Classic Poem

A DIALECTIC EXCUSE FOR A GOOD MAN .


I T 's Deacon Brown yer askin' about?
He hain't been round fer a year;
They planted him last kibbage time,
Which is why he is n't here.
Fer p'raps ye 've obsarved, as a gin'ral thing,
Thet this livin' under ground
Fer a year or two don't make one feel
Pretty much like sloshin' round.

His kerricter, eh? What, old Deac. Brown?
Well, I'm ruther 'shamed to say
That he wa'n't much the sort o' saint
Sot up by Harte and Hay.
He never cussed in his nat'ral life —
I mention this with consarn;
He did n't know how, though he might a know'd
Ef he hed a car'd ter larn.

But it makes it rough fer the chap thet gets
To writin' of his biog.,
To hev ter confess he 's a-slingin' ink
Over sich a bump on a log,
Who did n't amount to shucks in a row,
Who never war out on a tear,
And fer tacklin' a neat little game of " draw. "
Could n't tell a full from a pair.

Fer the Deac. jest war a common cuss
O' the most ornariest kind,
Who never looked out o' the winder o' sin,
And dursn't raise a blind.
Ye've no idee how parvarse he was;
I 've hearn him remark — this limb! —
Thet though he war raised in a Christian land,
One wife war enough fer him.

P'raps the Deac., ef he 'd hed the rearin o' some,
Would a panned out better in verse;
But when a man comes of stock like hisn,
It 's hard to be bad an' worse.
Onfortunit-like fer the Deac. an' me,
He 'd careful raisin' to hum;
An' yer can't 'spect much of a chap, yer know,
Onless he sprouts from a slum.

Ef he 'd been a high-toned gambolier,
Or the rough of a minin' camp,
With a bushel of sin in his kerricter,
An' a touch of Sairey Gamp;
Or an injineer or an injin thar —
Any kind of a rum-histin' lout, —
P'raps he'd a done some pretty big thing
Fer me ter be splurgin' about.

But he jest plugged on in a no 'count way,
A-leadin' a good squar life,
Till the war kem on; then he pulled up stakes,
An' said good-by ter his wife.
I 've hearn tell a grittier man nor him
In battle never trod,
An' he did n't let down in the face of Death,
Although he b'lieved in a God.

It 's queer how he fout at Fredericksburg —
The Deac. jest went in wet,
A-pray'n an' shoot'n, an' every time
A-fetchin' his man, you bet.
Yet he wa'n't sustained by the soothin' thought,
When he fell, October 'leventh,
Thet he'd knock'd spots out the commandiments —
An' been special rough on the seventh.

Jest over beyont thet turnip patch,
Some twenty holes yer kin see
Thet air filled by chaps who went from here
To fight 'gin Gineral Lee.
They went from here 'bout plantin' time,
They kem back when corn was ripe,
An' we buried 'em by thet walnut tree —
All chaps o' the Deacon's stripe.

We 'll cross over thar to the old man's grave.
And I guess I 'll be gittin' then —
Yer pardin, stranger, I allers unroof
At the grave o' thet sort o' men.
I've been gassin' away promiscus like,
But now I make bold ter say,
It don 't foller on a man 's a sneak
'Cause he lives in a decent way.

I know some folks reck'n contrairywise,
An' sling their ink quite free,
But they hain't got holt the right end on it,
Accordin' to my idee.
An' thet 's why I 've sort o' been chippin' in,
A-pleadin' the Deacon's excuse,
Fer you know we all can't be gamblers and thieves —
An' all women need n't be loose!