Samuel Alfred Beadle
Biography of Samuel Alfred Beadle
Samuel Alfred Beadle (born August 17, 1857, in Atlanta, Georgia, died 1932, in Chicago, Illinois) was an American poet and writer. After the Civil War, Beadle moved to Jackson, Mississippi, where he studied law and began the practice of law.
Samuel Alfred Beadle's Works:
* Sketches from Life in Dixie (Chicago: Scroll Publishing and Literary Syndicate, 1899)
* Lyrics of "The Underworld" (Jackson, Mississippi: W.A. Scott, 1912)
Samuel Alfred Beadle Poems
My Suburban Girl
I know a sweet suburban girl, She's witty, bright and brief; With dimples in her cheeks; and pearl In rubies set, for teeth.
Many aud many a year has gone Since I was cleared by Joe, Who plowed me up and planted corn,
Lines On The Death Of A Friend
Life is a mysterious thing. It comes we know not whence, And leaves us on a rapid wing
Lines To Caste
The things I love I may not touch, But kiss the hand that shackles bring; The thraldom of my soul is such I can but nurse my thongs and sing,
My Country God bless thee! God bless thee, my home! With harvest and plenty, thy dark fertile loam;
The Southern Girl
The fairest thing on land or sea Is the Southern girl, to me. You should see her when the stars
I'd roamed around by no ties bound, But fancy's vain and fickle will; Squandered my youth and trampled truth, Beneath my wayward feet, until
Words are but leaves to the tree of mind; Where breezy fancy plays; Or echoes from the souls which find Expression's subtle ways.
Oh! have you heard the boastful song Of Highland-Buckingham; Who often in their zeal go wrong, And never care a damn.
For A Woman
Eden, lost to all but fancy, Was it ever aught but legend Handed down from sire to son, As descriptive of the region,
I sought her in the woodland Where the dogwood blossoms blow, And thought I had her cornered Where the little rill doth flow,
Last night I lay dozing When in there came, And sat beside me, posing,
Come, tripping, tripping, tripping, oh, On the light fantastic toe; And we'll tread the royal measure, Down the aisles of wit and pleasure,
Many and many a merry day, Under the oak tree's shade, We children tripped it out to play, Happy, blithe and gay;
Yes, May and I are friends,
Lovers, many have said;
For down the lane and o'er the lea
To church we often tread,
In that careless sort of way,
That leads to love, they say;
And after church we often search
For garlands by the way.