The American Language/Appendix 4

[The following Élégie Américaine, by John V. A. Weaver, of Chicago, marks the first appearance of the American vulgate, I believe, in serious verse. It has been attempted often enough by comic poets, though seldom with the accuracy shown by Mr. Lardner's prose. But it was Mr. Weaver who first directed attention to the obvious fact that the American proletarian is not comic to himself but quite serious, and that he carries on his most lofty and sentimental thoughts in the same tongue he uses in discussing baseball.]


 * I wished I&#146;d took the ring, not the Victrola.
 * You get so tired of records, hearin&#146; an&#146; hearin&#146; &#146;em,
 * And when a person don&#146;t have much to spend
 * They feel they shouldn&#146;t ought to be so wasteful.
 * And then these warm nights makes it slow inside,
 * And sittin&#146;s lovely down there by the lake
 * Where him and me would always use ta go.
 * He thought the Vic&#146;d make it easier
 * Without him; and it did at first. I&#146;d play
 * Some jazz-band music and I&#146;d almost feel
 * His arms around me, dancin&#146;; after that
 * I&#146;d turn out all the lights, and set there quiet
 * Whiles Alma Gluck was singin&#146; &#147;Home, Sweet Home&#148;,
 * And almost know his hand was strokin&#146; my hand.
 * &#147;If I was you, I&#146;d take the Vic,&#148; he says,
 * &#147;It&#146;s somethin&#146; you can use; you can&#146;t a ring.
 * Wisht I had ways ta make a record for you,
 * So&#146;s I could be right with you, even though
 * Uncle Sam had me&#148;&#133; Now I&#146;m glad he didn&#146;t;
 * It would be lots too much like seein&#146; ghosts
 * Now that I&#146;m sure he never won&#146;t come back&#133;.
 * Oh, God! I don&#146;t see how I ever stand it!
 * He was so big and strong! He was a darb!
 * The swellest dresser, with them nifty shirts
 * That fold down, and them lovely nobby shoes,
 * And always all his clothes would be one color,
 * Like green socks with green ties, and a green hat,
 * And everything&#133;. We never had no words
 * Or hardly none&#133;.
 * And now to think that mouth
 * I useta kiss is bitin&#146; into dirt,
 * And through them curls I useta smooth a bullet
 * Has went&#133;.
 * I wisht it would of killed me, too&#133;.
 * Oh, well&#133; about the Vic&#133;. I guess I&#146;ll sell it
 * And get a small ring anyways. (I won&#146;t
 * Get but half as good a one as if
 * He spent it all on that when he first ast me.)
 * It don&#146;t seem right to play jazz tunes no more
 * With him gone. And it ain&#146;t a likely chanst
 * I&#146;d find nobody ever else again
 * Would suit me, or I&#146;d suit. And so a little
 * Quarter of a carat, maybe, but a real one
 * That could sparkle, sometimes, and remember
 * The home I should of had.&#133;
 * And still, you know,
 * The Vic was his idear, and so&#133;
 * I wonder&#133;.