MARSE PHIL

Yes, yes, you is Marse Phil's son; you favor‘ m might'ly, too.

We wuz like brothers, we wuz, me an’ him.

You tried to fool d’ ole nigger, but, Marster,‘ twouldn’ do;

Not do yo’ is done growed so tall an’ slim.

Hi! Lord! Ise knowed yo’, honey, sence long befo’ yo’ born —

I mean, Ise knowed de family dat long;

An’ dees been white folks, Marster — dee han‘ s white ez young corn —

An’, ef dee want to, couldn’ do no wrong.

You’ gran'pa bought my mammy at Gen'l Nelson's sale,

An’ Deely she come out de same estate;

An’ blood is jes’ like pra'r is — hit tain’ gwine nuver fail;

Hit‘ s sutney gwine to come out, soon or late.

When I wuz born, yo’ gran'pa gi’ me to young Marse Phil,

To be his body-servant — like, you know;

An’ we growed up together like two stalks in a hill —

Bofe tarslin’ an’ den shootin’ in de row.

Marse Phil wuz born in harves’, an’ I dat Christmas come;

My mammy nussed bofe on we de same time;

No matter what one got, suh, de oder gwine git some —

We wuz two fibe-cent pieces in one dime.

We cotch ole hyahs together, an’ possums, him an’ me;

We fished dat mill-pon’ over, night an’ day;

Rid horses to de water; treed coons up de same tree;

An’ when you see one, turr warn’ fur away.

When Marse Phil went to College,‘ t wuz, “Sam — Sam‘ s got to go.”

Ole Marster said, “Dat boy‘ s a fool‘ bout Sam.”

Ole Mistis jes’ said, “Dear, Phil wants him, an’, you know —”

Dat “Dear” — hit used to soothe him like a lamb.

So we all went to College — - ‘ way down to Williamsburg —

But‘ t warn’ much l'arnin out o’ books we got;

Dem urrs warn’ no mo’ to him‘ n a ole wormy lug;

Yes, suh, we wuz de ve'y top-de-pot.

An’ ef he didn’ study dem Latins an’ sich things,

He wuz de popularetis all de while

De ladies use’ to call him, “De angel widout wings”;

An’ when he come, I lay dee use’ to smile.

Yo’ see, he wuz ole Marster's only chile; an’ den,

He had a body-servant — at he will;

An’ wid dat big plantation; dee‘ d all like to be brides;

Dat is ef dee could have de groom, Marse Phil.

‘ T wuz dyah he met young Mistis — she wuz yo’ ma, of co'se!

I disremembers now what mont’ it wuz:

One night, he comes, an’ seys he, “Sam, I needs new clo'es”;

An’ seys I, “Marse Phil, yes, suh, so yo’ does.”

Well, suh, he made de tailor meek ev'y thing bran’ new;

He would n’ w'ar one stitch he had on han’ —

Jes’ throwed‘ em in de chip box, an’ seys, “Sam, dem‘ s fur you.”

Marse Phil, I tell yo’, wuz a gentleman.

So Marse Phil co'tes de Mistis, an’ Sam he co'tes de maid —

We always sot our traps upon one parf;

An’ when we tole ole Marster we bofe wuz gwine, he seyd,

“All right, we‘ ll have to kill de fatted calf.”

An’ dat wuz what dee did, suh — de Prodigal wuz home;

Dee put de ring an’ robe upon yo’ ma.

Den you wuz born, young Marster, an’ den de storm hit come;

An’ den de darkness settled from afar.

De storm hit comed an’ wrenchted de branches from de tree —

De war — you’ pa — he‘ s sleep dyah on de hill;

An’ do I know, young Marster, de war hit sot us free?

I seys, “Dat‘ s so; but tell me whar‘ s Marse Phil?”

“A dollar!” — thankee, Marster, you sutney is his son;

You is his spitt an’ image, I declar’!

What sey, young Marster? Yes, suh: you sey, “It‘ s five — not one —”

Yo’ favors, honey, bofe yo’ pa an’ ma!