Ay tel yu, dis har feller William F. Kirk, he ban write some dam gude werse! In his day, dialect poetry was wildly popular, usually read from the podium to howls of laughter. Dis har stuff is at least a little less cringe-inducing than the "negro dialect ballads" of the day, or even the awful stereotypical French-Canadian stuff we studied in school (I'll have to dig some of it out - it was excruciating).
If you read these aloud, which I recommend, you will note that you sound a lot like the Schmenge Brothers on SCTV. Though they were Leutonian and this guy was some kind of generic Scandinavian, it's close enough for jazz.
In the past I've posted Sonnet on Stewed Prunes and Ode to a Lumberyack, but here the Norsk Nightingale waxes even more poetic. Yu bet!
Mortality
Vat for should dis spirit of mortal ban proud?
Man valk round a minute, and talk purty loud;
Den doctor ban coming, and say, "Ay can't save."
And man have to tak running yump into grave.
Man valk round a minute, and talk purty loud;
Den doctor ban coming, and say, "Ay can't save."
And man have to tak running yump into grave.
To-day dis har faller ban svelling around,
His head ban so light dat his feet ant touch ground.
To-morrow he light vith his face in the sand,
And hustle lak hal to get gude helping hand.
Ay see lots of fallers who tenk dey ban vise,
Yu see dem yureself ef yu open yure eyes;
Dey tal 'bout the gold dey skol making some day,
And yump ven the vash-voman com for her pay.
Ay tal yu, dear frend, purty sune we ban dead,
So ay tenk we ban suckers to getting svelled head.
It ant wery far from
Vat for should dis spirit of mortal ban proud?
The Day is Done
The day ban done, and darkness
Falling from vengs of night,
Lak fedder flying from ruster,
Ven he ban having fight.
Ay see the lights of willage
Shining tru rain and mist,
And ay skol feel dam sleepy,
Lak fallers playing whist.
Come, read tu me some werses,
Ay ant care vat yu read,
Yust so it ant 'bout trouble
Or hearts vich ache and bleed.
Ay lak dese har nice yingles
'Bout sun and trees and grass;
But, ven it com to heartache,
Yerusalem! ay skol pass!
Read from some humble geezer,
Whose songs ban sveet to hear—
Who making, from his poetry,
'Bout saxteen cents a year.
Ay lak to hear his yingles,
Ay tell yu, dey ban fine;
Dis har ban vy ay lak dem—
Dey ban so much lak mine.
Such songs have gude, nice sound—
Dey making sorrow fly;
Dey coming lak glass of seltzer
Vich follows drenk of rye.
And night skol be full of music,
And tengs we lak to forget
Skol fold op tents lak yipsies,
And sneaking avay, yu bet!
If you're feeling soiled after those poems, this will cleanse your soul: Lumberjack Song
ReplyDeleteI confess that I LOVE dialect poems, although I know they are terribly politically incorrect. They are also very hard to do. One of the best things about Gone with the Wind (otherwise a shitty novel) was the "negro dialect" which was reproduced with such a good ear, you could hear it in your head. But Margaret Mitchell was an awful racist and saw nothing wrong with the n-word, which I was always taught was the worst word there was. I was horrified when she described a log cabin as smelling "niggery".
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