English

Tramping at night in the cold and wet, I passed the lighted inn,
And an old tune, a sweet tune, was being played within.
It was full of the laugh of the leaves and the song the wind sings;
It brought the tears and the choked throat, and a catch to the heart-strings.

And it brought a bitter thought of the days that now were dead to me,
The merry days in the old home before I went to sea —
Days that were dead to me indeed. I bowed my head to the rain,
And I passed by the lighted inn to the lonely roads again.

" Cast down your bucket where you are, "
From burning sands or Polar star
From where the iceberg rears its head
Or where the kingly palms outspread;
'Mid blackened fields or golden sheaves,
Or foliage green, or autumn leaves,
Come sounds of warning from afar,
" Cast down your bucket where you are. "

What doth it matter if thy years
Have slowly dragged 'mid sighs and tears?
What doth it matter, since thy day
Is brightened now by hope's bright ray.
The morning star will surely rise,

Casey Jones was a brave engineer;
Casey looked at the fireman, and the fireman said,
" What do you care?
If I keep your boilers red and hot,
We'll make it to Canton by four o'clock. "
Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
He died with the throttle in his right hand.

All the way by the last board he passed,
Thirty-five minutes late with the [U.] S. mail.
Casey Jones said to his fireman,
" We'll make it to Canton, or leave the rail:
We are thirty-five minutes late with the [U.] S. mail. "

Carry me back to old Virginny,
There's where the cotton and the corn and taters grow;
There's where the birds warble sweet in the springtime,
There's where this old darky's heart am long'd to go,
There's where I labored all day in the cotton,
There's where I worked in the fields of yellow corn,
No place on earth do I love more sincerely,
Than old Virginny, the state where I was born.

Carry me back to old Virginny,
There let me live till I wither and decay;
Long by the old Dismal Swamp have I wandered,

Your lips were like a red and ruby chalice,
Warmer than the summer night.
The clouds were like an alabaster palace
Rising to a snowy height.
Each star its own aurora borealis,
Suddenly you held me tight.
I could see the midnight sun.
I can't explain the silver rain that found me,
Or was that a moonlight veil?
The music of the universe around me,
Or was that a nightingale?
And then your arms miraculously found me,
Suddenly the sky turned pale.
I could see the midnight sun.
Was there such a night?

A carrion crow sat on an oak,
Watching a tailor shape his cloak.
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.

The carrion crow began to rave,
And called the tailor a crooked knave.
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.

Wife, bring me my old bent bow,
That I may shoot yon carrion crow.
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.

The tailor he shot and missed his mark,

A carpenter, he worked with wood—
—The fragrant wood and pale:
He planed the broad and feathery coils
—And drove the drastic nail.

And from the cedar and the oak—
—The texture of the tree—
He built the House of Time before
—That of Eternity.

How strange to choose a carpenter
—And bind him and impale
Upon the wood he used to work—
—With the beloved nail!

A carpenter, he worked with wood—
The fragrant wood and pale:
He planed the broad and feathery coils
And drove the drastic nail.

Carolina mourns to-day. For he, the gifted
Son of her adoption, is no more. The voice
That stirred the bosoms of her sons, and
Made her ramparts ring from mount to
Sea-board, is hushed in death. His
Noble form, and nobler mien that
Never faltered 'mid the cannon's
Roar, lies motionless.

So Carolina weeps. 'Tis meet she should —
Her chieftain lieth low. In this
Grand, old City by the Sea, this Venice
Of the Southland. The home he loved
So well. When the grey morn breaks,
And when the twilight lingers, they

(This quatrain is imagined as the caption under a picture of a rugged-looking cowboy seated upon a bale of hay.)
Carnation Milk is the best in the land;
Here I sit with a can in my hand--
No tits to pull, no hay to pitch,
You just punch a hole in the son of a bitch.

Careless I lived, accepting day by day
The lavish benison of sun and rain,
Watching the changing seasons pass away
And come again.

Now the great harvester has stilled my breath;
In this cold house I neither hear nor see.
Though in my life I never thought of death,
Death thought of me.