaded word,
His inmost soul with pain was stirred
To lay his precious life-work by
And like all wornout things to die,
He felt so old, so out of date,
To be a superannuate!
But still he loves the Sacred Word,
And often shouts, "Praise ye the Lord!"
And bids the younger men go on
And win the prize that he has won.
He is no railer 'gainst his fate,
Our brave old superannuate!
And now he lingers by Death's stream^
Across the wave comes silvery gleam
Of waters still, of pastures green,
And forms arrayed in dazzling sheen,
Mansion and crown for him await,
Thrice blessed superannuate!
IF YOU ARE IN THE RIGHT.
If you are in the right, why, say,
Don't look down in that hangdog way.
Lift up your head, your heart as well,
If you are in the right—why, time will tell.
If you don't think that God is dead,
If you believe the words He's said,
Lift up your head and go along,
Start up a verse of some good song.
When God shall settle His accounts
You'll get just what to you amounts.
If you are right, why, say,
Just lift up heart and voice, and pray!
THE NEGRO.
We hold ourselves too cheaply;
In God's sight
Manhood is simply manhood, nothing more,
Nor worse nor better in His truth's clear light,
Then why should we our origin deplore?
If in time past a black man stood
For naught; if ignorance was
Black Men's bequeathed store,
It holds not true in days so grandly fraught
With Black Men's genius, spread
The wide world o'er.
We scorn ourselves, our past
Recalls the yoke.
Are we than others better, once enslaved?
What nation but hath groaned till chains wefe broke?
Till they by some great Moses' hands were saved?
Erect we'll stand, as doth become a man
"God's image cut in ebony," Fuller said.
Our revealed thoughts and aspirations can
The world's thought in a juster channel lead.
SEN' ME BACK TO DE SOUF.
What does I wan' fo' Christmus gib?
Now, daughter, don' git mad,
Fo' I mus' say to one an' all,
You is de bes' chile dat I'se had.
You've tried quite hard since I've been heah
To mek me feel young lak an' gay,
But nothin' meks it seem lak home.
I want to be home Christmus Day.
Don' think me ungrateful fo' what you've done;
You have been kin' as kin' can be,
But I miss de sight ob my Southern home,
An' dar's fren's I longs to see.
Dar is ole Marse Jack, dat is gray lak me,
An' who lives jes' fo' blocks away.
He will not be here long, and I'd lak chile to see
Him an' all de res' Christmus Day.
I kno's dat our fo'ks am wronged in de Souf,
But den de Norf hab a spite at dem too,
An I' 'se too ole to be changin' my views,
I laks ole ways better'n new.
Dar's good sister Lu an' ole Uncle Joe,
Dat's missed me while I was away.
Dar's no one heah dat will miss me but you,
I want to be home Christmas day.
Dar's no one dar kno's about de rain,
Nor when it's gwine to sno\ chile, lak me.
Why, de nabors dey alius been 'pendin' on Ned
All ob de signs ob de wedder to see.
Den in the church, when de preacher gibs out
De words dat he has fo' to say,
He needs me to he'p by shoutin' Amen!
I's gwine to be dar dis Christmus Day.
I know dat I ain't stayed away berry long,
An' dey'll laf to see me so soon;
But, chile, I mus' go back to de sweet sunny Souf,
De lan' ob de possum an' coon.
Dar's whar I'se raised an' has buried my dead,
An' now I aint got no mo' fo' to say,
'Cep' dis, ef yo' want yo' ole pap to live,
Sen' him home fo' nex' Chrismus Day.
BASHY.
'A Negro girl killed in a house of shame."
In cities oft you may hear the same.
How the poor girls go down in the struggle of life,
And yield to dishonor, both maid and wife.
But Bashy, I'll swear, never had a chance;
A black face never does enhance
A woman's value in our land.
Black faces are, well—not just in demand.
Not only in proud Anglo-Saxon race,
But Negroes there are who hate a black face!
We have men who will pass a black girl by
Because she is black—that's the reason why.
