Duck come switchin' 'cross de lot

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Hurry up an' hide de pot

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Duck's a mighty 'spicious fowl,

Slick as snake an' wise as owl;

Hol' dat dog, don't let him yowl!

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Th'ow dat co'n out kind o' slow

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Keep yo'se'f behin' de do'

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Lots o' food'll kill his feah,

Co'n is cheap but fowls is deah—

"Come, good ducky, come on heah."

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Ain't he fat and ain't he fine,

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Des can't wait to make him mine.

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

See him waddle when he walk,

'Sh! keep still and don't you talk!

Got you! Don't you daih to squawk!

Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

When winter covering all the ground

Hides every sign of Spring, sir.

However you may look around,

Pray what will then you sing, sir?

The Spring was here last year I know,

And many bards did flute, sir;

I shall not fear a little snow

Forbid me from my lute, sir.

If words grow dull and rhymes grow rare,

I'll sing of Spring's farewell, sir.

For every season steals an air,

Which has a Springtime smell, sir.

But if upon the other side,

With passionate longing burning,

Will seek the half unjeweled tide,

And sing of Spring's returning.

I stand above the city's rush and din,

Still is my heart and vacant is my breath—

This lovely view is breath and life to me,

Why I could charm the icy soul of death

With such a sight as this I stand and see.

I hear no sound of labor's din or stir,

I feel no weight of worldly cares or fears,

Sweet song of birds, of wings the soothing whirr,

These sounds alone assail my listening ears.

Unwhipt of conscience here I stand alone,

The breezes humbly kiss my garment's hem;

I am a king—the whole world is my throne,

The blue grey sky my royal diadem.

With what thou gavest me, O Master,

I have wrought.

Such chances, such abilities,

To see the end was not for my poor eyes,

Thine was the impulse, thine the forming thought.

Ah, I have wrought,

And these sad hands have right to tell their story,

It was no hard up striving after glory,

Catching and losing, gaining and failing,

Raging me back at the world's raucous railing.

Simply and humbly from stone and from wood,

Wrought I the things that to thee might seem good.

If they are little, ah God! but the cost,

Who but thou knowest the all that is lost!

If they are few, is the workmanship true?

Try them and weigh me, whate'er be my due!

The moon begins her stately ride

Across the summer sky;

The happy wavelets lash the shore,—

Beneath some friendly blade of grass

The lazy beetle cowers;

The coffers of the air are filled

With offerings from the flowers.

And slowly buzzing o'er my head

A swallow wings her flight;

I hear the weary plowman sing

As falls the restful night.

(Lines on reading "Driftwood.")

Driftwood gathered here and there

Along the beach of time;

Now and then a chip of truth

'Mid boards and boughs of rhyme;

Driftwood gathered day by day,—

The cypress and the oak,—

Twigs that in some former time

From sturdy home trees broke.

Did this wood come floating thick

All along down "Injin Crik?"

Or did kind tides bring it thee

From the past's receding sea

Down the stream of memory?

Kiss me, Miami, thou most constant one!

I love thee more for that thou changest not.

When Winter comes with frigid blast,

Or when the blithesome Spring is past

And Summer's here with sunshine hot,

Or in sere Autumn, thou has still the pow'r

To charm alike, whate'er the hour.

Kiss me, Miami, with thy dewy lips;

Throbs fast my heart e'en as thine own breast beats.

My soul doth rise as rise thy waves,

As each on each the dark shore laves

And breaks in ripples and retreats.

There is a poem in thine every phase;

Thou still has sung through all thy days.

Tell me, Miami, how it was with thee

When years ago Tecumseh in his prime

His birch boat o'er thy waters sent,

And pitched upon thy banks his tent.

In that long-gone, poetic time,

Did some bronze bard thy flowing stream sit by

And sing thy praises, e'en as I?

Did some bronze lover 'neath this dark old tree

Whisper of love unto his Indian maid?

And didst thou list his murmurs deep,