At a cotton gin the King's made thin,
Yet never shows the least chagrin,
In his sunny home in Dixie's land,
That rich and poor may live and win.
He's trifled with, but will not sin
Amongst his subjects, nor his kin,
Although he feels the iron band
At a cotton gin.
More just the King than a mandarin,
And I often think the cherubin
Would like themselves to understand
His long, rich round, and then command
At a cotton gin.
THE COTTON MILL
In Southern climes and the monarch's mill
Weave many a spindle and loom;
And lake and lawn, with art's own skill,
In Southern climes and the monarch's mill;
Yes, church and school and much to fill
The mind with hope and buoyant bloom—
In Southern climes and the monarch's mill,
Weave many a spindle and loom.
MY OWN LITTLE GIRL
I've covered many and many a mile;
I've seen the setting of many a sun;
I have oft been charmed by the infant's smile,
Pondering gladly life's journey begun.
I've met with the great and small not a few;
I've sat at the feet of the learned knight,
I've stood on the stage with Gentile and Jew,
Addressing the throng by day and by night.
I've witnessed the way of the meek and wise,
Ah, the vanishing joy of the greedy;
And more has come under my eager eyes,
Seeing the re-filled cup of the needy.
But never a joy I've felt was my own—
Which bachelor old and maiden know not—
Is equal to that when I return home,
My humble home, yet delectable spot,
And take to my heart my own little girl,
All laughter and love—the joy of my life.
Right here let me rest, far away the mad whirl,
And feast on pure love, free from all strife.
