Ponchus Pilut ust to be
Ist a Slave, an’ now he’s free.
Slaves wuz on’y ist before
The War wuz—an’ ain’t no more.
He works on our place fer us,—
An’ comes here—sometimes he does.
He shocks corn an’ shucks it.—An’
He makes hominy “by han’!”—
Wunst he bringed us some, one trip,
Tied up in a piller-slip:
Pa says, when Ma cooked it, “MY!
This-here’s gooder’n you buy!”
Ponchus pats fer me an’ sings;
An’ he says funny things!
Ponchus calls a dish a “deesh”—
Yes, an’ he calls fishes “feesh”!
When Ma want him eat wiv us
He says, “’Skuse me—’deed you mus’!—
Ponchus know’ good manners, Miss.—
He ain’ eat wher’ White-folks is!”
’Lindy takes his dinner out
Wher’ he’s workin’—roun’ about.—
Wunst he et his dinner spread
In our ole wheelborry-bed.
Ponchus Pilut says “’at’s not
His right name,—an’ done fergot
What his sho’-’nuff name is now—
An’ don’ matter none nohow!”
Yes, an’ Ponchus he’ps Pa, too,
When our butcherin’s to do,
An’ scalds hogs—an’ says, “Take care
’Bout it, er you’ll set the hair!”
Yes, an’ out in our back-yard
He he’ps ’Lindy rendur lard;
An’, wite in the fire there, he
Roast’ a pigtail wunst fer me.—
An’ ist nen th’ole tavurn-bell
Rung, down-town, an’ he says, “Well!—
Hear dat! Lan’ o’ Caanan, Son,
Ain’t dat bell say ‘Pigtail done!’
—‘Pigtail done!
Go call Son!—
Tell dat
Chile dat
Pigtail done!’”