do’,
I wus sho surprised ter see,
While de darkness all roun’ me,
Snow wus des er fallin’ down
Till it civered all de groun’.

Bin des ’bout two yeahs or mo’
Sence I seed a flake ob snow;
En I call to Mandy: “Say!
Heah’s a sight, fo’ sho, ter-day!
Yestiday was lak de spring;
Look what des one night done bring.”

En she come en poke her head
Out from under dat ole shed;
En she say: “When you go down
Ter de Massa’s in de town,
You mus’ civer up yo’ back
Wid a nice warm crocus sack.”

En she say: “Yo’ shoes am ole;
Sho dey days am neahly tole.”
En she wrap ’em, fo’th en back,
Wid dem bits ob crocus sack,
Till you hardly see my feet
When I walk erlong de street.

Massa p’int ter dem en say:
“Wouldn’t dress up dat erway!
Why’n’t you git some rubber shoes?
You could buy ’em if you choose.”
But I won’t! Kaze don’t I know
Soon de sun gwine drink dat snow?

Aunty’s Affliction.

How is I dis mornin’, Miss?
Po’ly, dat am true!
In de night-time I don’ sleep
Lak I orter do,
Kaze I got de miz’ry bad
In me, up en down,
En some day, fo’ sho, it gwine
Fetch me ter de groun’.

Oh, I’s full ob trouble, Miss!—
Full ez I kin be.
Ain’t you got some liniment
You kin gib ter me?
I is ’bleeged ter git some he’p
Somewhar, dat am sho,
Else dis miz’ry in de j’ints
Soon gwine lay me low.

Oh, I thank you, thank you, Miss!
God will bless you, sho.
All de goodness ob yo’ heart
He mus’ sholey know;
En he’ll pay you when at las’
He done lay me down;—
When dis pain en miz’ry done
Fetch me ter de groun’.

The Difference.

If de white man am a sinner
He go walkin’, walkin’ free,
But de nigger lan’, fo’ sho,
In de penitentiary.

Now dat Simeon steal some cotton
(Cunjud by de evil one)
En dey sen’ him ter de prison
Fo’ de wrong dat he am done.

Fo’ three yeahs he done bin workin’
In de penitentiary,
En he got ter stay dar longer
Frum de chillun en frum me.

Dat rich farmer git de cotton—
Ebry poun’ ob it—ag’in,
But dey keep dat Simeon lock up
Lak he done an awful sin.

If de white man am a sinner
He go walkin’, walkin’ free,
But de nigger sho gwine lan’
In de penitentiary.

Blackberry Time.

Missus, please write me a letter back home,
En tell ’em I say dat I want ’em ter come
At blackberry time in June.

My little ole cabin won’t hol’ any mo’,
But nobody freeze in de yard, dat am sho,
At blackberry time in June.

Tell ’em I lonesome. I sholy will die
If dey don’ come to he’p me eat blackberry pie
At blackberry time in June.

Dis nigger am po’, but dar’s plenty to eat
When de fruit ebrywhar hangin’ juicy en sweet
At blackberry time in June.

So, Missus, please write me a letter back home,
En tell ’em I say dat I want ’em ter come
At blackberry time in June.

Dat Jew’s Harp.

I does try ter fetch up Jim
So de white folks respec’ him;
But in spite ob all I say
He des set out dar all day
On de back do’ step, en play
Dat jew’s harp.

De fus job he git ter do,
I wus glad, it sho am true;
But he come home, sleek en sly,
Wid de sunshine in his eye,
Soon’s he git enough ter buy
Dat jew’s harp.

“You black nigger, you!” I say,
“Whar yo’ senses gone ter-day?
Don’t you know when niggers eat
Dey mus’ ’arn dey bread en meat?”
But he des play, sof’ en sweet,
Dat jew’s harp.

When I tell ole Missus once
Jim wus des a lazy dunce,
She say: “Hush! Don’ talk dat way;
He’s a ginious, I dare say,
En de muses bid him play
Dat jew’s harp.”

Pshaw! De ginious en de muses!
What’s de use ob dem ixcuses?
If I hab ter flog dat Jim
Wid a great big hick’ry lim’,
Bet he’ll frow away frum him
Dat jew’s harp!

Wid His Feet.

When I git down my banjo
Des to pick a tune or so,
Tobin ’gin ter pat de flo’
Wid his feet.

He don’t neber heah me play
In de night-time or de day,
But he sho gwine ac’ dat way
Wid his feet.

En he pat, now fas’, now slow;—
Easy now, den loud, he go,
Keepin’ time ter my banjo
Wid his feet.

En who ever heah dat coon
Allers say, en dat right soon:
“He kin play a purty tune
Wid his feet.”

He kin make mo’ music, sho,
Dan I kin wid my banjo
When he pat de cabin flo’
Wid his feet.

De Broken Banjo.

In dis little ole log cabin
Whar de gray moss hang in sight;
Whar de screech-owl make me trimble
In de middle ob de night;
Dar at ebenin’ you gwine fin’ me,
If you look fo’ me at