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"The times bain't what they used to be,'bout fifty ye'rs or so ago." And he hooked a coal from the bar-room stove and set his T.D.pipe aglow. "The b'ys be changed,the men be changed,their places supplied by fraud and ranter, But the deadest of all the burr'ed past is the dead and gon' outharbour planter. "He's gone with gansy and corduroy pants;with Hamburg boots and ne'er collar; He's gone wid cook-room,pork and duff;gone wid de good old pillar dollar; Gone wid his chare at Christmas time; gone wid his rum in the red decanter; He's chareful v'ice and breezy song are burr'ed low' wid the outport planter. " 'Tis true he was bluff and somewhat rude,and hadn't a stock of college manners; His gurls warn't trained in boardin'-schools, and didn't thump om grand pianers. But they'd gut a fish,or make a shirt,and at dawn rise at a call instanter; They were truthful,honest,kind and good,the simple gurls of ther outport planter. "His place supplied by a class o'dude(I've seed the word in the Yankee papers), With standin' collars and shinin' boots; wid cheap segars and sickenin' capers, Wid shop-made clothes and silvern rings,and larnin' enough to fool and banter; You'd drown 'em all with your nipper's spray,those pale face sons of the outport planter. "Ye'r in, ye'r out,he done his work,as best he knew in his position; The winter seed him mend his nets,the summer seed him go a-fishin'. The priest and parson he always paid(the regular men, but not the ranter), For the latter class no favor found with the orthodox outharbour planter. "His house the village meetin'-place,'tho it not always was a mansion, It's carpet was a sanded floor,with sometimes sawdust on the planchin', Here song and merry dance went round,the tune supplied by cookroom chanter; The reel,cotillion(not the waltz) was the dance enjoyed by the outport planter. "I know one quite well he had his faults, and made men work both night and marnin'; But,then,he didn't spare himself,more than three hours rest a scarnin'. And he cussed and he swore when the fish was scarce,and drank too deep from the red decanter; And bad molasses and rotten flour was sometimes sold by the outport planter. "But when 'counts be squar'd at the final day,and into the ledger the Lord is sarchin', He'll say, ' I find you cussed a sight,and once in awhile you stuck the marchin'; But you clode the naked,the hungry fed; so go up fust with the harps and chanters, The place reserved for all good men ,and honest,square outharbour planters.' "
Contributed by Martha Warren
Page Revised: July 2002 (Don Tate)
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