His Mother's Way

    Tomps 'ud allus haf to say
        Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way." -
    He lived hard-like - never jined
    Any church of any kind. -
    "It was Mother's way," says he,
    "To be good enough fer me
    And her too, - and certinly
        Lord has heerd her pray!"
    Propped up on his dyin' bed, -
    "Shore as Heaven's overhead,
    I'm a-goin' there," he said
        "It was Mother's way."

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

Longfellow

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

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James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Old Tramp

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Friday Afternoon

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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His Mother.

DEAD! my wayward boy - my own -
Not the Law's! but mine - the good
God's free gift to me alone,
Sanctified by motherhood.

"Bad," you say: Well, who is not?
"Brutal" - "with a heart of stone" -
And "red-handed." - Ah! the hot
Blood upon your own!

I come not, with downward eyes,
To plead for him shamedly, -
God did not apologize
When He gave the boy to me.

Simply, I make ready now
For His verdict. - You prepare -
You have killed us both - and how
Will you face us There!

James Whitcomb Riley

Being His Mother.

    Being his mother - when he goes away
        I would not hold him overlong, and so
        Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O
    So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay
    To catch the faintest rumor of them!    Nay,
        Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although
        Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow;
    Let his remembered features, as I pray,
    Smile ever on me!    Ah! what stress of love
        Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise:
        Its fullest speech ever to be denied
    Mine own - being his mother!    All thereof
        Thou knowest only, looking from the skies
        As when not Christ alone was crucified.

James Whitcomb Riley

Want To Be Whur Mother Is.

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Jeemses Rivers! won't some one ever shet that howl o' his?
    That-air yellin' drives me wild!
    Cain't none of ye stop the child?
    Want jer Daddy? "Naw." Gee whizz!
    "Want to be whur mother is!"

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Coax him, Sairy! Mary, sing somepin far him! Lift him, Liz -
    Bang the clock-bell with the key -
    Er the meat-ax! Gee-mun-nee!
    Listen to them lungs o' his!
    "Want to be whur mother is!"

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Preacher guess'll pound all night on that old pulpit o' his;
    'Pears to me some wimmin jest
    Shows religious interest
    Mostly 'fore their fambly's riz!
    "Want to ...

James Whitcomb Riley

How John Quit The Farm.

    Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
    Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on -
    And then, I want to say to you, we needed he'p about,
    As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out!

    A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found
    Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around! -
    The house was small - but plenty-big we found it from the day
    That John - our only livin' son - packed up and went way.

    You see, we tuck sich pride in John - his mother more 'n me -
    That's natchurul; but both of us was proud as proud could be;
    Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright,
    And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight.
...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Mother-Song

Mother, O mother! forever I cry for you,
    Sing the old song I may never forget;
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. -
    Mother, O mother,
        Sing low, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely,
    Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret!
Can't you come back to me - for to-night only,
    Mother, my mother,
        And sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! of old I had never
    One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret;
Now - must I cry out all vainly forever, -
    Mother, sweet mother,
        O sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! must longing and sorrow

James Whitcomb Riley

The Stepmother

First she come to our house,
    Tommy run and hid;
And Emily and Bob and me
    We cried jus' like we did
When Mother died, - and we all said
'At we all wisht 'at we was dead!

And Nurse she couldn't stop us;
    And Pa he tried and tried, -
We sobbed and shook and wouldn't look,
    But only cried and cried;
And nen some one - we couldn't jus'
Tell who - was cryin' same as us!

Our Stepmother! Yes, it was her,
    Her arms around us all -
'Cause Tom slid down the banister
    And peeked in from the hall. -
And we all love her, too, because
She's purt' nigh good as Mother was!

James Whitcomb Riley