Poems (Hoffman)/Banjo Jim
BANJO JIM
Old Banjo Jim is the name of him Of whom I have to write,As he walks with his load, 'long a country road, He is almost always tight;
But wherever he goes, with his weal and woes His banjo always shares,'Tis as much a scrap of the poor old chap As the battered hat he wears.
He is old and scarred, he is maimed and marred And his banjo is the same,'Tis a part of himself never laid on the shelf And a part of his poor old name.
He will curse and swear, 'till the very air With his wicked words is blue,Or sit on a pile of rails, with a smile, And play a tune for you.
He is always tight, but don't take a fright He's harmless, the neighbors say,And when he swears, 'tis a part of his airs As much as it is to play;
Still I pity him, poor Old Banjo Jim, Whenever I see him goWith his rags and sin, with his tags and gin, Holding tight to his old banjo.
Of all beauty bereft, there must yet be left In his hard old soul a stringThat is plastic still, to feel and thrill At the sound of a lovely thing.
But who comes here with a look of fear And a message of alarm?A man found dead by the road 'tis said With a banjo under his arm.
"Got drunk," they say, and lost his way And stumbled into the ditch,Who sold him the stuff, that was poison enough, Was it murder or accident? Which?
And does no one care, that he's lying there With a look so fixed and wild?O friends, do you know, that years ago He was somebody's little child!
Then lay him low, where we all shall go Beggar and king, as well,With his banjo pressed to his lifeless breast As together they fought and fell.
From my window pane, I can hear the rain On an old tin roof below,And I lean to hear, for it sounds so queer, Like the ghost of that old banjo.
And I wonder then, what he might have been If some things were not, that are;Ah! guilty saloon, 'neath the silent moon There are crimes you shall answer for!