all,
Wid my Fido settin’ by me,
En my banjo on de wall.

Once, when de long day wus finish,
’Fo’e ter res’ me I done go,
I would set out on de do’ step
Pickin’ sof’ my ole banjo,
Singin’ “Dixie,” “Swanee Riber,”
“Annie Laurie,” en dem all;—
But my banjo am done broken,
En am hangin’ on de wall.

So I set heah dreamin’, dreamin’,
Ob de time dat use ter be
’Fo’e my Dinah went to heaben—
Dinah she wus lovin’ me!
En if she had neber lef’ me
I would neber weep at all,
En I would not miss de music
Ob de banjo on de wall.

When They Sing.

When dem darkies sing togedder
’Fo’e de houses in de street,
People passin’ stop en lis’n
Ez dey say: “Now, ain’t dat sweet?
All dem niggers got good voices,
En dey sho kin keep good time;
I would ruther heah dem singin’
Dan de bells ob Michael chime.”

When dem darkies sing togedder
Wid de jew’s harp en banjo;
Wid dem tamb’rine bells a-ringin’
En dem bottles dat dey blow,
Oh, it sho do seem lak music
Ob de holy angel ban’,
En I feel lak shoutin’: “Glory!
Take me ter de Canaan lan’.”

When dem darkies sing togedder,
Dey kin make you laugh or cry;
Oh, dey kin, fo’ joy or sorrow,
Bring de tear-drop ter yo’ eye!
Dey kin make you stan’ dar quiet,
Lis’nin’ ter de singin’ sweet,
Or kin hab you dancin’, dancin’,
Long ez you kin lif’ yo’ feet.

When dem darkies sing togedder,
White folks frow some shinin’ dimes
Out de winder. My, en den
Don’t dey hab some happy times?
Den de people what wus lis’nin’
Say dey mus’ be gwine home;
Say dey sorry dat de singin’
Stop mos’ soon ez dey had come.

At De Meetin’.

Oh, now, Missus, wus I ’sleep?
I is sorry, sho!
I des set down heah ter res’
Wid my head down, so.
En I meant to pray fo’ grace
Des a little bit,
Kaze I got a sinnin’ soul,
En I ’knowledge it.

Yes, I knows you pays me well
Fo’ de work I do,
En I orter stick ter it
So dat I please you.
But I couldn’t he’p it, Miss,
If I shet my eyes;
God done made dem wid dese hinges,
En He sho am wise.

Why’n’t I sleep at night, you as’?
Missus, you don’t know
How dem voices call en call,
Till I hab ter go.
En when once I git in church,
Dar I sho gwine stay
Till de stars am gittin’ pale
’Fo’e de light ob day.

Dar’s a meetin’ gwine on
Wid de Baptis’ now,
En do I ain’t jine dat church,
I kin go, I ’low;
Dey don’t shet de do’ on me
’Cept when dey commune,
En it won’t be time fo’ dat,
So dey say, right soon.

My, dey hab a whoopin’ time
Roun’ dar eb’ry night,
En dat preacher sho kin put
Down de law des right;
En he preach de holy word
Till dem niggers shout,—
Till dey leab dey seats at las’,
Dancin’ all erbout.

Anthea Allen got religion
Roun’ dar las’ night, sho,
En she clap her han’s en waltz
Up en down de flo’,
Singin’ “Glory! Hallelujah!
I is on de way!
Angels peepin’ down frum heaven
Beckon me ter-day.”

Den she fall down in a trance,
Right dar on de flo’,
En dem darkies po’ de camphor
Onto her, fo’ sho;
But she don’t wake up at all—
Lak de dead she lay,
En we lef’ her lyin’ dar
When we come away.

Dey sho take a big collection
At dat church las’ night,
En dat money on de table
Sho wus shinin’ bright.
En de preacher in de pulpit
Stan’ up straight en say:
“Dem dat am not got a cent—
Dey kin go away!”

En he say: “Come up en bring
Money ter de Lawd!
Dat He love de chee’ful giver,
He say in His word;
What you gib ter Him ter-night
Am not frowed away,
Kaze de bread cas’ on de sea
Gwine come back some day.”

En dem niggers make a noise
Passin’ up en down,
Some wid coppers, some wid nickels,
Some wid dimes, I’m boun’;
En dey make de music ring,
While de preacher say:
“Oh, I lak ter see de money
Comin’ up dat way!”

I sot up till mos’ dis mornin’
At dat church las’ night;
Dat how come my eyes don’t feel
Wide awake en bright;
But I sorry dat I let em
Shet deysel’s up tight
When I workin’ heah fo’ you—
Kaze you treat me right!

A Philosopher.

Mos’ ob niggers sho believe
Dat de preacher know
All dat’s fit ter study ’bout
In dis worl’ below;
Think he am so smart dat he
Look beyon’ de sky,
Whar he read what am gwine be
In de by en by.

I’s a ’ception ter dat rule,
Ez you sho will fin’,
En I come ter my conclusions
Out ob my own min’:
Preachers ain’t no mo’ conspired
Dan is you en me;
Dat, if you des crack yo’ eyes,
You am sho gwine see.