You see, we look up to the Saxon race,
And prize above all a white man's face!
And our Bashy was black and ignorant, too,
And what was a poor black outcast to do?
She tried hard to work, but a green farm hand,
Is it strange she never could understand
How to please Miladi on the avenue,
Who could not teach her what to do.
Bashy loved, and she gave her all.
The man who caused her awful fall
Thought her too black to make a wife,
So she drifted on to a dreadful life.
Till one day, while filled with maddening drink,
Bashy was thrust o'er eternity's brink
Without a chance for a whispered prayer
That God would have mercy on her despair.
Her murderer was hung, but every day
Some poor girl goes down in the self-same way,
Some Bashy of our struggling race
Is made an outcast by her face!
Some black mother crooming her baby to sleep
Prays now that the Father of all may keep
Her girl away in the city to toil,
Pure from the deeds and thoughts that soil.
When she hears the news of her girl's dark shame,
And the strain she has brought on her soul and her name,
The house will be dark and the mother's heart
Ache till the life-threads break apart.
Oh, women and men of the Negro Race,
Can we not rise above color of face?
Teach our girls that the worst disgrace
Is blackness of life, not blackness of face!
That women are needed pure-souled and high,
Who sooner than fall will prefer to die!
That a black girl needing a helping hand
Will be helped by the blackmen of the land.
Lift the women up and the race ascends;
Let the women go down, and our progress ends.
SHE WHO NEVER HAD A CHANCE
No, I never had a chance, sir, to be good,
I want it to be plainly understood.
You see, it was this way: mother married again
After father died, and you know what then,
The new father wanted us all out of the way,
And he made us feel it every day.
A curse and a blow, a blow and a curse,
Every day somehow things would grow worse.
Till I got to be near seventeen,
And met with the handsome fellow I had seen.
He'd treated me squarely and things might have gone right
Had not my father on one fatal night
Locked me out of doors, sir, for late coming in,
And called me a name that drove me to sin.
Rich women may leave wine rooms in fine homes to dwell,
But poor girls leave them on journeys to hell.
That's where I went, and these scars on my lace
And my red, swollen eyes tell my frequent disgrace.
It seems that I have been through the whole catalogue of crime,
Under each new lover I have served out my time.
I couldn't be lower if to be- so I tried,
And I often wish when born I had died,
And when the doctor said to me to-day,
"Moll, you will never live to be gray
That heart of yours and that bad cough
Are certain to hurry you off,"
Why, I laughed, for, sir, I just long to die!
Why, ont beneath the cool green grass to lie,
Respected at last, for grim death.elevates all,
I am willing at any time to fall.
Ready to go? No, not if you mean good,
For I know that good people should
Study their Bibles, be steady and pray;
And I, sir, was never brought up in that way.
The lessons I learned were to drink, swear and dance.
To be good,'sir, I never had the chance.
I've looked in cottages as I passed at night,
Little children in mother's arms clasped tight,
Or wee little ones kneeling down to pray,
And I've choked and sobbed and hurried away,
For I am a woman past forty-three,
And no one has ever said prayers to me.
And I have seen happy well-treated wives,
And I've sighed for our own miserable criminal lives;
But I've dared oft to be thankful that no baby came
To share in it's mother's dark life of shame!
But, sir, you are the chaplain, the priest of men's souls;
Some strange question oft within my mind rolls.
These society women that they call swell,
What's going to keep them from hell?
I read the papers and I know their life,
The heartless coquette, the unfaithful wife,
The parlor carousal, the club room's dance,
Don't tell me these people haven't had a chance.
Their names won't take them to heaven, I've heard,
Then they all will be lost, if there's truth in God's word.
They'd never think of helping a woman like me,
Nor could they, for no better are they that I see,
A good deal more money, a fashionable name,
And one in debauchery and in their shame.
Somehow, I have never liked a low life,
And if I had e'er been a good man's wife,
It seems to me no man's jewels or gold
Would have tempted my feet to stray from the fold.
