Pleading

If you lub me, Joanie, only tell me, dear, Do not be so cold When my lub is bold; Do not mek dis burnin’ heart o’ mine get drear, Tek it for your own, For ’tis yours alone. I hab eber lub’d you from I saw your face On dat Monday morn ’Mongst de peas an’ corn: Lightly did you trip along wid yout’ful grace, Wid de kerchief red Wound about your head. Durin’ de revival we b’en use’ fe pray, Spirit we b’en hab, How we use’ fe sob! Yet how soon did all of it from we get ’way! Lub kiver de whole, We feget we “soul.” Though I could’n’ see you when you younger b’en, It was better so, For we older grow, An’ I can protect you now from udder men, If you’ll only be Fe me one, Joanie. How I saw you proudly draw up to your height— As we strolled along Gay in laugh an’ song, Passin’ by de peenies sheddin’ greenish light— ’Cos my lips did miss, Stealin’ one lee kiss! ’Member you de days down by de river-side, I prevented you Your washin’ to do, Teasin’ you at times till you got vex’ an’ cried, An’ I try de while To coax you fe smile? Joanie, when you were me own a true sweetheart, I lived in de air ’Douten t’ought of care, Thinkin’, O me Joan dat’ nuttin’ could we part, Naught to mek me fear Fe me own a dear. When in church on Sunday days we use’ fe sit, You dressed in light pink, How we used fe wink! Wha’ de parson say we cared for not a bit, Nuttin’ could remove Our sweet t’oughts from love. I am thinkin’, Joanie, when de nights were lone, An’ you were afraid Of each darkened shade, An’ I use’ fe guide you over river-stone, How you trusted me Fe care you, Joanie. ’Member you de time when many days passed by, An’ I didn’ come To your hill-side home, How you wrote those sad, sad letters to know why, Till I comfort gave To my Joanie brave? In those happy days, me Joan, you loved me then, An’ I t’ought dat you Would be ever true; Never dreamed you would forsake me for strange men, Who caan’ lub you so Much as thrown-up Joe. Joanie, fickle Joanie, give up Squire’s son; You wi’ soon hate him An’ his silly whim, An’ your heart wi’ yearn fe me when I am gone; So, ’fo’ ’tis too late, Come back to your mate. Joanie, when you’re tired of dat worthless man, You can come back still Of your own free will: Nummo girl dis true, true heart will understan’; I wi’ live so-so, Broken-hearted Joe. An’, Joan, in de days fe come I know you’ll grieve For de foolishniss Dat you now call bliss: Dere’s no wrong you done me I would not forgive; But you choice your way, So, me Joan, good-day!