Alfred Islay Walden

Oh! had I now an overcoat, For I am nearly freezing; My head and lungs are stopped with cold, And often I am sneezing. And, too, while passing through the street, Where merchants all are greeting, They say, young man this is the coat That you should wear to meeting. Then, looking down upon my feet, For there my boots are bursting, With upturned heels and grinning toes, With tacks which long were rusting. Ah! how they view my doeskin pants With long and crooked stitches, They say, young man would you not like To have some other breeches? My head is also hatless too, The wind is swiftly blowing, They say, young man will you not freeze? See ye not how it’s snowing? And now they take me by the hand, And lead me toward the store, And some are pulling down the coats Before I reach the door. So walk I in, their goods to price, To quench a thirst that’s burning, And freely would I buy a coat, But nothing I am earning. They say to me, I should have known, That winter time was coming, When I was roaming through the park, With birds around me humming. Their logic’s true, I must confess, And all they say is pleasant; But did I know that I would have No overcoat at present? To satisfy these craving Jews, To buy I am not able, For it is more than I can do To meet my wants at table. Therefore my skin will toughly grow, Will grant to me this favor, That I may learn to stand as much As little Jack, the sailor. And if I live till winter’s passed, Though nature’s harps unstringing, I then will fly to yon woodland To hear the oak trees singing. Then I will not on hero’s fame, Ride swiftly on to victory, Although my saddle may be made Of cotton sacks or hickory. But if I die, farewell to all, Oh! who will tell the story, That I have lived a noble life. And now gone home to glory? Yes, who will chant a song of praise For me—who will be weeping— When I have yielded to the grave, And ’mid the dead am sleeping? But some will ask, “how did he die? It was without my knowing; Was it because he caught a cold, Last year when it was snowing?” The answer now comes hurling back, In words I cannot utter, It was not by a cold alone, But partly bread and butter.

My book is largely growing; Its leaves are multiplied; Its pages are much longer, And nearly twice as wide. At first I thought the reader Had not the time to spare, To hail my little volume As it floated in the air. I thought perhaps while floating Away through empty space, Perchance would there discover Some long forgotten race. I knew not it would mingle Among the great and wise, Or that it would be subject Unto the critic’s eyes. I thought it was inferior, And of the minor class, I knew not how the ladies Would read it as they pass. But now I find it’s useful, And laden every page, For truly it must mingle With those of every age. Therefore I should have measured; Should not have thought it vain To make its little mysteries Unto the reader plain. But surely there’s no secret Where thought is not sublime, That I have thus destroyed By keeping up my rhyme. But if I should in future Find this to be the case, I’d take my silver pencil And all these lines erase. I’d rather use a license, Or grammar’s laws dispense, Than for to let my metre Or rhythm govern sense. The read will remember My chances are but slim, Or else this little volume Would be in better trim. Remember, too, in Dixie That I was born a slave. And all my early genius Was locked within the grave. Remember my condition— A mark within my eyes— And all my inspirations Are showered from the skies. I cannot read of authors, Nor those of noble fame, For I’m just a learning The author, Milton’s, name. I cannot borrow subjects, Nor rob them of their style, My book amid their volumes, Like me, is but a child. Therefore, I bless this volume, And send with it my heart, That it may to the critic My better thoughts impart. Go forth, then, little volume, Much good from thee may spring, If thou continueth pleading The merits of thy King. And others yet may follow, All changed within their scale, But thou, upon thy mission, I am sure can never fail.