Jim Beers - The “Lizzard Crick” Poems

Jim Beers he worked fur Uncle Dick,

An’ helped him hayin’ on the crick;

An’ he could pitch a cock uv hay, –

Wall, I don’ know how much ‘twould weigh,

But uncle of’n said ez how

‘Twuz more than seven men could mow.

An’ Jim could cut a swath ez wide

Ez uncle Dick, an’ one beside;

Thet is, pervidin’ he could note

A jug uv cider nigh his coat;

An' ef there warn’t no cider there

Jim warn’t no good, an’ didn’t care.

He mus’ hev cider, full an’ free;

It was his prop an’ energy.

Sweetened water, an’ ginger pop,

He said it warn’t no good tur prop.

Jim lived erlone, way up the crick,

Way up where lonesomeness wuz thick;

An’ winter times he’d set his traps

An’ git a few skunk skins, per’aps,

An’ mebbe git a coon or tew,

Enough tur kiner pull him through

The col’ weather; then in the spring,

Wall, he wouldn’t do anything.

All fall he’d squeeze out apple juice,

An’ lay it up fur winter use.

But in the summer time, thet is,

Pervidin’ he’d no finances,

He felt obleeged tur hay it some,

Tur patch out ‘till the winter come.

An’ thet wuz all Jim liked, I guess,

Hard cider, traps an’ lazerness.

Jim Beer was called a vaggerbond,

But he would in no way respond;

He kep’ aloof frum other chaps

Becuz they wished him tew, per’aps.

But uncle Dick stood up fur Jim,

An’ saw a streak uv good in him;

But he nur auntie could induce

Jim tew fursake his apple juice.

An’ so he died ez he wuz born,

The target fur the village scorn.

The church long ceased to ask him in,

An' lef’ him tew his awful sin.

But when they lef’ him undergroun’,

An’ settled his affairs they foun’

Thet ol’ Jim Beers, out uv his trash,

He’d lef’ the church six hun’red cash.

April 28, ‘96

Pub. in Boston

Courier, Dec. 6,

                                          ‘96