Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BALLAD OF UNCLE JOE, by ALICE CARY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: When I was young - it seems as though Last Line: Of poor old uncle joe. Subject(s): Graves; Kindness | ||||||||
WHEN I was young -- it seems as though There never were such when -- There lived a man that now I know Was just the best of men; I'll name him to you, "Uncle Joe," For so we called him then. A poor man he, that for his bread Must work with might and main. The humble roof above his head Scarce kept him from the rain; But so his dog and he were fed, He sought no other gain. His steel-blue axe, it was his pride, And over wood and wave Its music rang out far and wide, His strokes they were so brave; Excepting that some neighbor died, And then he dug his grave. And whether it were wife or child, An old man, or a maid, An infant that had hardly smiled, Or youth, so lowly laid, The yellow earth was always piled Above them by his spade. For spade he had, and grubbing-hoe, And hence the people said It was not much that Uncle Joe Should bury all the dead; So rich and poor, and high and low, He made them each a bed. The funeral-bell was like a jog Upon his wits, they say, That made him leave his half-cut log At any time of day, And whistle to his brindle dog And light his pipe of clay. When winter winds around him drave And made the snow-flakes spin, I've seen him -- for he did not save His strength, for thick nor thin -- His bare head just above the grave That he was standing in. His simple mind was almost dark To school-lore, that is true; The wisdom he had gained at work Was nearly all he knew; But ah, the way he made his mark Was honest, through and through. 'T was not among the rulers then That he in council sat; They used to say that with his pen His fingers were not pat; But he was still a gentleman For all and all of that. The preacher in his silken gown Was not so well at ease As he, with collar lopping down And patches at his knees, The envy of our little town, He hadn't a soul to please; Nor wife nor brother, chick nor child, Nor any kith nor kin. Perhaps the townsfolk were beguiled And the envy was a sin, But his look of sweetness when he smiled Betokened joy within. He sometimes took his holiday, And 't was a pleasant sight To see him smoke his pipe of clay, As if all the world went right, While his brindle dog beside him lay A-winking at the light. He took his holiday, and so His face with gladness shone; But, ah! I cannot make you know One bliss he held alone, Unless the heart of Uncle Joe Were beating in your own! He had an old cracked violin, And I just may whisper you The music was so weak and thin 'T was like to an ado, As he drew the long bow out and in To all the tune he knew. From January on till June, And back again to snow, Or in the tender light o' the moon, Or by the hearth-fire's glow, To that old-fashioned, crazy tune He made his elbow go! Ah! then his smile would come so sweet It brightened all the air, And heel and toe would beat and beat Till the ground of grass was bare, As if that little lady feet Were dancing with him there! His finger nails, so bruised and flat, Would grow in this employ To such a rosy roundness that He almost seemed a boy, And even the old crape on his hat Would tremble as with joy. So, digging graves, and chopping wood, He spent the busy day, And always, as a wise man should, Kept evil thoughts at bay; For when he could not speak the good, He hadn't a word to say. And so the years in shine and storm Went by, as years will go, Until at last his palsied arm Could hardly draw the bow; Until he crooked through all his form, Much like his grubbing-hoe. And then his axe he deeply set, And on the wall-side pegs Hung hoe and spade; no fear nor fret That life was at the dregs, But walked about of a warm day yet, With his dog between his legs. Sometimes, as one who almost grieves, His memory would recall The merry-making Christmas Eves, The frolic, and the ball, Till his hands would shake like withered leaves And his pipe go out and fall. Then all his face would grow as bright -- So I have oft heard say -- As if that, being lost in the night, He saw the dawn o' the day; As if from a churlish, chilling height He saw the light o' the May. One winter night the fiddle-bow His fingers ceased to tease, And they found him by the morning glow Beneath his door-yard trees, Wrapt in the ermine of the snow, And royally at ease. What matter that the winds were wild! He did not hear their din, But hugging, as it were his child, Against his grizzly chin, The treasure of his life, he smiled, For all was peace within. And when they drew the vest apart To fold the hands away, They found a picture past all art Of painting, so they say; And they turned the face upon the heart, And left it where it lay. And one, a boy with golden head, Made haste and strung full soon The crazy viol; for he said, Mayhap beneath the moon They danced sometime a merry tread To the beloved tune. And many an eye with tears was dim The while his corse they bore; No hands had ever worked for him Since he was born before; Nor could there come an hour so grim That he should need them more. The viol, ready tuned to play, The sadly-silent bow, The axe, the pipe of yellow clay, Are in his grave so low; And there is nothing more to say Of poor old Uncle Joe. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR THE SAKE OF STRANGERS by DORIANNE LAUX A CONSIDERABLE SPECK by ROBERT FROST BUT I DO NOT NEED KINDNESS by GREGORY NUNZIO CORSO HER DILEMMA; IN CHURCH by THOMAS HARDY A SPINSTER'S STINT by ALICE CARY |
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