BALLAD
OF THE OLD HOME NINE
BY
JOE CONE.
I
|
tell you what it is, my son, you’ve missed an
awful lot
By bein’ born sech
times as these, right here upon the spot;
These here swift,
artificial times, they don’t appeal to me
Like
that ol’ day so fur away, the day thet uster be.
Perhaps
you think it’s fun to go an’ see a ball game played
As
played by modern ball machines an’ not the ol’ hand-made;
But
as fur me, fur right down sport, jest take ’em all away,
An’
let me shout, turn inside out, fur them they uster play.
I’d
like to take you back aways, to see the ol’ home nine
Put
up ag’inst a neighbor town, with all their friends in line;
When
ev’ry player was a son uv his respective town,
An'
doin’ all thet he could do to knock his rival down.
It
warn’t no cash affair, my son, ’twas gore an’ lots of gore,
An’
ev’ry feller on the field a hollerin’ fur more;
When
ev’ry wummun, man an’ child, all up an’ down the lines
Was
wild with grief, or sweet relief, fur both their ol’ home nines.
How
kin you feel the same fur one who’s gittin’ twice the pay
Fur
jest a single game, thet you would git per week, I say?
How
kin you holler for a man born in the State o’ Maine,
Or
wanter kick some other chap born on some western plain?
Uv
course you can’t, not jest the same, as though you knowed each one,
An’
‘spected to git in the scrap afore the game was done!
When
town was up ag’inst each town, an’ both was feelin’ fine;
Thet’s
when ’twas joy to be a boy behind your ol’ home nine.
I
can’t forgit the last great game I saw the home boys play,
It
seems to stick right in my mind as though ’twas yesterday;
Our
side had netted twenty runs, the other twenty-one,
An'
we had jest one innin’ more, an’ then the fun begun.
Two
men was out, an’ Tommy Brown come up to git his licks,
An’
Watts, the pitcher facin’ him, wuz full uv scaly tricks;
Jim
Platt wuz there a-huggin’ first, afeared to steal a bit,
Till
someone on our side should make a most tremendous hit.
Tom
Brown he waited till he got one jest to suit his eye,
An’
then he straightened up an’ let his ol’ wound cudgel fly;
He
swung with all his might an’ main – you’d orter seen thet ball
Go
sailin’ fur the town beyend, an’ no one seen it fall;
Around
the bases, how they went! as though shot from a gun,
With
every townsman yellin’ wild fur Tommy Brown’s home run!
The
other side wuz up in arms, an’ formed a fightin’ line,
But
fifty men jumped forward then to back the ol’ home nine.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Thet
ball was never found, my son, it went fur good an’ all,
An’
Tommy Brown was lugged around the field by great an’ small;
The
other team said ’twazn’t fair becuz the ball wast lost,
But
our town warn’t in no mood to be severely crossed.
That
night the score was painted on each fence an’ barn in town;
’Twas
“22 to 21” along with “Home-Run Brown!”
An’
while you see the modern games, you think so mighty fine,
I
can’t forgit thet last one yit, played by the ol’ home nine!
July 4, ‘09
BALLAD OF J. JACKSON, FOOL
_______
BY
JOE CONE
J
|
IM JACKSON he was
born a fool,
An’ never went no
time to school.
“It ain’t no use,”
his father said,
“He ain’t got
nothin’ in his head.
He never hez no
hope nor wish,
He never wants to
hunt or fish;
He never wants to
fight nor play,
Nor hev no kind uv
any say.
We’ll hev to keep
him round the door
An’ eddicate the
other four.”
An’ so the others
went to school,
While Jim was left
to be a fool.
J
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IM’S father died;
he staid to hum,
An’ sorter took
things ez they come.
The other four
went off to git
Some sudden
wealth, an’ lots uv it.
They all got
married, settled down,
A-findin’ wives
who lived in town.
An’ when Jim’s
mother up and died,
He took unto
himself a bride,
A village gal, who
’peared to be
About ez awk’ard-like
ez he.
They snubbed Jim
in the weddin’ game –
When he got
hitched he done the same.
