Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CONTENTMENT, by WILL S. HAYES


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CONTENTMENT, by                    
First Line: The banks are all a bustin,' nance, an' things is goin' to smash
Last Line: An' thank him not for what we want, but what we've had an' got.
Subject(s): Banks And Banking; Poverty


THE banks are all a bustin', Nance, an' things is goin' to smash;
The people sold fur credit whar they'd oughter sell fur cash,
An' winter's bringin' poverty to everybody's door;
The rich can stand it pretty well -- hit's orful on the poor.

The workin'man's the sufferer, Nance, he's got no work to do
An' folks are goin' to suffer what sufferin' never knew;
An' them that's always "showin' off" to poor folks what they've got,
You'll find, perhaps, that they'll turn out the poorest of the lot.

I've just been thinkin', Nancy Jane, about the awful muss,
How folks had better live an' raise thar children jist like us;
For as I told old Deacon Smith, he seed it all was true;
He never in his life had seed two folks like me an' you.

Our home's an old log cabin, Nance, half hidden in the woods;
Our family's rich in life an' health, but poor in this "world's goods."
We hain't no fine lace curtains, or no carpet on the floor,
But the sun is always shinin' through the window an' the door.

Our farm is small -- we've got a spring, an' horses, hogs, an' cows;
We've gals to milk, an' cook, an' sew, an' boys to tend the ploughs,
We've got no gold in banks that bust, nor owe no man a cent;
I tell you, Nance, the Lord is good, an' we should feel content.

We're plain an' honest country folks, an' know no "city airs;"
We read the Bible every night before we kneel in prayers;
We go to church on Sunday, Nance, an' walk jist like the rest,
An' live like Christian people ought -- we try to do what's best.

Our boys are not like city boys, who from their duty shirk,
Whose parents raise 'em up to think 't is a disgrace to work;
Our gals ain't like them city gals you will so often meet,
Who ought to help their mothers more, an' run less on the street.

You don't see Thomas Henry pushin' billiards every night,
Or loafin' 'bout the tavern gittin' treated till he's tight;
You don't find him a runnin' round to catch some damsel's eye,
Or courtin' of some gal that's rich, whose daddy's about to die.

Ah, Nance, the time has come at last when pride must have a fall,
The folks will find the workin'man's the life an' prop of all;
The farmer's independent, Nance, his trade will never spoil
So long as he is able with his sons to till the soil.

The proud aristocratic folks, who sot in fortune's door,
Who thought they'd never come to want, are busted up an' poor;
Their servants gone, their horses sold, their houses an' their lands,
An' everything, except their lives, is in the sheriff's hands.

Old woman, put your knittin' up; it's gittin' purty late,
I'll read about two chapters in the Bible if you'll wait;
We'll pray to God before we sleep, as every Christian ought;
An' thank him not for what we want, but what we've had an' got.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net