The Corner Man

I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep,

When fancies come and go

To vex a man in his soothing sleep

With thoughts of awful woe —

I dreamed that I was a corner-man

Of a nigger minstrel show.

I cracked my jokes, and the building rang

With laughter loud and long;

I hushed the house as I softly sang

An old plantation song —

A tale of the wicked slavery days

Of cruelty and wrong.

A small boy sat on the foremost seat —

A mirthful youngster he;

He beat the time with his restless feet

To each new melody,

And he picked me out as the brightest star

Of the black fraternity.

“Oh father,” he said, “what would we do

If the corner-man should die?

I never saw such a man — did you?

He makes the people cry,

And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.”

The old man made reply —

“We each of us fill a very small space

In the great creation's plan,

If a man do n't keep his lead in the race

There's plenty more that can;

The world can very soon fill the place

Of even a corner-man.”

I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find

Myself at home in bed,

And I framed a moral in my mind

From the words the old man said.

The world will jog along just the same

When its corner-men are dead.