Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, POOR LITTLE JOE, by DAVID LAW PROUDFIT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

POOR LITTLE JOE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Prop yer eyes wide open, joey
Last Line: O, my god! Can joe be dead!
Alternate Author Name(s): Arkwright, Pegleg
Subject(s): Child Labor; Death - Children; Death - Babies


PROP yer eyes wide open, Joey,
Fur I've brought you sumpin great.
Apples? No, a heap site better!
Don't you take no int'rest? Wait.
Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey—
There—poor little Joe! don't cry!

I was skippen past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes,—
Each one climbin' from a pot;
Every bush had flowers on it,—
Pretty? Mebbe not! O, no!
Wish you could 'a' seen 'em growin',
It was sich a stunnin' show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,
Never knowin' any comfort;
And I puts on lots o' cheek.
"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum.
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus,—
Never seed one, I suppose."

Then I told her all about you,—
How I bring'd you up, poor Joe,
(Lackin' women folks to do it);
Sich a' imp you was, you know,—
Till you got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in
(Hard work, too) to earn yer livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you,
So's you couldn't hyper much!
Joe, it hurted when I seen you
Fur the first time with your crutch.
"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
'Pears to weaken every day";
Joe, she up and went to cuttin',—
That's the how of this bokay.

Say! It seems to me, ole feller,
You is quite yerself to night;
Kind of chirk; it's been a fort'nit
Sense yer eyes has been so bright.
Better? Well! I'm glad to hear it.
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe—
Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?
Well, I thought it would, you know!

Never see the country, did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Sometime when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven? 'M—I s'pose so;
Dunno much about it, though;
Aint as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heard it hinted somewhere,
That in heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin' cheerful,
B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't get hungry;
So good people, when they dies,
Finds themselves well fix'd forever,—
Joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes?

Thought they look'd a little sing'ler,
O no! don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is,
Joe, wot makes you look so queer?
Here, wake up! O, don't look that way!
Joe! My boy! Hold up your head!
Here's yer flowers,—you dropp'd 'em, Joey!—
O, my God! can Joe be dead!





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