On the banks o' Deer Crick!--Allus my delight Jes to be around there--take it day er night!-- Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day-- Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever'way!-- Snakefeeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight; And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at night-- Stars up through the tree-tops--er in the crick below,-- And smell o' mussrat through the dark clean from the old b'y-o!
Er take a tromp, some Sund'y, say, 'way up to "Johnson's Hole," And find where he's had a fire, and hid his fishin' pole; Have yer "dog-leg," with ye and yer pipe and "cut-and-dry"-- Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye,-- Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade-- Like the Good Book tells us--"where there're none to make afraid!" Well!--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea-- On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!
Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise A fitting melody--an air sublime,-- A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze-- The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme: A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of-- Such thoughts as might be hymned To thee from this midsummer land of ours Through shower and sunshine blent for very love.
Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill Of best-remembered birds hath something new In cadence for the hearing--lingering still Through all the open day that lies beyond; Reaches of pasture-lands, vine-wreathen oaks, Majestic still in pathos of decay,-- The road--the wayside pond Wherein the dragonfly an instant soaks His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away.
And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould, Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold, And braid them in the meshes of my song; And with them I would tangle wheat and rye, And wisps of greenest grass the katydid Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily, As harvest-hands went by; And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid, A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee.
Low hidden in among the forest trees An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat-- A little wicker flask tossed into that.