But regrets are in vain, soon all will end,
And down to the grave without smile or friend,
Without, perhaps, one tearful glance,
Exit Moll—she who never had a chance.
THE HEROES OF THE IOWA CONFERENCE
"Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest."
A great man goes, a great man comes,
And all hearts are at rest.
For the zeal of our Grant for the Lord God of hosts
Is one of our proudest loud-spoken boasts.
For Bishop, they say when you stand for the Lord
That sinrters are saved by the power of the Word,
That revivals of blessing break out in your train,
And that forces long dormant awaken again.
We are glad this is true, and in hamlet and town
May the forces of sin through you be pulled down,
And in each of our churches, from end to end
The Holy Spirit in power descend.
A thousand welcomes to you, dear sir.
We have met to-day your heart to cheer,
For the woods are with Methodist preachers thick,
Heroes each one of them, tried men and true,
The makers of our Conference, I present them to you.
And on beehalf of the preachers assembled to-day,
Permit me these words of introduction to say:
Here is our Presiding Elder, Dr. George W. Gaines,
A man who generally says what he means;
Stalwart and staunch, true to his race,
Who some day the bench of bishops may grace;
And Presiding Elder Bundy, absent most of the time,
Overseeing his great work in the Snowball clime.
Here is Dr. Ransom, our brilliant host,
Whose gifts are the Conference' pride and boast.
Dr. Carey, pastor of old Mother Quinn,
A man whose graces are sure to win.
And dear Father Thompson, whom we all love
And hope may be given a seat above.
There's Daniels, a strong and earnest man,
Who says he'll raise money if any man can;
And Tillman, the Joshua of St. John,
Leading the young flock bravely on.
There's Slater, full of gospel fire,
And Butler, looking to go higher.
Dr. Booth, among our scholars the best;
Father Malone, the great pioneer of the West;
Seymour and Shaw, who lately came;
Fenwick and Jones, of growing fame.
I wish I had time to speak of them all,
Theological Reeves and dear Father Hall,
Bass, McDowell, Joplin and Grant,
Holly and Taylor, but you see I can't.
There's Rhinehart, Thomas, Gordon and Boyd;
There's Williamson, Peterson, two Johnsons and Ford;
There's Phillips and Higgins, Dr. McGee,
G. W. Jones and John Ferribee,
Williams, Christy, Jackson and Fort,
Lewis, Porter and Searcy, your hands to support.
Basfield, Taylor, Dowden, you see;
Dr. Peterson, F. J., and his brother, J. D.;
Festimun, Speece, Wharton and Knight,
Anderson and Brooks, young men of great might;
C. Peterson, McNeal and Mr. N. Work,
And Graves, who never a duty will shirk.
From here to the snowy plains of the West
Our heroes go forth and each does his best.
They've toiled hard and built up the work that you see,
And each one is anxious promoted to be.
They follow their Master, they fear no foe;
With you as their Bishop forward they'll go,
Living for Jesus, whatever the cost;
Dying like heroes on guard at their post.
UNCLE NED'S RETURN
"Well, Mary, I'se home once again,
An' my heart.am' brimmin' wid joy
To be at home wid my ole fren's,
Why, hit makes me feel like a boy!
When de engine stopped at de place
Whar de fo'ks dey gits off an' on,
Don' yo min' I waved hit a long farewell,
An' was glad to see hit was gone.
Why, de fo'ks dat was down to de train
Jes' to meet an ole fellow lak me,
Dey come in crowds, an' I felt proud
So many ole fren's thar to see.
I rode home in Massa Jack's chair,
Jo's boys was my hosses dat day,
An' when I got home de house was full,
Dey'd come frum eber which way.
Dey had built a fire on de h'arth,
An' de cabin was good an' warm.
De possum was roasting wid taters round,
An' de fo'ks lak bees 'gan to swarm.
I'se glad to be back home again,
An' my joy grows more wid each day.