A
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N’ so the years
went by, an’ Jim
Was ignerant, but
full uv vim,
An’ had a way uv
twistin’ roun’
An’ saltin’ uv his
money down.
John owned a store
an’ took in Bill,
An’ Ned an’ Tom
bought out a mill,
An’ once a year
they wrote to Jim
To find how life
was usin’ him.
Then Jim would
scorn their “bizniz air,”
An’ scrawl an’
answer: “purty fair.”
An’ all they knew
uv Jim out there
Was, he was doin’
purty fair.
B
|
IMEBY industry had
a shock,
An’ John he got an
awful knock;
An’ Ned an’ Tom
shet down their mill,
An’ all uv them,
includin’ Bill,
Had nearly all the
cash they had
Invested in some
stock, ’twas bad.
They didn’t know
which way to turn,
They wasn’t no way
they could earn;
All they could do
was set each day
An’ see their
savin’s fade away.
It looked right
bad, best could be said,
For Bill an’ Tom
an’ John an’ Ned.
S
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AYS NED, with jest
a sickly smile:
“I hear Jim’s got
a little pile;
Let’s write the
ol’ home-hided lout,
An’ see if he
won’t help us out.”
They all agreed
the scheme was fine
An’ all uv them
dropped him a line.
The language it
was high an’ cool,
But good enough
fur “Jim, the fool.”
“We are big men,
compared with him,”
Said they; “this
ought to tickle Jim.”
It did, but not in
jest the way
They hoped it
would, precise to say.
J
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IM framed a letter
in reply
To chill the heart,
but please the eye.
It read: “I ain’t
no pumkins on
This letter
writin’, Bill an’ John,
Becuz, you know,
it’s more than true,
My eddication went
to you.
I ain’t no
brighter now than then,
And all uv you are
brilliant men.
I’ve saved some
money, by the way,
But father always
us’ter say
Ez how a fool an’
his long green
Are parted soon.
Now I don’t mean
T
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O be right hard,
nor tit fur tat,
But I ain’t sech a fool ez that.
I’ve got a house
here, big enough
Fur all uv you,
an’ plenty stuff
To eat, sech ez it
is; an’ you,
An’ all your wives
an’ children, too,
Are welcome here
to live until
Your store picks
up, likewise your mill.
A fool hain’t got
no right to mix
In bizniz or in
polertics,
But here’s your
livin’, ef you care;
I hope you’re well
– we’re purty fair.”
Aug. 1, ‘09
Originally titled ‘Ballad of Jim
Jackson, Fool’.
I.
“T
|
HERE ain’t no use
in tryin’ fur to make a little name;
No use a-tryin’
fur to gain a little wealth or fame.
The fates are all
ag’in me, jest ez mean ez they kin be,”
Said Amos Green in
Jones’ store, the other day to me.
“What seems to be
the matter, Ame?’ I asked him, settin’ down;
You seem to be the
bluest man I’ve run acrost in town.”
“Guess you’d be
blue,” said Amos Green, “ef you wuz in my place,”
An’ sorrer, gloom
an’ deep despair jest settled on his face.
II.
T
|
HEN Amos dug his
corncob out, an’ filled it up ag’in,
The furrers uv
despair writ frum his forrud to his chin;
An’ when he’d got
a decent draft, he slowly shook his head,
An’ with his pipe
helt in his hand, he hemmed an’ hawed, and said:
“I jest repeat
what I hev said, an’ ev’ry one uv you
Will see that I
ain’t fur from right, thet what I say is true;
I’ve spent the
best days uv my life right here in this ol’ spot,
An’ after years uv
toil an’ sweat, I say, what hev I got?
III.
“L
|
ONG years ago I
saved some cash, intendin’ to invest
In somethin’ that
would drop a aig or two into my nest;
An’ jest about thet
time the world wuz cryin’ out for speed,
An’ some one hed
invented what they called the v’locipede.
They started then
to build ’em here, an’ I invested all
The cash I hed. It
looked all right fur owners big an’ small.
Then ’bout the
time we got well on the wheel craze come along,
An’ stock in v’locipede
consarns warn’t wuth a tinker’s song.
IV.
