For your sweet sake : poems / by James E. McGirt [electronic text]

UNCLE IS'REL.

De peopl' call me a conger, Jus' caus' I do som' tricks, An' caus' I got dis lucky black cat bone, Can gather roots to make tea wit', Not' les' dey talk 'o th't, Dey's scared o' me an' say I tote load stone.

Don' car' wh't I do noble, No matter how I work, Dey say de load stone don' it jus' de same. Like wh'n I took Lucindy, 'Way from de 'fessor Jones, Dey up an' said I got hur wit' some skeame.

Let somethin' happen to de neighbors, Let one o' th'm git sick, Fo' it old Is'rel got to bear de blame, Jes caus' I got th's goofer, An' a rabbit foot or two; Th'y say I do mos' ever'thing th'y dream.

Som'tim th'y talk so scand'lo's, It gits me all up-sot, Wh'n worrin' over wh't th'y say, I wan' 'o t'ke my goofer, An' ever'thing I got, An' let de people see me thro' 'm 'way.

I gath'r th'm together, An' put 'm in a pile, I 'gin to think about de needy day, I think wh't they'd do fo' me; An' git mad wit' myself, Fo' worrin' over wh't de people say.

Fo' wh'n I 'gin a thinkin', 'Bout wh't migh' com' o' me, Can' help the tears from comin' in my eye, One tim' de world' was 'gains' me, An' frien's had turn' their backs, My rabbit foot an' goofer stood righ' by.

Yo' call me wh't yo' wan' to, An' jus' don' bother me, I'm goin' 'o keep the things th't bro't me thro'; Yo' talk o' mother's teachin', But wh't they don' fo' me, Is much as any mother'd ever do.

I use' to mark de path, Th't run 'fore master's door, An' ever mornin' he would hav' to cross The load stone in my pocket, I don' jus' lik' I pleas'; Mos' every body tho't I was de boss.

Wh'n master'd cross de mark, Yo' see him 'menc' to smile, To git wit' me it always made him proud; I made de women lov' me, An' long as I was th're, Nobody ever hurt one o' de crowd.

Wh'n I go out a courtin', I goofer up my hands, An' put a rabbit down in my sho', No man on earth can beat me,A winnin' o' de love;Fo' wh'n I meet de girls th's way I do.

Make out I'm glad to see th'm, An' grab'm by de han', Be rubbin' load stone on 'em all de tim'; No use in tryin' to s'un me, I'm goin' to win your lov', Fo' ef I want you, I can make yo' min'.