Page 28 - Poetry-Country

‘At’s moistened with th’ dew,
An’ watch th’ leaves a-movin’
In a sort o’ sleepy way
That’s most confounded soothin’;
An’ then I seem t’ say:

“I’m sorry fur you city chaps,
Like birds kept in a cage
Thet tries t’ fly but only flaps
The’r wings agin th’ edge;
But so bein’ you city gentry
Likes city things th’ best,
Ef I kin hev th’ kentry,
Why, you kin hev th’ rest.”

— Richard D. Lang (Century Magazine, 1889)

The Homesick Westerner

I am blessed if I ain’t hungry just to sniff the smells the prairie
Stirs up when the ground in springtime is as sweet as a bouquet,
And the meadow-larks are singing on the fence-posts—oh, there’s nary,
Nary bird of any feather that can sing as well as they.

Sing! I tell you what, these Yankees don’t know wild songs, never
heard one
Pouring forth like molten sunshine in a current full and strong,
Till it sweeps all indoor concerts out of mind—ah, there’s a bird, one
That knows how to use his throttle till it really makes a song.

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