Banty Tim
I reckon I git your drift, gents,--You 'low the boy sha'n't stay;This is a white man's country;You're Dimocrats, you say;And whereas, and seein', and wherefore,The times bein' all out o' j'int,The nigger has got to moseyFrom the limits o' Spunky P'int!
Le's reason the thing a minute:I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too,Though I laid my politics out o' the wayFor to keep till the war was through.But I come back here, allowin'To vote as I used to do,Though it gravels me like the devil to trainAlong o' sich fools as you.
Now dog my cats ef I kin see,In all the light of the day,What you've got to do with the questionEf Tim shill go or stay.And furder than that I give notice,Ef one of you tetches the boy,He kin check his trunks to a warmer climeThan he'll find in Illanoy.
Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me!You know that ungodly dayWhen our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how rippedAnd torn and tattered we lay.When the rest retreated I stayed behind,Fur reasons sufficient to me,--With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike,I sprawled on that cursed glacee.
Lord! how the hot sun went for us,And br'iled and blistered and burned!How the Rebel bullets whizzed round usWhen a cuss in his death-grip turned!Till along toward dusk I seen a thingI couldn't believe for a spell:That nigger--that Tim--was a crawlin' to meThrough that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!
The Rebels seen him as quick as me,And the bullets buzzed like bees;But he jumped for me, and shouldered me,Though a shot brought him once to his knees;But he staggered up, and packed me off,With a dozen stumbles and falls,Till safe in our lines he drapped us both,His black hide riddled with balls.
So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer,And here stays Banty Tim:He trumped Death's ace for me that day,And I'm not goin' back on him!You may rezoloot till the cows come home,But ef one of you tetches the boy,He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell,Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!
Words in this poem 16
- whereas adv.
- At which place; where.
- wherefore adv.
- For which reason; so; -- used relatively. [Where + for.]
- nigger n.
- A negro; -- in vulgar derision or depreciation.
- mosey v. i.
- To go, or move (in a certain manner); -- usually with out, off, along, etc. E. N. Wescott.
- spunky a.
- Full of spunk; quick; spirited.
- shill v. t.
- To put under cover; to sheal. [Prov.ng.] Brockett. [Cf. Sheal.]
- clime n.
- A climate; a tract or region of the earth. See Climate. [L. clima. See Climate.]
- jest n.
- A deed; an action; a gest. [OE. jeste, geste, deed, action, story, tale, OF. geste, LL. gesta, orig., exploits, neut. pl. from L. gestus, p. p. of gerere to bear, carry, accomplish, perfor]
- ungodly a.
- Not godly; not having regard for God; disobedient to God; wicked; impious; sinful.
- stayed a.
- Staid; fixed; settled; sober; -- now written staid. See Staid.
- cursed a.
- Deserving a curse; execrable; hateful; detestable; abominable.
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- rebel a.
- Pertaining to rebels or rebellion; acting in revolt; rebellious; as, rebel troops. [F. rebelle, fr. L. rebellis. See Rebel, v. t.]
- shouldered a.
- Having shoulders; -- used in composition; as, a broad- shouldered man.
- wrastle v. i.
- To wrestle. [Obs. or Prov. Eng. & Colloq. U.S.] [OE. wrastlen. See Wrestle.]
- hash n.
- That which is hashed or chopped up; meat and vegetables, especially such as have been already cooked, chopped into small pieces and mixed. [Formerly hachey, hachee, F. hachis, hacher to hash; of German origin; cf. G. hippe sickle, OHG. hippa, for happia. Cf. Hatchet.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Banty Tim is in the public domain. This text is taken from Pike County Ballads and Other Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #6062; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: John Hay, Banty Tim, in Pike County Ballads and Other Poems (1871), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #6062, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/hay-pike-county/banty-tim.html, id L21572.
Form and metre
Banty Tim is 56 lines in 7 stanzas of 8 lines each. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 76%).
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 -A-A-B-B gents · stayA · country · sayA · wherefore · j'intB · mosey · p'intB
- 2 -A-A-A-A minute · tooA · way · throughA · allowin · doA · train · youA
- 3 -A-A---- see · dayA · question · stayA · notice · boy · clime · illanoy
- 4 AB-B-A-A meA · dayB · ripped · layB · behind · meA · strike · glaceeA
- 5 ABAB-C-C usA · burnedB · usA · turnedB · thing · spellC · me · hellC
- 6 ABAB-C-C meA · beesB · meA · kneesB · off · fallsC · both · ballsC
- 7 -A-A-B-B answer · timA · day · himA · home · boyB · hell · joyB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| I reckon I git your drift, gents,-- | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| You 'low the boy sha'n't stay; | 6 | ······ |
| This is a white man's country; | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| You're Dimocrats, you say; | 6 | ······ |
| And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, | 8 | ·˘/···/˘ |
| The times bein' all out o' j'int, | 8 | ··/˘···· |
| The nigger has got to mosey | 8 | ·/˘···/˘ |
| From the limits o' Spunky P'int! | 8 | ··/˘·/˘· |
| Le's reason the thing a minute: | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too, | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| Though I laid my politics out o' the way | 11 | ····/˘····· |
| For to keep till the war was through. | 8 | ········ |
| But I come back here, allowin' | 8 | ········ |
| To vote as I used to do, | 7 | ······· |
| Though it gravels me like the devil to train | 10 | ··/˘···/·· |
| Along o' sich fools as you. | 7 | ˘/····· |
| Now dog my cats ef I kin see, | 8 | ········ |
| In all the light of the day, | 7 | ······· |
| What you've got to do with the question | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Ef Tim shill go or stay. | 6 | ······ |
| And furder than that I give notice, | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Ef one of you tetches the boy, | 8 | ········ |
| He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Than he'll find in Illanoy. | 7 | ······· |
| Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me! | 7 | ······· |
| You know that ungodly day | 7 | ···˘/˘· |
| When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped | 9 | ·/··/˘··· |
| And torn and tattered we lay. | 8 | ···/˘˘·· |
| When the rest retreated I stayed behind, | 10 | ···˘/˘···· |
| Fur reasons sufficient to me,-- | 8 | ·/˘˘/˘·· |
| With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, | 11 | ··········· |
| I sprawled on that cursed glacee. | 8 | ··˘····· |
| Lord! how the hot sun went for us, | 8 | ········ |
| And br'iled and blistered and burned! | 8 | ··˘·/˘·· |
| How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us | 9 | ··/˘/˘··· |
| When a cuss in his death-grip turned! | 8 | ········ |
| Till along toward dusk I seen a thing | 10 | ·˘/······· |
| I couldn't believe for a spell: | 8 | ·/˘˘/··· |
| That nigger--that Tim--was a crawlin' to me | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell! | 8 | ··/˘···· |
| The Rebels seen him as quick as me, | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| And the bullets buzzed like bees; | 8 | ··/˘·˘·· |
| But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| Though a shot brought him once to his knees; | 9 | ········· |
| But he staggered up, and packed me off, | 9 | ··/˘····· |
| With a dozen stumbles and falls, | 8 | ··/˘/˘·· |
| Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, | 9 | ···/····· |
| His black hide riddled with balls. | 8 | ···/˘˘·· |
| So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, | 10 | ··/˘˘/··/˘ |
| And here stays Banty Tim: | 6 | ······ |
| He trumped Death's ace for me that day, | 8 | ········ |
| And I'm not goin' back on him! | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| You may rezoloot till the cows come home, | 10 | ·········· |
| But ef one of you tetches the boy, | 9 | ········· |
| He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| Or my name's not Tilmon Joy! | 7 | ······· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.