Shet yo’ eyes, ma little pickaninny, go to sleep
    Mammy’s watchin’ by you all de w’ile;
    Daddy is a-wukin’ down in de cott’n fiel’,
    Wukin’ fu’ his little honey child. 
    An’ yo’ mammy’s heart is jes a-brimmin’ full o’ lub
    Fu’ you f’om yo’ head down to yo’ feet;
    Oh, no mattah w’at some othah folks may t’ink o’ you,
    To yo’ mammy’s heart you’s mighty sweet.

    You’s sweet to yo’ mammy jes de same;
    Dat’s why she calls you Honey fu’ yo’ name. 
    Yo’ face is black, dat’s true,
    An’ yo’ hair is woolly, too,
    But, you’s sweet to yo’ mammy jes de same.

    Up der in de big house w’ere dey lib so rich an’ gran’
    Dey’s got chillen dat dey lubs, I s’pose;
    Chillen dat is purty, oh, but dey can’t lub dem mo’
    Dan yo’ mammy lubs you, heaben knows!

    Dey may t’ink you’s homely, an’ yo’ clo’es dey may be po’,
    But yo’ shinin’ eyes, dey hol’s a light
    Dat, my Honey, w’en you opens dem so big an’ roun’,
    Makes you lubly in yo’ mammy’s sight.

A PLANTATION BACCHANAL

    W’en ole Mister Sun gits tiah’d a-hangin’
    High up in de sky;
    W’en der ain’t no thunder and light’nin’ a-bangin’,
    An’ de crap’s done all laid by;
    W’en yo’ bones ain’t achin’ wid de rheumatics,
    Den yo’ ride de mule to town,
    Git a great big jug o’ de ole corn juice,
    An’ w’en you drink her down—­

          Jes lay away ole Trouble,
          An’ dry up all yo’ tears;
          Yo’ pleasure sho’ to double
          An’ you bound to lose yo’ keers. 
          Jes lay away ole Sorrer
          High upon de shelf;
          And never mind to-morrer,
          ’Twill take care of itself.

    W’en ole Mister Age begins a-stealin’
    Thoo yo’ back an’ knees,
    W’en yo’ bones an’ jints lose der limber feelin’,
    An’ am stiff’nin’ by degrees;
    Now der’s jes one way to feel young and spry,
    W’en you heah dem banjos soun’
    Git a great big swig o’ de ole corn juice,
    An’ w’en you drink her down—­

          Jes lay away ole Trouble,
          An’ dry up all yo’ tears;
          Yo’ pleasure sho’ to double
          An’ you bound to lose yo’ keers. 
          Jes lay away ole Sorrer
          High upon de shelf;
          And never mind to-morrer,
          ’Twill take care of itself.

JULY IN GEORGY

    I’m back down in ole Georgy w’ere de sun is shinin’ hot,
    W’ere de cawn it is a-tasslin’, gittin’ ready fu’ de pot;

    W’ere de cott’n is a-openin’ an’ a-w’itenin’ in de sun,
    An’ de ripenin’ o’ de sugah-cane is mighty nigh begun.

    An’ de locus’ is a-singin’ f’om eveh bush an’ tree,
    An’ you kin heah de hummin’ o’ de noisy bumblebee;