“T
|
HE years went on,
an’ we saved up, an’ started in once more;
We
thought we hed a dead sure thing, ez wheels wuz all the rage,
To build bisickles
now, with more cash than we hed before.
An’ folks wuz
ridin’ ev’rywhere, uv ev’ry size an’ age.
Uv course we wuz a
bit behind the city chaps, I know,
In gettin’
started, but we thought we hed a right good show
Fur makin’ money,
when one day we heard a drummer state
The autymobile hed
come in, an’ wheels wuz out of date!
V.
“W
|
E couldn’t believe
it, an’ we fit ag’inst a losin’ game
Fur years to keep
the bisickle ahead, but all the same
It hed to go, an’
with it went our hopes an’ all our cash;
The wheel concern
uv Gungawamp, you know, went all to smash.
Waal,
then we talked an’ talked an’ talked ’bout mortgingin’ the place,
An’ startin’ on
another line, an’ not give up the race;
We met an’ met an’
spent a year a-talkin’, pro an’ con,
An’ some said ‘yes,’
an’ some said ‘no,’ an’ time jest kept right on.
VI.
“S
|
OME wanted to
start in an’ build them autymobile cars,
But I jest knocked
thet fool idee up higher than the stars;
Says I, ‘O, yes,
we’ll dig an’ scrape an’ jest git started in
When ’long will
come some new idee an’ knock us out ag’in!’
Ding hang me ef I
wuzn’t right; we’d no more’n started out
Than ’long would
come them aryplanes an’ drive us up the spout.
No, sir; they
ain’t no use to try, fate’s too confounded mean;
I’m gonter set
here till I die,” said poor ol’ Amos Green.
I.
“T
|
HERE ain’t no use
in tryin’ fur to make a little name;
No use a-tryin’
fur to gain a little wealth or fame.
The fates are all
ag’in me, jest ez mean ez they kin be,”
Said Amos Green in
Jones’ store, the other day to me.
“What seems to be
the matter, Ame?’ I asked him, settin’ down;
You seem to be the
bluest man I’ve run acrost in town.”
“Guess you’d be
blue,” said Amos Green, “ef you wuz in my place,”
An’ sorrer, gloom
an’ deep despair jest settled on his face.
II.
T
|
HEN Amos dug his
corncob out, an’ filled it up ag’in,
The furrers uv
despair writ frum his forrud to his chin;
An’ when he’d got
a decent draft, he slowly shook his head,
An’ with his pipe
helt in his hand, he hemmed an’ hawed, and said:
“I jest repeat
what I hev said, an’ ev’ry one uv you
Will see that I
ain’t fur from right, thet what I say is true;
I’ve spent the
best days uv my life right here in this ol’ spot,
An’ after years uv
toil an’ sweat, I say, what hev I got?
III.
“L
|
ONG years ago I
saved some cash, intendin’ to invest
In somethin’ that
would drop a aig or two into my nest;
An’ jest about thet
time the world wuz cryin’ out for speed,
An’ some one hed
invented what they called the v’locipede.
They started then
to build ’em here, an’ I invested all
The cash I hed. It
looked all right fur owners big an’ small.
Then ’bout the
time we got well on the wheel craze come along,
An’ stock in v’locipede
consarns warn’t wuth a tinker’s song.
IV.
“T
|
HE years went on,
an’ we saved up, an’ started in once more;
We
thought we hed a dead sure thing, ez wheels wuz all the rage,
To build bisickles
now, with more cash than we hed before.
An’ folks wuz
ridin’ ev’rywhere, uv ev’ry size an’ age.
Uv course we wuz a
bit behind the city chaps, I know,
In gettin’
started, but we thought we hed a right good show
Fur makin’ money,
when one day we heard a drummer state
The autymobile hed
come in, an’ wheels wuz out of date!
V.
“W
|
E couldn’t believe
it, an’ we fit ag’inst a losin’ game
Fur years to keep
the bisickle ahead, but all the same
It hed to go, an’
with it went our hopes an’ all our cash;
The wheel concern
uv Gungawamp, you know, went all to smash.