Good by, chile, be good to yo'self,
I'se home, an' I'se heah fo' to stay."
UNCLE IKE'S TESTIMONY
De Lawd does save; His Son He gave
Fo' me do' I is po\
Ise surely glad dat I is had
De Lawd my, fren' fo' sho.
De Lawd am mine, an' ebery line
He sen' me by His word
I'se hid away, as day by day
His gospel I hab heard.
I love de Lawd; His precious Word
Hab bro't me to de light.
I'll trus' His grace my foes to face
An' conquer in de flight.
He blesses me an' keeps me free
Frum danger an' frum sin.
I praise de Lawd I'se heard His Word
An' He had took me in!
OH, DEAR SOUTHLAND
My heart for thee is longing,
And thoughts of thee keep thronging,
Oh, dear Southland!
My grief I cannot master,
My tears but flow the faster
When I would them command.
For thee my tears are flowing,
To thee I'd fain be going,
My dear Southland!
I would that I could see thee,
I'd never, never leave thee,
My own, my loved Southland!
THE GLAD NEW YEAR
Swiftly cometh the glad New Year,
Leaving in throes of pain
The dying year whose reign is o'er,
And who never will come again.
How shall we meet the glad New Year
As it enters our erring life?
By banishing sin from the door of our heart
And shutting out evil and strife.
If we have erred in the year that is past,
Let us live the New Year aright;
Let us atone for the wrongs we have done
Ere our spirits shall take their flight.
There may be a heart that the glad New Year
Findeth torn and bleeding with pain.
Oh, if thou hast aught to do with its woe,
Go quickly and bring joy again.
FAITH'S VISION
There is a place no mortal eye
Hath ever seen,
Where spirits of the just may dwell
In state serene,
Where pomp and pride are laid aside,
And no one cares
For glittering gems or coronets
The monarch wears.
The noble of the earth are there,
The rich in truth,
And some who by the world were deemed
Poor and uncouth,
The widow there is comforted
By psalms of joy,
A mother clasps in ectasy
An angel boy.
There little orphaned hearts are glad
Around the Throne,
Who oft on earth wept bitter tears,
Despised alone!
The sick, the sad, who loved the
Savior well,
Laid crosses by for crowns and went
With Him to dwell;
There, too, shall we when we
Have done our task,
Gave up life's lease,
Begin a life whose wondrous joy
Shall never cease.
WHEN EDIE'S IN THE KITCHEN.
When Edie's in the kitchen
How my heart with rapture glows,
And when things begin a-smelling
How my zeal no longer knows,
For around I can't help poking
And remarking with a sigh,
I know that something good
Is a-coming by and by.
And I'm never disappointed,
Though, of course, it's hard to wait,
While the salad's fate hangs fire,
Or the pudding boileth late;
But all delays prove raptures
And my reward is sure,
For better cooks than Edie
Never opened oven door
Biscuits always light and puffy,
Fish cooked a la Normandy,
Salads that will fill your spirits
With a sweet, calm ecstacy.
When Edie's in the kitchen
Give yourself no concern,
For everything she dishes up
Will be done just to a turn.
When Edie's in the kitchen and the fellows
Sparkle round,
A little nervous feeling
Kinder makes my,head turn round,
For by and by, I know—
It's just the way of life—
Some likely chap will coax away
My Edie as his wife.
THE WORKER'S SONG.
Sometimes like tired children
We sigh for restful place,
To cuddle and soothe our weary selves,
Ere duties new we face.
But the need of the world is great,
And duty clamors strong;
And off we are at work again,
Battling against the wrong.
The hardest battle waged
Is the war that's on within,
Where the soul must wield its arms,
Against the hosts of sin.
For no true success in battle,
Can come to warriors bold
Until o'er foes within
The victor's place they hold.
SOUL VISION.
Have you ever seen a vision
In the day or in the night
Of what you might if you dared to be
And you shrank back in affright?
