Эндрю Бартон Патерсон (Andrew Barton Paterson)

The Corner Man

I dreamt a dream at the midnight deep, 
When fancies come and go 
To vex a man in his soothing sleep 
With thoughts of awful woe -- 
I dreamed that I was the corner man 
Of a nigger minstrel show. 
I cracked my jokes, and the building rang 
With laughter loud and long; 
I hushed the house as I softly sang 
An old plantation song -- 
A tale of the wicked slavery days 
Of cruelty and wrong. 

A small boy sat on the foremost seat -- 
A mirthful youngster he, 
He beat the time with his restless feet 
To each new melody, 
And he picked me out as the brightest star 
Of the black fraternity. 

”Oh, father,” he said, ”what would we do 
If the corner man should die? 
I never saw such a man -- did you? 
He makes the people cry, 
And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.” 
The old man made reply: 

”We each of us fill a very small space 
On the great creation’s plan, 
If a man don’t keep his lead in the race 
There’s plenty more that can; 
The world can very soon fill the place 
Of even a corner man.” 

I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find 
Myself at home in bed, 
And I framed a moral in my mind 
From the words the old man said. 
The world will jog along just the same 
When the corner men are dead.

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