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167

TRANSCRIPTIONS

168

[_]

If these are adaptations from songs the negroes have caught from the whites, their origin is very remote. I have transcribed them literally, and I regard them as in the highest degree characteristic.

169

1. A Plantation Chant

Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-fo',
Christ done open dat He'v'mly do'—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer;
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-five,
Christ done made dat dead man alive—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
You ax me ter run home,
Little childun—
Run home, dat sun done roll—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
170

Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-six,
Christ is got us a place done fix—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer;
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-sev'm
Christ done sot a table in He'v'm—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
You ax me ter run home,
Little childun—
Run home, dat sun done roll—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-eight,
Christ done make dat crooked way straight—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer;
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-nine,
Christ done tu'n dat water inter wine—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
171

You ax me ter run home,
Little childun—
Run home, dat sun done roll—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-ten,
Christ is de mo'ner's onliest frien'—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer;
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-'lev'm,
Christ'll be at de do' w'en we all git ter He'v'm—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
You ax me ter run home,
Little childun—
Run home, dat sun done roll—
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
172

2. A Plantation Serenade

De ole bee make de honey-comb,
De young bee make de honey,
De niggers make de cotton en co'n,
En de w'ite folks gits de money.
De raccoon he's a cu'us man,
He never walk twel dark,
En nuthin' never 'sturbs his min',
Twel he hear ole Bringer bark.
De raccoon totes a bushy tail,
De 'possum totes no ha'r,
Mr. Rabbit, he come skippin' by,
He ain't got none ter spar'.
173

Monday mornin' break er day,
W'ite folks got me gwine,
But Sat'd'y night, w'en de sun goes down,
Dat yaller gal's in my mine.
Fifteen poun' er meat a week,
W'isky fer ter sell,
Oh, how can a young man stay at home,
Dem gals dey look so well?
Met a 'possum in de road—
Brer 'Possum, whar you gwine?
I thank my stars, I bless my life,
I'm a-huntin' fer de muscadine.
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