But why would a man like Samuel May
Leave his mansion one sunlit day--
Leave Kentucky for Placerville?
Land of the aborigines.......
At the edge of the wood with the giant trees
That fell to the saw as his kinfolk cheered.
And with his fourth son, Andrew May
And a man named White, he rode away
To a hard-luck search in a land of strife.
And the pine shack shook like a man with a chill,
When Samuel May, discouraged and ill,
Lay down to die and cursed the gold
The hand-made bricks in his big fireplace,
Its warm light flickering on each dear face
As he bounced his grandchildren on his knees....
Bowed and curtseyed and joyfully pranced,
And the rafters rang with the tunes they danced--
Again he was home, again he was well.
Saw the silver service, its sugar and cream,
The thin, white cups that were part of his dream,
And never had smelled such coffee before.
The walls were nothing but boards of the shack;
And his young son Andrew was easing him back,
"I'll get you some coffee," the young man said.
Asking at all the camps, but...no,
Coffee's a luxury miners forgo
When time hangs heavy and gold's not found.
Here were the berries, but none were for sale.
"But I must have coffee. My father--so pale!
It's for him, not me. It's his dying wish..."
"Here, son. Here's a scoop. Now gallop back fast.
No man should be lying alone at the last
With longing a-burning him with its flames."
The silver was gleaming like stars on the snow;
Each thin, white cup was filled with a glow
And amber aroma was curled on the air!
Drank from a tin mug, but to him
The cup was china, as real as his dream.
He was happy then.....for awhile he dozed....
"Bury me here on this hill," he cried.
"Take the gold back home. Take the gold and ride!"
Then a rueful laugh. "What gold? What pelf?"
"You're a good son, Andrew Jackson May.
God bless you, lad." And his thin hands lay
Like a yellowed page on the young man's head.
"Ride over the mountain. Ride over the plain.
Till you ford Big Sandy. Ride home again.
But bury me here, 'neath a tree with the birds."
And Colonel Andrew Jackson May,
Who lived through the War, turned his eyes one day
Toward a western hill and a western sky.
Who slept in a rought box under a tree...
A man who was mixed in his memory;
Father...Dreamer...Kentuckian.
And the son of the long-dead Samuel May
Turned his face to the sky to pray
For the grave that must ever remain unknown.
He recalled the cup withered hands had held,
And he heard once more his father say,
"You're a good son, Andrew Jackson May."
