Da Sweeta Soil

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All weenter-time I work for deeg
 Da tranch een ceety street,
An’ I am looka like da peeg
 An’ smal jus’ ‘bout as sweet,
Baycause my han’s, my face, my clo’es
 Ees dirty as can be,
An’ sewer-gas ees een my nose
 An’ steeck all ovra me.
More dirty an’ more mean I feel
 Dan I am look to you;
My soul eenside ees seeck, but steell,
 W’at am I gona do?
Ees notheeng sweet een ceety street
 For mak’ me better man.
All men an’ theengs dat I am meet
 Mak’ meanness all dey can,
An’ all dey speak ees ogly words
 An’ do som’ ogly theeng.
So even, too, dose leetla birds,
 Dat ought be glad an’ seeng,
Dey fight each other een da dirt
 For dirty food dey eat.
Ah! so my soul eenside ees hurt
 For work een ceety street.

But yestaday! oh, yestaday,
 I leeve, I breathe again!
Da boss ees sand me far away
 For work een countra lane.
How can I mak’ you ondrastand—
 You are so grand, so reech—
To know da joy I feel, my frand,
 For deeg dees countra deetch?
I sweeng my peeck, an’ oh! da smal,
 W’en first I turn da sod!
So sweet! Escuse me eef I tal
 Ees like da breath of God.
So pure da soil, like Eetaly,
 I stoop an’ taka piece
An’ den—oh! don’ta laugh at me—
 I talk to eet and kees!
An’ while I do dees foola theeng
 An’ mak’ so seelly tears,
Ees com’ a pritta bird an’ seeng
 Hees music een my ears.
You know dees ‘Mericana bird,
 Weeth breast so lika flame,
So red; I do not know da word
 You say for call hees name,
But w’at he seeng ees plain to me,
 An’ dees ees part of eet:
"Ees spreeng, ees spreeng een Eetaly,
  So sweeta, sweeta, sweet!"

Oh, eef you weesh da Dagoman,
 Dat corn’ for leeve weeth you,
To be da gooda ‘Merican
 An’ love dees countra, too,
I ask you tak’ heem by da hand,
 Away from ceety street,
An’ show heem first dees granda land
 Where eet ees pure an’ sweet.

© Thomas Augustine Daly