Aunt Phœbe’s Remonstrance

R. F. Williams, Jr., in “The Virginia University Magazine”

MY missis! You gwine to marry her, you say!

’Fo’ Gord, now, marster, you’s foolin’ me, I knows.

Gwine tek dat little chile o’ our’n away!

Why, she ain’t nuthin’ mo’n a chile!

You go back home and wait a while,

Untel she grows.

Why, marster, ’twa’n’t but little while ago

Dat I fuss hel’ her in ole missis’ room;

An’ now you tells me she’s done grow’d up? Sho!

Dat chile ain’t no mo’ fittin’ fer

To marry you, I tell you, sir,

Dan dis here broom.

She sholy was a fine-raised chile, I knows,

Kaze I help raise her, sir; I brung her up.

When she wa’n’t mo’n ten years ole, I s’pose,

Ole miss’ use’ stan’ her by de wall,

’N’ she’d say de twelb commandments all

Widout a stop.

An’ when I use’ to tek her up to bade,

Jes’ sharp at eight—old miss’ wus punkshall, sho—

I’d tek her in my lap an’ comb her hade,

An’ den I’d tell de stories to her

’Bout raslin’ Jacob an’ Marse Noah

An’ his rainbow.

One day ole marster tuck her off to school,

Whar de gret folks had dere chillen larn.

When she come back, she’d set on dat dar stool,

’N’ play dat piany tell it soun’

Fit like Brer Gabriel done come down

Here wid his harn.

An’ now you’s gwine to tek my chile away?

What’s me ’n’ ole miss’ gwine do widout her den?

What make dat you cyarnt come down here an’ stay?

Gwine tek dat preshus lam’ wid you,

Fum miss’ and her ole mammy, too—

Say, marster, when?

Not ’fo’ nex’ fall! Oh, t’ank de Lord ob Grace!

Kaze we’s gwine hab her fer a little while!

When she’s done gone, ’twon’t be de same ole place,

But we befo’ de Lord mus’ bow.

Thankee, marster—lemme go now

An’ fin’ my chile.