And accepted a lower purpose
Or lived by a weaker thought,
And sacrificed your ideals
For earth things that you sought?
We call our visions madness
And cast our ideals away,
And are ever less than we should be,
Had we bid our visions stay.
For those who most help the world
In its onward march to roll
Cherish night and day
The Visions of the Soul.
TO-DAY.
I had a song I would not sing
Because it seemed a simple thing.
I sang my song, and hearts in pain
Found heart to live and strive again.
I had a word I feared to say
A hope that lived with me always,
Nor breathed the hope, nor said the word,
And life for two fore'er was marred.
So sing the song you have to-day,
Though weak, yet cheering be thy lay;
Breathe love's fond hope and let be heard
In waiting cars love's tender word.
THE ANNUAL CELEBRATION.
Away back in Missouri,
Where they do things up so fine,
When the melons and the pumpkins
Are a-ripening on the vine,
All the loyal Colored people
In that part of the nation
Begin to send their invites out
For their annual celebration.
Few of them take much interest
In affairs of church and state,
Or in the serious, problems
That our statesmen agitate.
But among the Missourians,
Abe Lincoln's Proclamation
Is the occasion every year
For an annual celebration.
The colored folks are all on hand,
To hear again the precious news,
And white folks, too, galore,
They've heard so oft before,
How in the year of sixty-one
The Hero of the nation,
Abe Lincoln, Moses of our Race,
Signed that wondrous Proclamation.
The speech is long, the children tire,
But the old ones laugh and cry,
For they've been through the scorching fire,
And they sit and think and sigh.
The speech is o'er and the band strikes up,
And the well-dressed population,
Grandsires and striplings, all enjoy
Their annual celebration!
Some high strung college preachers,
Just out and up to date,
Said Missouri folks' annual
Was several months too late;
That on the first of January
Abe Lincoln's Proclamation
That freed the nation's host of slaves
Should have its celebration
They ran those preachers out of town—
How could they celebrate
With Jack Frost on the ground?
'Twas the preachers out of date!
But when the watermelons,
That fruit of God's creation,
Are ripe and sweet, Missouri folks
Have their annual celebration.
THE BLACK BOYS IN BLUE.
Watch as they march from the West to the sea,
Cavalry brave and armed infantry,
Men who have fought, so the records say,
Like lions on the frontiers far away.
"Black Buffaloes," the Indians called them first,
But when in the fight they got the worst
Of that awful burst of shot and shell,
They turned and rushed away pell-mell!
There were black boys fighting at Bunker's Hill;
In 1812 they were at it still,
And when they were called, in sixty-one,
Thousands shouldered a government gun!
Ne'er should the love of their country wane
For the black boys who sank in the gallant Maine
Nor the heroes who charged with such good will
And saved the Rough Riders at San Juan Hill.
THE PASTOR.
Dedicated to Rev. G. M. Tillman.
In a lonely little parish
For a year a man of God
Taught in love the common people
Of the pathway Christ has trod.
Told to them the old, old story
Of the wondrous One who gave
His own life on Calvary's summit
Lost and ruined souls to save.
Sometimes it was told in gladness,
But there, too, were hours of pain.
That they followed not the Savior,
Though besought o'er and again.
Oft he deemed his labor wasted,
Many times discouraged grew,
But, withal, he had resolved that
He would to the cross be true.
But no life that's truly given
To the service of the Lord
E'er is lost but in the seeming,
So declares the precious Word.
Words that months ago he'd spoken
One day quickened into life,
And a soul communed with Jesus
That before had known but strife.
Then the pastor's heart was gladdened
And his Godly faith renewed,
For he'd proved the precious promise.
He had waited on the Lord.
BLACK AND WHITE.
Two little ones played by the roadside green,
And an artist smiled at the pretty scene,
Laugh they aloud in pure delight,
Two little boys, one black, one white.
Two little fishermen idle away
The precious hours of one school day,
Trying in vain to get a bite,
Two little boys, One black, one white.
