Part 11 (1/2)

I

”Down cellar,” said the cricket, ”Down cellar,” said the cricket, ”Down cellar,” said the cricket, ”I saw a ball last night, In honor of a lady, In honor of a lady, In honor of a lady, Whose wings were pearly-white.

The breath of bitter weather, The breath of bitter weather, The breath of bitter weather, Had smashed the cellar pane.

We entertained a drift of leaves, We entertained a drift of leaves, We entertained a drift of leaves, And then of snow and rain.

But we were dressed for winter, But we were dressed for winter, But we were dressed for winter, And loved to hear it blow In honor of the lady, In honor of the lady, In honor of the lady, Who makes potatoes grow, Our guest the Irish lady, The tiny Irish lady, The airy Irish lady, Who makes potatoes grow.

II

”Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the band, Potatoes were the dancers Kicking up the sand, Kicking up the sand, Kicking up the sand, Potatoes were the dancers Kicking up the sand.

Their legs were old burnt matches, Their legs were old burnt matches, Their legs were old burnt matches, Their arms were just the same.

They jigged and whirled and scrambled, Jigged and whirled and scrambled, Jigged and whirled and scrambled, In honor of the dame, The n.o.ble Irish lady Who makes potatoes dance, The witty Irish lady, The saucy Irish lady, The laughing Irish lady Who makes potatoes prance.

III

”There was just one sweet potato.

He was golden brown and slim.

The lady loved his dancing, The lady loved his dancing, The lady loved his dancing, She danced all night with him, She danced all night with him.

Alas, he wasn't Irish.

So when she flew away, They threw him in the coal-bin, And there he is today, Where they cannot hear his sighs And his weeping for the lady, The glorious Irish lady, The beauteous Irish lady, Who Gives Potatoes Eyes.”

The Booker Was.h.i.+ngton Trilogy

A Memorial to Booker T. Was.h.i.+ngton

I. Simon Legree

A Negro Sermon. (To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)

Legree's big house was white and green.

His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.

He had strong horses and opulent cattle, And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.

His garret was full of curious things: Books of magic, bags of gold, And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.

BUT HE WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.

Legree he sported a bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned coat, A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red s.h.i.+rt.

Legree he had a beard like a goat, And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.

His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white, He had great long teeth, and an appet.i.te.

He ate raw meat, 'most every meal, And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.

His fist was an enormous size To mash poor n.i.g.g.e.rs that told him lies: He was surely a witch-man in disguise.

BUT HE WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.

He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day To capture his slaves that had fled away.

BUT HE WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.

He beat poor Uncle Tom to death Who prayed for Legree with his last breath.