Massa's in de Cold Ground

ROUND de meadows am a-ringing
De darkeys' mournful song,
While de mocking-bird am singing,
Happy as de day am long.
Where de ivy am a-creeping,
O'er de grassy mound,
Dere old massa am a-sleeping,
Sleeping in de cold, cold ground.


Chorus:

Down in de corn-field
Hear dat mournful sound:
All de darkeys am a-weeping,—
Massa's in de cold, cold ground.


When de autumn leaves were falling,
When de days were cold,
'T was hard to hear old massa calling,
Cayse he was so weak and old.
Now de orange tree am blooming
On de sandy shore,
Now de summer days am coming,—
Massa nebber calls no more. (Chorus)

Massa make de darkeys love him,
Cayse he was so kind;
Now dey sadly weep above him,
Mourning cayse he leave dem behind.
I cannot work before to-morrow,
Cayse de tear-drop flow;
I try to drive away my sorrow,
Pickin' on de old banjo. (Chorus)

Massas in de Cold Ground

ROUND de meadows am a-ringing
De darkeys? mournful song,
While de mocking-bird am singing,
Happy as de day am long.
Where de ivy am a-creeping,
O?er de grassy mound,
Dere old massa am a-sleeping,
Sleeping in de cold, cold ground.


Chorus:

Down in de corn-field
Hear dat mournful sound:
All de darkeys am a-weeping,?
Massa?s in de cold, cold ground.


When de autumn leaves were falling,
When de days were cold,
?T was hard to hear old massa calling,
Cayse he was so weak and old.
Now de orange tree am blooming
On de sandy shore,
Now de summer days am coming,?
Massa nebber calls no more. (Chorus)

Massa make de darkeys love him,
Cayse he was so kind;
Now dey sadly weep above him,
Mourning cayse he leave dem behind.
I cannot work before to-morrow,
Cayse de tear-drop flow;
I try to drive away my sorrow,
Pickin? on de old banjo. (Chorus

Weep No More, My Lady; O, Weep No More To-Day!

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.

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door;
The day goes by, like the shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight;
The time has come, when the darkeys have to part,
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!

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.

We Are Coming, Father Abraam, 300,000 More

We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more,
From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;
We leave our plows and work-shops, our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;
We dare not look behind us but steadfastly before,
We are coming, Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more.
2
If you look across the hilltops that meet the nothern sky.
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;
And now the wind an-instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,
And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride;
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour,
We are coming, Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more.
3
If you look all up our valleys, where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming intoline;
And children from their mothers knees are pulling at the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow, against their country's needs;
And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door,
We are coming, Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more.
4
You have called us and were coming, by Richmond's bloody tide,
To lay us down for freedom's sake, our brother's bones beside;
Or from foul treason's savage group to wrench the murd'rous blade,
And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade;
Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before,
We are coming, Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more.
We are coming, coming our union to restore
We are coming, Father Abraam, with three hundred thousand more.

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