Two little truants homeward bent,
But there, alas, supperless sent
Straight off to bed, in broad daylight,
Two little boys, one black, one white.
Two little heads over hard lessons bend,
Wishing the goblin king might send
Some elf to take teacher away,
While they ran off to have their play.
Two little friends very loyal to each other,
Give to their mothers no ends of brother,
Must be together, both day and night,
Two little boys, one black, one white.
Two little boys kneel by the bed,
And somewhat sleepily prayers are said.
Angels bear to the throne of light,
Two little boys, one black, one white.
But, alas, when these two are men,
Where will be their old friendship then?
Will the white man give to the black man his right?
And will they still be friends, one black, one white?
DON'T BE ASHAMED TO DO RIGHT.
There are things of which we should be ashamed,
There are deeds that won't bear the' light,
But a motto good for both young and old,
Is, don't be ashamed to do right.
Perchance you are on the unpopular side,
And you stand alone in the fight,
Just hold your ground, my struggling friend,
And don't be ashamed to do right.
Riches and fame are good in their way,
But they can't give half the delight
That comes to the soul that is anchored on truth.
And is not ashanred to do right.
Then a cheer for the famed and a cheer for the wise
As onward they soar in their flight,
But louder yet let us cheer for the souls
Who are not ashamed to do right!
CHRISTMAS TIME.
The air is filled with hearty cheer,
For merry Christmas time is here,
And passing down the crowded street
Bright, joyous faces there we meet;
The shops are bursting o'er with toys
To please old Santa's girls and boys,
And stockings now are darned with care,
For Santa Claus will soon be here.
The children early seek their bed,
But filled is every little head
With thoughts of Santa Claus so kind
Who all the stockings soon will find.
Oh, happy Christmas time, I trow
That all will not thy gladness know,
For hearts are filled with anxious care,
And some are hardened by despair,
And those whom distance bears apart
From loved ones dear unto their heart
Will grieve for those they may not see
Despite the merry Christmas glee;
But hopeful still should be each heart,
For though by distance borne apart,
To dearest ones and well-loved friend
A Yule-tide token we may send,
And in memory of the Christchild's birth,
May pray for men of every clime
The hallowed joy of Christmas time.
AN EASTER LILY.
The church was ablaze with glory,
The glory of Easter tide,
And a crowd of struggling Arabs
Eagerly pressed outside.
"Oh, ain't them flowers stunnin'!
Wouldn't it just be fun
If one of them ladies in there
Would give each of us fellers one?"
And one of the altar committee,
With a little of wealth to spare,
Heard the voice of the blessed Master
In the little Arab's prayer.
She was off and back in a minute,
Her hands filled with lilies fair;
Each boy received his flower
With a shout that rent the air.
"May your lives be as white," said the giver
A sermon short but strong,
And one that went not unheeded,
But helped to save them from wrong.
And in an hour of after life,
Amid her future joys,
The giver found in a man of God
One of her Arab boys!
AMERICA'S FIRST CARGO OF SLAVES.
It was midnight in Africa,
And on the western shore
Stood chained a huddled line of slaves,
Full twenty souls or more,
While darkness like Egyptian night
Reigned over all the land,
The slaves were hurried on the ship,
And borne from Afric's strand.
On board a man-of-war they go
To breathe the ship's foul air,
To stifle in the ship's close hole
And shriek their wild despair.
Ah, who could tell the awful woe
This fatal act would bring,
Surely in that Dutch captain's ears
A million death cries ring!
Oh, charge not God with will to see
His Afric sons enslaved
That doomed to dreary servitude
Their lost souls might be saved.
Oh, no; for better in our land,
The land possessed by Ham,
To dwell in perfect liberty
Beneath the waving palm,
To have the gospel brought to us,
As 'tis to Asia sent.
Than we like beasts should toil for years
That Christian light be lent,
To labor like the patient ox,
Like to him no more to know
Than endless toil for others' gain
And take in peace his blow.
