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Title: Wes Banks
Author: Cotton Noe [
More Titles by Noe]
Wes Banks, you know, he teaches school,
Has teached for nigh on forty year,
And I jist want to say right here,
That though he may not fit your rule,
Wes Banks, by jings, he ain't no fool.
And if you bet your dough 'gin Wes,
You'll want your money back, I guess.
Wes Banks, he never wears a tie--
Them things, you know, some call cravats,
Nor collar neither, and jist that's
The very tarnal reason why
I bet on Wes, and that's no lie:
No man can lead Wes by the nose
If he don't wear the latest clothes.
Wes Banks, you know, I'm speakin' uv:
He lives way out on old Line Fork,
As good a place as in New York;
Out where the birds sing lays of love,
The wren, the thrush, the turtle dove--
Sometimes, it seems, because of Wes,
Who loves their music, more or less.
Wes claims that now for forty year
He has prescribed strong peachtree tea
For cusses, which he says that he
Could not intrest except by fear:
Wes makes this claim while standing here
Before his boys now teaching school,
Who can't remember such a rule.
Now Wes, he's awful in his speech:
He says I "seed" and "done" and "haint,"
And lots of things that's wrong and quaint;
But many's them who pray and preach
And go to school and learn to teach
And wear a darned sight better clothes,
Still never learn what Wesly knows.
Well, Wes ain't much at institutes;
Don't like to make a public talk,
And demonstrate with board and chalk.
No, he ain't much on sich disputes;
But Wes at school gits down and roots:
Up here Wes Banks is jist a wag,
With striped candy in a bag.
Old Wes is poor as money goes,
But rich in love and charity;
His heart goes out in sympathy
To barefoot boy with bleeding toes,
And girls in torn and tattered clothes;
And with his heart goes Wes's coin,
To heal the wound and gird the loin.
And this is why tonight I rise
To speak how Wesly Bank's life
Through forty years of schoolroom strife
By living truth has conquered lies,
And made his students good and wise:
You can't size Wes by looks or speech,
No more than some by what they preach.
[The end]
Cotton Noe's poem: Wes Banks
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