Читать книгу The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI - Marshall Pinckney Wilder - Страница 4

Up and down old Brandywine,

        In the days 'at's past and gone—

With a dad-burn hook-and-line

        And a saplin'-pole—i swawn!

                I've had more fun, to the square

                Inch, than ever anywhere!

                Heaven to come can't discount mine

                Up and down old Brandywine!

Haint no sense in wishin'—yit

        Wisht to goodness I could jes

"Gee" the blame world round and git

        Back to that old happiness!—

                Kindo' drive back in the shade

                "The old Covered Bridge" there laid

                Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak

                My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!—it haint no dream

        'At I'm wantin',—but the fac's

As they wuz; the same old stream,

        And the same old times, i jacks!—

                Gim me back my bare feet—and

                Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!

                And let hottest dog-days shine

                Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees

        'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,

Kindo' curdled with the breeze

        And the yallerhammer's tune;

                And the smokin', chokin' dust

                O' the turnpike at its wusst—

                Saturd'ys, say, when it seems

                Road's jes jammed with country teams!—

Whilse the old town, fur away

        'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land,

Dozed-like in the heat o' day

        Peaceful' as a hired hand.

                Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor

                O' the old bridge!—grind and roar

                With yer blame percession-line—

                Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw-hat

        Off the foot-log!—what I care?—

Fist shoved in the crown o' that—

        Like the old Clown ust to wear.

                Wouldn't swop it fer a' old

                Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!—

                Keep yer King ef you'll gim me

                Jes the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal

        My best "goggle-eye!"—but you

Can't lay hands on joys I feel

        Nibblin' like they ust to do!

                So, in memory, to-day

                Same old ripple lips away

                At my cork and saggin' line,

                Up and down old Brandywine!

There the logs is, round the hill,

        Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift

Out sunfish from daylight till

        Dew-fall—'fore he'd leave "The Drift"

                And give us a chance—and then

Kindo' fish back home again,

                Ketchin' 'em jes left and right

                Where we hadn't got "a bite!"

Er, 'way windin' out and in,—

        Old path th'ough the iurnweeds

And dog-fennel to yer chin—

        Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds

                And cat-tails, smack into where

                Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare

                Us clean 'crosst the County-line,

                Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o' the dam

        It 'ud coax us furder still

Tords the old race, slow and ca'm,

        Slidin' on to Huston's mill—

                Where, I 'spect, "The Freeport crowd"

                Never warmed to us er 'lowed

                We wuz quite so overly

                Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it peared-like ever'thing—

        Fur away from home as there—

Had more relish-like, i jing!—

        Fish in stream, er bird in air!

                O them rich old bottom-lands,

                Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!

                Wortermelons—master-mine!

                Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o' raw

        Gold and green,—jes oozy th'ough

With ripe yaller—like you've saw

        Custard-pie with no crust to:

                And jes gorges o' wild plums,

                Till a feller'd suck his thumbs

                Clean up to his elbows! My!—

                Me some more er lem me die!

Up and down old Brandywine!…

        Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—

Flick me with a pizenvine

        And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose!

                —Old now as I then wuz young,

                'F I could sing as I have sung,

                Song 'ud surely ring dee-vine

                Up and down old Brandywine!