Dey‘ s a so't o’ threatenin’ feelin’ in de blowin’ of de breeze, An’ I‘ s feelin’ kin’ o’ squeamish in de night; I‘ s a-walkin’‘ roun’ a-lookin’ at de diffunt style o’ trees, An’ a-measurin’ dey thickness an’ dey height.
Fu’ dey‘ s somep'n mighty‘ spicious in de looks de da'kies give, Ez dey pass me an’ my fambly on de groun,’ So it‘ curs to me dat lakly, ef I caihs to try an’ live, It concehns me fu’ to‘ mence to look erroun’.
Dey's a cu'ious kin’ o’ shivah runnin’ up an’ down my back, An’ I feel my feddahs rufflin’ all de day, An’ my laigs commence to trimble evah blessid step I mek; W'en I sees a ax, I tu'ns my head away.
Folks is go'gin’ me wid goodies, an’ dey‘ s treatin’ me wid caih, An’ I‘ s fat in spite of all dat I kin do. I‘ s mistrus'ful of de kin'ness dat's erroun’ me evahwhaih, Fu’ it‘ s jes’ too good, an’ frequent, to be true.
Snow‘ s a-fallin’ on de medders, all erroun’ me now is white, But I‘ s still kep’ on a-roostin’ on de fence; Isham comes an’ feels my breas'bone, an’ he hefted me las’ night, An’ he‘ s gone erroun’ a-grinnin’ evah sence.
‘ T ai n't de snow dat meks me shivah;‘ t ai n't de col’ dat meks me shake; ‘ T ai n't de wintah-time itse'f dat's‘ fectin’ me; But I t'ink de time is comin’, an’ I‘ d bettah mek a break, Fu’ to set wid Mistah Possum in his tree.
Wen you hyeah de da'kies singin’, an’ de quahtahs all is gay, ‘ T ai n't de time fu’ birds lak me to be‘ erroun’; Wen de hick'ry chip is flyin’, an’ de log‘ s been ca'ied erway, Den hit's dang'ous to be roostin’ nigh he groun’.
Grin on, Isham! Sing on, da'kies! But I flop my wings an’ go Fu’ de sheltah of de ve'y highest tree, Fu’ dey‘ s too much close ertention — an’ dey's too much fallin’ snow — An’ it's too nigh Chris'mus mo'nin’ now fu’ me.
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