A lightning bolt in the distance
struck like a dagger’s blade,
and a thunder after the glow
rolled in the anguished shade.
A heavy cart loaded high,
with a lantern flickering dim,
rocks onward, tired and slow,
always forward along the brim.
There’s a longing to pass quickly
from the slope to the other side;
then let it rain as it wishes
once we’re sheltered and dry.
Ruddy, ruddy,
always a lingerer.
Ruddy, ruddy,
ah, giving little creek!
This Black Hill, what luck,
today so endlessly long,
sprinkling starts, thank goodness
the load is covered along,
the silk, the cloth, the twill,
the herbs and medicines,
risk not a thread, nor less
the handkerchief for the girl.
The Osco sniffs for home,
goes with a mighty push,
the Ruddy, as always,
heavy and slow, needs a push.
Ruddy, ruddy,
always a lingerer.
Ruddy, ruddy,
ah, giving little creek!
Thank God we passed
the marshland just in time,
for when it swells it’s hard
to prevent a spill or flip.
I see the shade-tree house,
and the light from my little nest,
I’ll spur the Ruddy gently,
very gently, to the west.
If Osco’s in more of a hurry
than either of us combined,
let it rain, for the water
is truly God’s blessed sign.
