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 Ma.s.sa'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.

Ma.s.sa 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!

G.o.d 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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 n.o.body 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BOOT-BLACK.

"No, sah ree!

You do'n' ketch me Shinin' yo' shoes fo' de ha'f ob a dime; Dis n.i.g.g.e.r belong Ter de union strong, En he charge you de full price ebry time."]

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 n.i.g.g.e.r, you!" I say, "Whar yo' senses gone ter-day?

Don't you know when n.i.g.g.e.rs 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 c.o.o.n 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 all, Wid my Fido settin' by me, En my banjo on de wall.