The ship sailed on o'er stormy seas
Till this strange cargo came
To Jamestown's mart, and thus began
Our country's greatest shame.
Oh, what a fatal hour that bro't
The slave to this free shore,
On history's page the fearful blot
With time doth blacker grow.
Two hundred weary years,
The Negro tilled the soil,
Until America was rich
With fruits of Negro toil.
Two hundred weary years
But freedom came at last,
And no other lowly people
Have ever climbed so fast.
See how they struggle, see!
Will no one lend a hand,
Will no one help a race oppressed
Within this Christian land?
Give them an equal chance,
Freedom of life and aim,
This only can atone
For America's dark shame!
THE BLUE VEIN CLUB
Down in Darktown there is trouble
Of a most peculiar kind,
And the next "hair-straight'ner" found there
Will some angry women find.
A Blue Vein Club was started
By a ginger-faced Miss Dare,
And she said that every member
Must have straight or straightened hair.
Miss Dare she did the straightening
For a neat five dollar bill.
There were all in all one hundred
Swallowed Miss Dare's Blue Vein pill.
All went well until it rained,
And the hair it all went back,
Then a hundred colored women
Went the straightener to attack.
But the Dare mansion was silent,
They had left, the neighbors said,
And the Blue Vein Clu'b in Darktown
Has been bursted in the head.
LINES TO BISHOP ARNETT.
Awake to life, poetic muse, and sing
The deeds of our great Churchman, Arnett, Great
Awake, and let the earth with echoes ring,
And praise our hero, famed in Church and State.
Sing of a life from lowest planes upreared,
Sing of a man self-made and truly great,
Of Bishop Arnett, to all -hearts endeared,
Of great Arnett, Napoleon of his fate!
Give me a man, Philistia's giant cried,
Boastful and proud, in gleaming armour clad,
And groans of dismay rang down Israel's side,
For they, God's host, no giant champion had.
But when this cause seemed lost, David, the future king,
Then but an obscure warrior in the field,
He who could fight for God as well as sing,
Golith slew, and caused the foe to yield.
"Give me a man," the scornful Saxon cried,
"A man of Negro blood, I challenge you,
To stand in Senate chambers at my side."
"Alas," we sighed, "this thing is hard to to do."
For we who feel warm Afric's blood
Throbbing and coursing through our veins
Love our own race, and feel we should
In spite of all revere its hallowed strains.
For they who worship God, the Father dear,
Know that all men are loved of Him alike;
We are despised of men who often err,
Such gave to Christ His cross, His crown of spike!
But God sent Arnett on to lead our host,
He swift of speech and large of heart and brain;
No pigmy-souled creation, or we had been lost,
But a man with whom the interests of a kingdom might have lain.
He stood in senate halls amid great men,
And there for us his people loudly spoke,
Denounced injustice with his voice and pen,
Till the last "Black Law" had vanished from Ohio's statute book.
He spoke for us, the women of the race,
Helpless and dumb through slavery's years of pain,
He bade our men accord to us an honored place,
As queens within their hearts and homes to reign.
Honor to whom honor—bring forth the laurel wreath,
And place it on our grand, brave leader's head.
We love him well, why wait for scenes of death,
Why keep our flowers for the voiceless dead?
Three debts we owe that we can never pay,
His service to his Church, his Race and Woman-kind,
While love's incense upon his shrine we lay,
With hearts that throb, and tears that blind.
IDA B. WELLS.
Thank God, there are hearts in England
That feel for the Negro's distress,
And gladly give of their substance
To seek for his wrongs a redress!
Speed on the day when the lynchers
No more shall exist in our land,
When even the poorest Negro
Protected by justice shall stand.
When no more the cries of terror
Shall break on the midnight air,
While poor and defenseless Negroes
Surrender their lives in despair.
When the spirit of our inspired Lincoln,
Wendell Phillips and Summer brave
Shall enkindle a spirit of justice
And our race from oppression save.
When loyal hearts of the Southland
With those of the North, tried and true,
Shall give to the'struggling Negro
That which is by nature his due.
