Oh, dere 's lots o' keer an' trouble
  In dis world to swaller down;
An' ol' Sorrer 's purty lively
  In her way o' gittin' roun'.
Yet dere's times when I furgit em,--
  Aches an' pains an' troubles all,--
An' it's when I tek at ebenin'
  My ol' banjo f'om de wall.

'Bout de time dat night is fallin'
  An' my daily wu'k is done,
An' above de shady hilltops
  I kin see de settin' sun;
When de quiet, restful shadders
  Is beginnin' jes' to fall,--
Den I take de little banjo
  F'om its place upon de wall.

Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me
  In de fadin' o' de light,
Ez I strike de strings to try 'em
  Ef dey all is tuned er-right.
An' it seems we 're so nigh heaben
  We kin hyeah de angels sing
When de music o' dat banjo
  Sets my cabin all er-ring.

An' my wife an' all de othahs,--
  Male an' female, small an' big,--
Even up to gray-haired granny,
  Seem jes' boun' to do a jig;
'Twell I change de style o' music,
  Change de movement an' de time,
An' de ringin' little banjo
  Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime.

An' somehow my th'oat gits choky,
  An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise
Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water
  Dat was flowin' to my eyes;
An' I feel dat I could sorter
  Knock de socks clean off o' sin
Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny
  Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in.

Den we all th'ow in our voices
  Fu' to he'p de chune out too,
Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry
  Tryin' to sing a mou'nah th'oo.
An' our th'oahts let out de music,
  Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free,
'Twell de raftahs o' my cabin
  Echo wif de melody.

Oh, de music o' de banjo,
  Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow,
Is de greates' joy an' solace
  Dat a weary slave kin know!
So jes' let me hyeah it ringin',
  Dough de chune be po' an' rough,
It's a pleasure; an' de pleasures
  O' dis life is few enough.

Now, de blessed little angels
  Up in heaben, we are told,
Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime
  'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold.
Now I think heaben 'd be mo' homelike
  Ef we 'd hyeah some music fall
F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo,
  Like dat one upon de wall.

(For Shaemas O Sheel)

 One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed,
  His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime.
 "Why don't you take up fancy work, or embroidery?" he said,
  "For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!"
 "You little ugly Devil," said I, "go back to Hell
  For the idea you express I will not listen to:
 I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well,
  Without having to pay attention to orators like you.

 "When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work
  You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land.
 There was Byron who left all his lady-loves to fight against the Turk,
  And David, the Singing King of the Jews,
    who was born with a sword in his hand.
 It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died,
  And Sir Philip Sidney's lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong;
 And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride,
  Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song.

 "And there is no consolation so quickening to the heart
  As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetry.
 It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smart,
  It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes be.
 It is strong joy to read it, and to make it is a thing
  That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earth.
 For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a king,
  And it shakes the walls of his little soul with the echo of God's mirth.

 "There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blind,
  Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all night;
 For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mind,
  And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sight.
 And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day long,
  He had no wealth, he had no friends, he had no joy at all,
 Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song,
  And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall.

 "And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score
  Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain.
 And the title of poet's a noble thing, worth living and dying for,
  Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain.
 It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun
  And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men:
 But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done,
  Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again."