Hit ‘s enough fu’ me to listen
    W’en de birds is singin’ ‘roun’,
  ‘Dout a-guessin’ whut ’ll happen
    W’en de snow is on de groun’. 
  In de Springtime an’ de summah,
    I lays sorrer on de she’f;
  An’ I knows ol’ Mistah Wintah
    Gwine to hustle fu’ hisse’f.

  We been put hyeah fu’ a pu’pose,
    But de questun dat has riz
  An’ made lots o’ people diffah
    Is jes’ whut dat pu’pose is. 
  Now, accordin’ to my reas’nin’,
    Hyeah’s de p’int whaih I ’s arriv,
  Sence de Lawd put life into us,
    We was put hyeah fu’ to live!

MY SORT O’ MAN

  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,
  But then, I think all folks should know
      When they air nice enough.

  Now there is folks in this here world,
      From peasant up to king,
  Who want to be so awful nice
      They overdo the thing. 
  That’s jest the thing that makes me sick,
      An’ quicker ’n a wink
  I set it down that them same folks
      Ain’t half so good ’s you think.

  I like to see a man dress nice,
      In clothes becomin’ too;
  I like to see a woman fix
      As women orter to do;
  An’ boys an’ gals I like to see
      Look fresh an’ young an’ spry.—­
  We all must have our vanity
      An’ pride before we die.

  But I jedge no man by his clothes,—­
      Nor gentleman nor tramp;
  The man that wears the finest suit
      May be the biggest scamp,
  An’ he whose limbs air clad in rags
      That make a mournful sight,
  In life’s great battle may have proved
      A hero in the fight.

  I don’t believe in ’ristercrats;
      I like the honest tan
  That lies upon the healthful cheek
      An’ speaks the honest man;
  I like to grasp the brawny hand
      That labor’s lips have kissed,
  For he who has not labored here
      Life’s greatest pride has missed: 

  The pride to feel that yore own strength
      Has cleaved fur you the way
  To heights to which you were not born,
      But struggled day by day. 
  What though the thousands sneer an’ scoff,
      An’ scorn yore humble birth? 
  Kings are but puppets; you are king
      By right o’ royal worth.

  The man who simply sits an’ waits
      Fur good to come along,
  Ain’t worth the breath that one would take
      To tell him he is wrong. 
  Fur good ain’t flowin’ round this world
      Fur every fool to sup;
  You ’ve got to put yore see-ers on,
      An’ go an’ hunt it up.