Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems/The Young Tramp

by Charles Follen Adams

THE YOUNG TRAMP.

Hello, thar, stranger! Whar yer frum?

Come in and make yerself ter hum!

We're common folks—ain't much on style;

Come in and stop a little while;

'Twon't do no harm ter rest yer some.

Youngster, yer pale, and don't look well!

What, way frum Bosting? Naow, dew tell!

Why, that's a hundred mile or so;

What started yer, I'd like ter know,

On sich a tramp; got goods ter sell?

No home—no friends? Naow that's too bad!

Wall, cheer up, boy, and don't be sad—

Wife, see what yer can find ter eat,

And put the coffee on ter heat—

We'll fix yer up all right, my lad.

Willing ter work, can't git a job,

And not a penny in yer fob?

Wall, naow, that's rough, I dew declare!

What, tears? Come, youngster, I can't bear

Ter see yer take on so, and sob.

How came yer so bad off, my son?

Father was killed? 'Sho'; whar? Bull Run?

Why, I was in that scrimmage, lad,

And got used up, too, pretty bad;

I sha'n't forgit old 'sixty one!

So yer were left in Bosting, hey?

A baby when he went away—

Those Bosting boys were plucky, wife,

Yer know one of 'em saved my life,

Else I would not be here to day.

'Twas when the "Black Horse Cavalcade"

Swept down upon our small brigade

I got the shot that made me lame,

When down on me a trooper came,

And this 'ere chap struck up his blade.

Poor feller! He was stricken dead;

The trooper's sabre cleaved his head.

Joe Billings was my comrade's name;

He was a Bosting boy, and game!

I almost wished I'd died instead.

Why, lad! what makes yer tremble so?

Your father! what, my comrade Joe?

And you his son? Come ter my heart!

My home is yours; I'll try, in part,

Ter pay his boy the debt I owe.