Waal,
then we talked an’ talked an’ talked ’bout mortgingin’ the place,
An’ startin’ on
another line, an’ not give up the race;
We met an’ met an’
spent a year a-talkin’, pro an’ con,
An’ some said ‘yes,’
an’ some said ‘no,’ an’ time jest kept right on.
VI.
“S
|
OME wanted to
start in an’ build them autymobile cars,
But I jest knocked
thet fool idee up higher than the stars;
Says I, ‘O, yes,
we’ll dig an’ scrape an’ jest git started in
When ’long will
come some new idee an’ knock us out ag’in!’
Ding hang me ef I
wuzn’t right; we’d no more’n started out
Than ’long would
come them aryplanes an’ drive us up the spout.
No, sir; they
ain’t no use to try, fate’s too confounded mean;
I’m gonter set
here till I die,” said poor ol’ Amos Green.
Aug. 15, ‘09
I
|
’VE heerd these
fellersround an’ tellin’ wondrous tales
About
their fishin’ trips abroad, where trout grow big ez whales,
Where
sarmon tow their boats around, an’ muskullunge ez long
Ez what a good
sized hoss would be, an’ twenty times ez strong.
I’ve heerd ‘em
tell uv fightin pike upon a ten-ounce pole
An hour or more
afore they’d git him under their control.
Uv how they’d git
a tarpon on, say 60 pounds or more,
Which they would
hev to drown afore they’d git him on the shore.
N
|
OW I might swaller
some uv this, say ez to length an’ size,
Becuz I allus plan to b’lieve all kinds o’ fishin’
lies,
But when they speak uv “drowndin’ fish,” which fellers
tell fur facts,
I callate it is
time to stop an’ sharpen up my axe.
Now I kin tell a
fairish yarn, an’ hol’ my own, they say,
But when it comes
to ‘drowndin’ fish,’ I’ve nothin’ more to say;
I jest give up the
palm to them who’ve travelled quite a lot,
Becuz I’ve allus
set right here, in this same quiet spot.
N
|
OW I kin stan’ a
fishin’ lie thet’s reas’nable an’ fair,
An’
allus try to draw one out ef I am where they air;
I
allus like to help a man ef he’s a yarn to tell,
Pervidin’ he will
stick to facts, an’ tell his story well.
We should
encourage gen’uses no marter what their line,
Peeaner players,
or fishermen, it’s all the same fur mine!
An’ so, I say, I
like to hear a fishin’ lie immense,
Ef it hez got
enough uv truth to hol’ it on the fence.
I
|
’VE never fished
in them big lakes, or in the open sea,
An’
ez fur fancy fishin’ rods, I don’t know what they be:
But
I hev fished here more or less, an’ allus ketched a few,
An’ I don’t mind
relatin’ one small incerdent to you.
It may sound
strange to them who don’t know ’bout the fishin’ creed,
But it’s is true
ez any yarn uv its pertic’lar breed.
An’ though the
string uv fish I ketched wuz dead ez dead could be,
They wuzn’t “drownded”
like the ones he landed, no sir-ee!
W
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UZ out at break o’
day one time fur pickerel, an’ took
My
trollin’ line, two hundred feet, an’ put upon the hook
A
nice young perch, three inches long, an’ rowed way up the Crick
Where lily pads
an’ medder oats jest line the channel thick.
Bimeby I felt a
little pull, an’ dropped my oars a-back,
An’ started to
pull in my fish when somethin’ come “awhack”
Ag’inst my line; I
pulled an’ pulled, an’ back fur’s I could look
I seen a fish come
up an’ grab the one ’twuz on my hook!
W
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AAL, now I wuz
excited, an’ I pulled away like fun,
An’
when I got him near the boat, up comes a bigger one
An’
swallers him, head, neck an’ heels, an’ then I hed a scrap
To git thet feller
in, he wuz sech a tremenjus chap!
I hed three
pick’rel, one inside the other, on my line,
An’ ef that ain’t
a novelty, why I will jest resign.
I say, I like a
fishin’ yarn, one uv no small pretense,
Ef it hez got
enough uv truth to hol’ it on the fence!
Aug. 29, ‘09
Originally
‘Ballad of the Home Fisherman’
T
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