Weep no more, my lady, etc.

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,
  Wherever the darkey may go;
A few more days, and the troubles all will end,
  In the field where the sugar-canes grow;
A few more days to tote the weary load,
  No matter, it will never be light;
A few more days till we totter on the road,
  Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day! 
We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
  For our old Kentucky home far away.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

Way down upon de Swanee Ribber,
  Far, far away,
Dere’s wha my heart is turning ebber,
  Dere’s wha de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation
  Sadly I roam,
Still longing for de old plantation,
  And for de old folks at home.

    All de world am sad and dreary,
      Ebery where I roam;
    Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
      Far from de old folks at home!

All round de little farm I wandered
  When I was young,
Den many happy days I squandered,
  Many de songs I sung. 
When I was playing wid my brudder
  Happy was I;
Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! 
  Dere let me live and die.

One little hut among de bushes,
  One dat I love,
Still sadly to my memory rushes,
  No matter where I rove. 
When will I see de bees a-humming
  All round de comb? 
When will I hear de banjo tumming,
  Down in my good old home?

    All de world am sad and dreary,
      Ebery where I roam;
    Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
      Far from de old folks at home!

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

THE PRESENT GOOD.

     FROM “THE TASK,” BOOK VI.

Not to understand a treasure’s worth
Till time has stol’n away the slighted good,
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.

WILLIAM COWPER.

* * * * *

III.  ADVERSITY.

MAN.

In his own image the Creator made,
  His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man! 
  Thou breathing dial! since the day began
The present hour was ever marked with shade!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE WORLD.

The World’s a bubble, and the Life of Man
        Less than a span: 
In his conception wretched, from the womb,
        So to the tomb;
Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
        With cares and fears. 
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.