Sketches of Southern life — Edition Insights

He just stood up and cried.

But the worst fooled man I ever saw, Was when poor David Rand Sold out for flour and sugar; The sugar was mixed with sand.

I’ll tell you how the thing got out; His wife had company, And she thought the sand was sugar, And served it up for tea.

When David sipped and sipped the tea, Somehow it didn’t taste right; I guess when he found he was sipping sand, He was mad enough to fight.

The sugar looked so nice and white— It was spread some inches deep— But underneath was a lot of sand; Such sugar is mighty cheap.

You’d laughed to seen Lucinda Grange Upon her husband’s track; When he sold his vote for rations She made him take ’em back.

Day after day did Milly Green Just follow after Joe, And told him if he voted wrong To take his rags and go.

I think that Curnel Johnson said His side had won the day, Had not we women radicals Just got right in the way.

And yet I would not have you think That all our men are shabby; But ’tis said in every flock of sheep There will be one that’s scabby.

I’ve heard, before election came They tried to buy John Slade; But he gave them all to understand That he wasn’t in that trade.

And we’ve got lots of other men Who rally round the cause, And go for holding up the hands That gave us equal laws.

Who know their freedom cost too much Of blood and pain and treasure, For them to fool away their votes For profit or for pleasure.

AUNT CHLOE’S POLITICS.

Of course, I don’t know very much About these politics, But I think that some who run ’em, Do mighty ugly tricks.

I’ve seen ’em honey-fugle round, And talk so awful sweet, That you’d think them full of kindness, As an egg is full of meat.

Now I don’t believe in looking Honest people in the face, And saying when you’re doing wrong, That “I haven’t sold my race.”

When we want to school our children, If the money isn’t there, Whether black or white have took it, The loss we all must share.

And this buying up each other Is something worse than mean, Though I thinks a heap of voting, I go for voting clean.

Very soon the Yankee teachers Came down and set up school; But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,— It was agin’ their rule.

Our masters always tried to hide Book learning from our eyes; Knowledge didn’t agree with slavery— ’Twould make us all too wise.

But some of us would try to steal A little from the book, And put the words together, And learn by hook or crook.

I remember Uncle Caldwell, Who took pot-liquor fat And greased the pages of his book, And hid it in his hat.

And had his master ever seen The leaves upon his head, He’d have thought them greasy papers, But nothing to be read.

And there was Mr. Turner’s Ben, Who heard the children spell, And picked the words right up by heart, And learned to read ’em well.

Well, the Northern folks kept sending The Yankee teachers down; And they stood right up and helped us, Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

And, I longed to read my Bible, For precious words it said; But when I begun to learn it, Folks just shook their heads,

And said there is no use trying, Oh! Chloe, you’re too late; But as I was rising sixty, I had no time to wait.

So I got a pair of glasses, And straight to work I went, And never stopped till I could read The hymns and Testament.

Then I got a little cabin A place to call my own— And I felt as independent As the queen upon her throne.

Uncle Jacob often told us, Since freedom blessed our race We ought all to come together And build a meeting place.

So we pinched, and scraped, and spared, A little here and there: Though our wages was but scanty, The church did get a share.

And, when the house was finished, Uncle Jacob came to pray; He was looking mighty feeble, And his head was awful gray.

But his voice rang like a trumpet; His eyes looked bright and young; And it seemed a mighty power Was resting on his tongue.

And he gave us all his blessing— ’Twas parting words he said, For soon we got the message The dear old man was dead.