The Blind Slave Boy

Come back to me, mother! why linger away
From thy poor little blind boy, the long weary day!
I mark every footstep, I list to each tone,
And wonder my mother should leave me alone!
But there’s no one to joy or to sorrow with me;
For each hath of pleasure and trouble his share,
And none for the poor little blind boy will care.

My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast
Once more let thy poor little blind one be pressed;
Once more let me feel they warm breath on my cheek,
And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak!
O mother! I’ve no one to love me – no heart
Can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part;
No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind,
O! none like a mother can cherish the blind!

Poor blind one! No mother thy wailing can hear,
No mother can hasten to banish thy fear;
And for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child!

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Snow At Fredericksburg

Drift over the sunrise land,
Oh, wonderful, wonderful snow!
Oh! pure as the breast of a virgin saint,
Drift tenderly, soft and slow.
Over the slopes of the sunrise land,
And into the haunted dells
Of the forest of pine, where the roving winds
Are tuning their memory bells.

Into the forests of sighing pines,
And over those yellow slopes,
That show not the work of the cleaving plow,
But cover so many hopes;
They are many indeed, and straightly made,
Not shapen with loving care;
By the souls let out and the broken blades,
May never be counted there!

Fall over those lonely hero graves,
Oh, delicate-dropping snow,

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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1919

Before the threat
And dismal cold gray
of mourning
Came the sun.

And Charlie Comiskey
should've turned in his sleep
should've turned in his sleep
shoud've turned…

Insane Sun
Floating above the earth
Like some extravagant madman
Spending next year's allowance.

The same burning sun
In the same afternoons
In all the cities
East
and somewhat

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Bottom Drawer

In the best chamber of the house,
Shut up in dim, uncertain light,
There stood an antique chest of drawers,
Of foreign wood, with brasses bright.
One day a woman, frail and gray,
Stepped totteringly across the floor--
'Let in,' said she, 'the light of day,
Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer.

The girl, in all youth's loveliness,
Knelt down with eager, curious face;
Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks,
Of jewels, and of rare old lace.
But when the summer sunshine fell
Upon the treasures hoarded there,
The tears rushed to her tender eyes,
Her heart was solemn as a prayer.

'Dear Grandmamma,' she softly sighed,
Lifted a withered rose and palm;

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Only One Man Killed Today

There are tears and wails in the old brown house
On the hillside steep today,
Though the sunlight gleams on the outer world
There the clouds drift cold and gray.
'Only one man killed,' is the tidings read,
'Our loss was trifling; we triumphed,' 'twas said -
And only here in the home on the hill
Did the words breathe aught but of triumph still.

They had watched and waited, had prayed and wept,
These loving hearts by the cottage hearth,
And the hope was strong that their darling would walk
Unscathed and safe mid the battle's wrath.
They would have gladly shielded his life from ill,
But their trust was all in their Father's will;
They had felt so sure his love would save
The pride of their heart from a soldier's grave.

Now his wisdom has ordered what most they feared,
And their hearts are crushed by the news today,

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Ode to Joy

Wild and fearful in his cavern
Hid the naked troglodyte,
And the homeless nomad wandered
Laying waste the fertile plain.
Menacing with spear and arrow
In the woods the hunter strayed…
Woe to all poor wreteches stranded
On those cruel and hostile shores!
From the peak of high Olympus
Came the mother Ceres down,
Seeeking in those savage regions
Her lost daughter Prosperine.
But the Goddess found no refuge,
Found no kindly welcome there,
And no temple bearing witness
To the worship of the gods.

From the fields and from the vineyards
Came no fruit to deck the feasts,
Only flesh of blood-stained victims

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Cleburne

Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave
Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laureled grave-
Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set,
For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget.

'Tis true, thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head
Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead;
The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright
Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light.

No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore,
No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more,
No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise,
For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies.

Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless deadened heart;
Calm, calm and sweet, O warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part,
And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine,
A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine.

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Seafarer

'Bright plates and pannikins
To sail the seas around,
And a new donkey's breakfast
For the outward bound!'

Shanghaied in San Francisco
We brought up in Bombay
Where they put us afloat in an old Leith boat
That steered like a stack of hay.

We've sweltered in the Tropics
When the pitch boiled through the deck-
And saved our hides and little besides
In an ice-cold North Sea wreck.

We've drunk our rum in Portland
And we've thrashed through Bering Strait-
And we've toed the mark on a Yankee barque
With a hard-case Down-east mate.

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Sir Patrick Spence

The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?"

Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the se."

The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Jesse James

Jesse James was a lad who killed many a man.
He robbed the Glendale train.
He stole from the rich and he gave to the poor,
He’d a hand and a heart and a brain.

Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,
Three children, they were brave,
But that dirty little coward that shot Mister Howard,
Has laid Jesse James in his grave.

It was Robert Ford, that dirty little coward,
I wonder how he does feel,
For he ate of Jesse’s bread and he slept in Jesse’s bed,
Then he laid Jesse James in his grave.

Jesse was a man, a friend to the poor,
He’d never see a man suffer pain,
And with his brother Frank he robbed the Chicago bank,
And stopped the Glendale train.

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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