The Lugubrious Whing-Whang

The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's best
Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs, -
'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest,
An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed,
An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest. -
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

I don't know what in the world it means -
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! -
An' nen when I tell him I don't, he leans
Like he was a-grindin' on some machines
An' says: Ef I don't, w'y, I don't know beans!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! -

Out on the margin of Moonshine Land,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand,
Writing his name with his tail in the sand,
And swiping it out with his oogerish hand;
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Or what is the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks? -
Crouching low by the winding creeks
And holding his breath for weeks and weeks!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings
And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings;
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings, -
Tickle me, Dear,
    Tickle me here,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

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

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Silence

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A Dream Of Long Ago

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze

Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
Lives 'way up in the leaves o' trees.
An' wunst I slipped up-stairs to play
In Aunty's room, while she 'uz away;
An' I clumbed up in her cushion-chair
An' ist peeked out o' the winder there;
An' there I saw - wite out in the trees -
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze!

An' Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
Would bow an' bow, with the leaves in the breeze,
An' waggle his whiskers an' raggledy hair,
An' bow to me in the winder there!
An' I 'd peek out, an' he'd peek in
An' waggle his whiskers an' bow ag'in,
Ist like the leaves'u'd wave in the breeze -
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze!


An' Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze,
Seem-like, says to me: "See my bees
A-bringin' my dinner? An' see my cup
O' locu...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Little Coat

Here's his ragged "roundabout";
Turn the pockets inside out:
See; his pen-knife, lost to use,
Rusted shut with apple-juice;
Here, with marbles, top and string,
Is his deadly "devil-sling,"
With its rubber, limp at last
As the sparrows of the past!
Beeswax - buckles - leather straps -
Bullets, and a box of caps, -
Not a thing of all, I guess,
But betrays some waywardness -
E'en these tickets, blue and red,
For the Bible-verses said -
Such as this his mem'ry kept -
                    "Jesus wept."

Here's a fishing hook-and-line,
Tangled up with wire and twine,
And dead angle-worms, and some
Slugs of lead and chewing-gum,
Blent with scents that can but come
From the oil of rhodium.
Here - a soiled, yet dainty note,
That s...

James Whitcomb Riley

Romancin'

I' b'en a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'm
About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to know
When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto' solum-like and low!

You git my idy, do you? - LITTLE tads, you understand -
Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a MAN. -
Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day,
And fergittin' all that's in it, wishm' jest the other way!

I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate
Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate, -
But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,
And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do! -

I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree,
Whare the haze...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Raggedy Man

O The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed - an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen - ef our hired girl says he can -
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. -
Aint he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
    Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W'y, The Raggedy Man - he's ist so good
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do! -
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple down fer me -
An' nother'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann -
An' nother'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man. -
Aint he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?<...

James Whitcomb Riley

Bud's Fairy-Tale

Some peoples thinks they ain't no Fairies now
No more yet! - But they is, I bet! 'Cause ef
They wuzn't Fairies, nen I' like to know
Who'd w'ite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' tell
What Fairies does, an' how their picture looks,
An' all an' ever'thing! W'y, ef they don't
Be Fairies anymore, nen little boys
'U'd ist sleep when they go to sleep an' wont
Have ist no dweams at all, - 'Cause Fairies - good
Fairies - they're a-purpose to make dweams!
But they is Fairies - an' I know they is!
'Cause one time wunst, when its all Summertime,
An' don't haf to be no fires in the stove
Er fireplace to keep warm wiv - ner don't haf
To wear old scwatchy flannen shirts at all,
An' aint no fweeze - ner cold - ner snow!...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Wrangdillion

Dexery-tethery! down in the dike,
    Under the ooze and the slime,
Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke,
    Blubbering bubbles of rhyme:
Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth -
    Though the Graigroll and the Cheest
Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath,
    Nothing affects him the least.

He sinks to the dregs in the dead o' the night,
    And he shuffles the shadows about
As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight
    And sets there and hatches them out:
The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine
    In scorn with the Will-o'-the-wisp,
As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine
    That ends in a luminous lisp.

The Morning is born like a baby of gold,
    And it lies in a spasm of pink,
And rallies the Cheest for ...

James Whitcomb Riley