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Paul Laurence Dunbar - A Letter
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Dear Miss Lucy: I been t`inkin` dat I `d write you long fo` dis,
  But dis writin` `s mighty tejous, an` you know jes` how it is.
  But I `s got a little lesure, so I teks my pen in han`
  Fu` to let you know my feelin`s since I retched dis furrin` lan`.
  I `s right well, I `s glad to tell you (dough dis climate ain`t to blame),
  An` I hopes w`en dese lines reach you, dat dey `ll fin` yo` se`f de same.
  Cose I `se feelin kin` o` homesick--dat `s ez nachul ez kin be,
  Wen a feller `s mo`n th`ee thousand miles across dat awful sea.
  (Don`t you let nobidy fool you `bout de ocean bein` gran`;
  If you want to see de billers, you jes` view dem f`om de lan`.)
  `Bout de people? We been t`inkin` dat all white folks was alak;
  But dese Englishmen is diffunt, an` dey `s curus fu` a fac`.
  Fust, dey`s heavier an` redder in dey make-up an` dey looks,
  An` dey don`t put salt nor pepper in a blessed t`ing dey cooks!
  Wen dey gin you good ol` tu`nips, ca`ots, pa`snips, beets, an` sich,
  Ef dey ain`t some one to tell you, you cain`t `stinguish which is which.
  Wen I t`ought I `s eatin` chicken--you may b`lieve dis hyeah `s a lie--
  But de waiter beat me down dat I was eatin` rabbit pie.
  An` dey `d t`ink dat you was crazy--jes` a reg`lar ravin` loon,
  Ef you `d speak erbout a `possum or a piece o` good ol` coon.
  O, hit`s mighty nice, dis trav`lin`, an` I `s kin` o` glad I come.
  But, I reckon, now I `s willin` fu` to tek my way back home.
  I done see de Crystal Palace, an` I `s hyeahd dey string-band play,
  But I has n`t seen no banjos layin` nowhahs roun` dis way.
  Jes` gin ol` Jim Bowles a banjo, an` he `d not go very fu`,
  `Fo` he `d outplayed all dese fiddlers, wif dey flourish and dey stir.
  Evahbiddy dat I `s met wif has been monst`ous kin an` good;
  But I t`ink I `d lak it better to be down in Jones`s wood,
  Where we ust to have sich frolics, Lucy, you an` me an` Nelse,
  Dough my appetite `ud call me, ef dey was n`t nuffin else.
  I `d jes` lak to have some sweet-pertaters roasted in de skin;
  I `s a-longin` fu` my chittlin`s an` my mustard greens ergin;
  I `s a-wishin` fu` some buttermilk, an` co`n braid, good an` brown,
  An` a drap o` good ol` bourbon fu` to wash my feelin`s down!
  An` I `s comin` back to see you jes` as ehly as I kin,
  So you better not go spa`kin` wif dat wuffless scoun`el Quin!
  Well, I reckon, I mus` close now; write ez soon`s dis reaches you;
  Gi` my love to Sister Mandy an` to Uncle Isham, too.
  Tell de folks I sen` `em howdy; gin a kiss to pap an` mam;
  Closin` I is, deah Miss Lucy, Still Yo` Own True-Lovin` Sam.

  P. S. Ef you cain`t mek out dis letter, lay it by erpon de she`f,
       An` when I git home, I `ll read it, darlin`, to you my own se`f.
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