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The Capture

Duck come switchin' 'cross de lot
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Hurry up an' hide de pot
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Duck's a mighty 'spicious fowl,
Slick as snake an' wise as owl;
Hol' dat dog, didn't let him yowl!
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Th'ow dat co'n out kind o' slow
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Keep yo'se'f behin' de do'
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Lots o' food'll kill his feah,
Co'n is cheap but fowls is deah--
"Come, good ducky, come on heah."
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Ain't he fat and ain't he fine,
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Des can't wait to make him mine.

To a Scotch Tune, Mary Scot

Where Thames, along the daisied meads,
His wave in lucid mazes leads,
Silent, slow, serenely flowing,
Wealth on either shore bestowing,
There in a safe though small retreat
Content and Love have fix'd their seat;
Love, that counts his duty pleasure,
Content that knows and hugs his treasure.
From art, from jealousy, secure,
As faith unblam'd, as friendship pure,
Vain opinion nobly scorning,
Virtue aiding, life adorning;
Fair Thames, along thy flowery side,
May those whom truth and reason guide,
All their tender hours improving,

Shipwreck

Night and a starless sky,
Ship on wild billows tost,
With tattered sails and opening seams,
And deck bestrewn with falling beams,
Swift plunging to her doom.

Red lightnings round her flash,
Loud thunders crash and roar,
And the noble vessel mounts the crest
Of the reeking waves, then sinks to rest
Mid carnival of woe.

The Petrel soars aloft,
Wailing her hymn of death,
And the dirge like sounds pierce the blackened sky,
While the crew send forth one anguished cry,
Sinking to lowest depth.

Some ships go out to sea

My Picture

Stand this way—more near the window—
By my desk—you see the light
Falling on my picture better—
Thus I see it while I write!

Who the head may be I know not,
But it has a student air;
With a look half sad, half stately,
Grave sweet eyes and flowing hair.

Little care I who the painter,
How obscure a name he bore;
Nor, when some have named Velasquez,
Did I value it the more.

As it is, I would not give it
For the rarest piece of art;
It has dwelt with me, and listened
To the secrets of my heart.

Land's End

Here rage the furies that have shaped the world,
Here where a beaked old headland splits the sea
And white Niagaras of the surf are hurled
In crashing enmity
Against the rocks' worn giant filigree.
Above the thunder where the wave and shore
Merge and re-merge in fountain-bursts of spray,
The weird continual half-yelping roar
Of congregated seals rings out all day
From islets wet and gray.
And pelicans in heavy lines flap by,
And gulls skim low beneath the precipice,
And hunchback cypresses, limb-twisted, lie

Marcus Hook

Above the Market stood the School
On pillars brick to have it cool,
A stair went steep, outside the stalls,
Where climbed the girls in hoods and shawls,
A market there was never told,
We played like calves they might have sold.
Some said a Fair of old forsook
The market school of Marcus Hook.

Still was a Fair beholden there:
The fishers' girls were always fair;
To learn their spells they swung their feet
Beneath the bench the boys to vex,
Their country shoulders bare to meet
The swaying freedom of their necks

Judgment

“H E'LL let us off with fifty years!” one said.
And one, “I always knew that Bible lied!”
One who was philanthropic stood aside,
Patting his sniveling virtues on the head.
“Yes, there may be some—pain,” another wheezed.
“One rending touch to fit the soul for bliss.”
“A bare formality!” one seemed to hiss.
And everyone was pink and fed and pleased.

Then thunder came, and with an earthquake sound
Shook those fat corpses from their flabby languor.
The sky was furious with immortal anger,
We miserable sinners hugged the ground:

Meet, O Lord!

Meet, O Lord, on de milk-white horse,
An' de nineteen wile in his han';
Drop on, drop on de crown on my head,
An' rolly in my Jesus' arm.
In dat mornin' all day, In dat mornin' all day,
In dat mornin' all day, When Jesus de Chris' been born.

Moon went into de poplar tree,
An' star went into blood;
In dat mornin', etc.
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