And the cloud that threatens our land
Shall pale beneath Liberty's sun,
And in a prosperous future
Be atoned the wrongs to us done.
Go on, thou brave woman leader,
Spread our wrongs from shore to shore,
Until clothed with his rights is the Negro,
And lynchings are heard of no more.
And centuries hence the children
Sprung up from the Hamitic race
On history's unwritten pages
Thy daring deeds shall trace.
And the Afro-American mother
Who of Negro history tells
Shall speak in words of grateful praise
Of the noble Ida B. Wells!
EPOCHS.
Youth
I lie out in the meadow grass,
I lie out there and cry,
And the prairie dog and field mouse
Pass me unheeded by.
The grass blades sting my face,
Even the daisies annoy,
I am a Negro boy.
For I am the child of a hated race,
Different from all of the boys
That romp with me at the school,
I have felt it many a day,
In action and in rule.
My skin is dark, my hair is crisp,
But I didn't make it so;
I keep for it a menial's place,
But, O God, it is hard to do!
Why did you make a thing like me
For mankind to despise?
Why must I live to cower down
Before their scornful eyes?
I walk, I think, I act, I feel,
I wrestle, box and run;
I scorn to cheat, to lie, to steal,
Even in times of fun.
To-day, while leaving the old schoolhouse
Proud in a prize-won joy,
I heard it said in undertone,
"Too bad he is a Negro boy!"
"Why?" said the master's calm, grave voice.
"Why, ask you?" said the man.
Because he is of Negro blood,
And must live 'neath racial ban.
Tho' he has brain, he must keep back,
For this is the white man's land;
The Negro and all inferior folk
Must bow beneath the Saxon command.
They that were once our helpless slaves
Are safest at our feet
Would you grant Negro rule?
How then the problem meet?
"One is our Father, even God,"
The master made reply.
"All men are brothers, here I stand.
All pride of caste must die.
Let's give the black a white man's chance;
Nay, more, the chance of a man.
Take away all our caste-fixed bars,
And then outstrip him if we can."
Manhood
To-day, to-day I am twenty-one,
My days at the schools are done,
And out in the world in the dim unknown
Are its wars to be fought and won.
I'm happy today o'er a trifling thing,
A smile from the girl I love,
It means so much from a girl like her,
As pure as the stars above.
I've finished the schools with honors proud,
Good for the mother and I,
The little mother, who's toiled so hard,
I'll repay her before I die.
Out in the world I'll go and work
For her and the girl of my heart, --
My brown-faced maid with her love-lit eyes
And hair of the silkiest sort!
Ha! ha! the same old foe,
The thing I met in youth,
The color of my face a bar,
The same old ugly truth.
But I'll conquer yet, I swear I will,
For God lives, and He's true,
And somewhere in American hearts
Are stains of justice, too.
I'll get a chance some way, somehow,
To earn bread like a man,
Despite the foes who every day
The fires of hatred fan!
Old Age
Old age! Thank God, I've fought and won
An honorable place in life,
I've made a home like I said I would
For the mother and the wife.
PIPINGS OF DAWN.
When o'er the hills the rosy colored dawn
Steals on the nightwrapped world in fair array,
When thro' the air the heralds of the morn,
The pretty feathered tribe, begin to pipe their lay.
Pipings of dawn, weak, faint, perhaps, at first,
And sweet tho' faint, unto the love-tuned ear,
And when of melody, a glorious burst,
That calls the slumbering world to be astir.
Thus be these lines a prophecy of dawn,
Of larger hopes and deeds that are to be;
Of fruitage ripened in fair freedom's morn,
Such is my hope and such my gift to thee.
A LIST OF
KATHERINE D. TILLMAN'S
WORKS
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631 Pine Street Philadelphia, Pa.
Bibles, Hymn Books and Charts
All kinds of Church Supplies. We make a spe¬
cialty of books ritten by Negro authors. Write
for our price list.