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By ANDREW A. VEATCH,
Author of "Random Riiymes."
News; Print. Sabine, Texas.
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iDiafect oerr\...
In Ansiver to J. T. Trowbridge's
' lSong of the Wh ite House."
By ANDREW A VEATCH,
Author cf "Random Rhymes "
Dedicated to my Brethren of the
Press and to all otHers who believe
in Anglo-Saxon Supremacy.
1902.
Copyrighted by the Author.
PREFACE.
It were better to let Booker Washington's name rest
in eternal silence, since as a.leading Southerner lately
remarked, "The more attention a d—d nigger gets the
worse it is for him and his-race." But certain Northern
writers keep bringing him before the public until he is
getting to be the best advertised man in America. Even
the poet J. T. Trowbridge has lately taken up Booker in a
wretched piece of doggerel published in the Independent
Magazine, wherein he sets forth that "the shoddy-backed
chivalry" (alluding to the South) "made a wry face"
when Booker sat down at the White House table to dine,
and then represents Senator Tillman, of South Carolina,
as begging for the seat which this colored man had occu¬
pied. The same blood which makes Tillman a fighter runs
more or less in the veins of every Southerner, and so,
goaded to the act, we fling this poem to Trowbridge as
an answer to his challenge to the South; nor can we re¬
frain from remarking as we do so that we, in common
with every other Southerner, think far better of Booker
than we do of the Yankee journalists and politicians,
including Trowbridge and Roosevelt, who in trying to lift
this negro to their station have sunk to his. In fact we
have about got to where we can endorse those hard
words of that prince of railers, R. G. Ingersoll, uttered
long ago undeservedly against the South, but which most
certainly are applicable to a class in the North to-day,
namely, "I think more of a man black outside ai.d white
inside than I do of one white outside and black inside."
ANDREW A. VEATCH.
Bookah Washington,
MISTAH Bookah Washington,
You coal-black-liyded son of a gun,
Stand up an' let me talk to you,
For every word I says is true.
You'se raised a most almighty stir;—
The whole land's up agin you sir,
An' 'taint no wonder, for I swear
Dem anarchists' doin's aint no where
To your last trick; an' I'se ashamed
Ebery time your name is named.
Mistah Bookah "Washington,
Good Gawd, man, what has you done!
Not content wid writin' books,
An' with your blamed industrial schools
Makin' teachers outen cooks,
An' preachers outen cawnfield fools
Wid no more brains dan wukin mules,
Wid most fellonious intent
You's done seduce de President!
By some inexplicable art
You've turned his head an' stole his heart,
An' won him from de Saxon race
To worship your black, sensual face.
It beats de debil I declare,
An' so de folks says eberywhere.
De big men rip, cavort .an' swell,
De papers rave an' swear it's hell;
De ladies from de White House glide,*
An' say dey think dey'll stay outside;
Dem northern senator men don't talk—
Dey know dey's got to walk a chalk,
An' closely mind dey p's an' q's,
*It will be remembered that shortly after the
Booker W ashington dining it was announced
that there would be no receptions held at the
White House this winter. Also more than one
Southern woman of rank declared she would
not attend a reception at which Roosevelt
presided.
Or else dey job dey'll shorely lose;
But ebery single democrat
Is madder than a fightin' cat.
Mistah Bookah Washington,
Your foolery have de coon undone.
On us, your pore unhappy race,
Falls dis distinction ob disgrace,
To break restrictions, wrong or right,
Reverse conditions, and be white ;
Or, vainer yet, and ten times wus,
To drag de white man down to us,
An' make him like de lowly bawn
What tills de cotton an' de cawn,
An' robs de hen roost an' de sty
When no one's standin' close a-nigh.
From door to door, from mouth to mouth,
We hears it muttered through de South,
An' dey believes it, too,—you clam!—
Dat dis our devilish purpose am.
Dey hates us for it, an' mistrust,
An' watch us with suspicion just,
An' we in turn detest, abhor,
An' execrate your name therefor.
Because a nigger reads an' writes,
Am h^de equal ob de whites?
Because he am allowed to vote
Can he de whole blamed Gov'ment tote?
For all your highfalutin' Aggers
Dis am too big- a load for niggers;
Hit neber, neber can be done,
You jackass Bookah Washington!
Bookah, Bookah Washington,
Jes' one word more an' I am done.
We've seen enough, both whites an' us,
To know dere'll shortly be a fuss
Less'n $re quickly all agree
An' knocks you off de Chris'mus tree.
So hear what we 'uns gwine ter do,
You ape, 'bout Massa Ted an' you:
We'll reverence still de white man's face
An' love de darkey in his place,
But as to you two swells, we swear
We'll let you stay just where you are,
An' neber notice you agin,
More 'n High Gawd would smile on sin.
Your possum an' potater feasts*
Still may you eat like hungry beasts,
An' still live on in bliss together—
*Vide Henry Watterson's article 011 the Book¬
er Washington dinner.
Men of like taste, birds of a feather;
He plum gone back on all his race,
An' past de feelin' of disgrace,
An' you de durndest cullud man
What ever was since time began;—
Till outraged Natur', frenzied, wreak
On both de teery curse you seek:
De Ethiopian mind to him—
That beastly cast of face and limb—
Your skunk-like scent an' kinky hair—
An' unto you his gallant air,
An' dem ere teeth of which he boasted
When Gineral Miles he roundly roasted;*
And then, begosh! if that won't do
We'll paint him black and whitewash you.
*In a stormy interview with Gen. Miles shortly
after this famous banquet, the President is said
to have angrily exclaimed: "Beware. I have
teeth! I have teeth!! I have teeth!!!" Such is
the temper of our Chief Executive!