Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, UNCLE DAN'L IN TOWN OVER SUNDAY, by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

UNCLE DAN'L IN TOWN OVER SUNDAY, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: I cain't git used to city ways
Last Line: Wisht I hed you home with me!
Alternate Author Name(s): Johnson Of Boone, Benj. F.
Subject(s): Country Life; Sabbath; Towns; Sunday


I CAIN'T git used to city ways --
Ner never could, I' bet my hat!
Jevver know jes' whur I was raised? --
Raised on a farm! D' ever tell you that?
Was undoubtatly, I declare!
And now, on Sunday -- fun to spare
Around a farm! Why jes' to set
Up on the top three-cornered rail
Of Pap's old place, nigh La Fayette,
I'd swap my soul off, hide and tail!
You fellers in the city here,
You don't know nothin'! -- S'pose today,
This clatterin' Sunday, you waked up
Without no jinglin'-janglin' bells,
Ner rattlin' of the milkman's cup,
Ner any swarm of screechin' birds
Like these here English swallers -- S'pose
Ut you could miss all noise like those,
And git shet o' thinkin' of 'em afterwerds,
And then, in the country, wake and hear
Nothin' but silence -- wake and see
Nothin' but green woods fur and near? --
What sort o' Sunday would that be? --
Wisht I hed you home with me!
Now think! The laziest of all days --
To git up any time -- er sleep --
Er jes' lay round and watch the haze
A-dancin' 'crost the wheat, and keep
My pipe a-goern laisurely,
And puff and whiff as pleases me --
And ef I leave a trail of smoke
Clean through the house, no one to say
"Wah! throw that nasty thing away;
Hev some regyard fer decency!"
To walk round barefoot, if you choose;
Er saw the fiddle -- er dig some bait
And go a-fishin' -- er pitch hoss shoes
Out in the shade somewhurs, and wait
For dinner-time, with an appetite
Ut folks in town cain't equal quite!
To laze around the barn and poke
Fer hens' nests -- er git up a match
Betwixt the boys, and watch 'em scratch
And rassle round, and sweat and swear
And quarrel to their hearts' content;
And me a-jes' a-settin' there
A-hatchin' out more devilment!
What sort o' Sunday would that be? . . .
Wisht I hed you home with me!





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