Dey sing a song, de whole day long,
And dance de juba at night.
Farewell to de fields

Ob cotton, 'bacco, and all;

I's guine to hoe, in a bressed row
Wha de corn grows mellow and tall.

Oh! boys, carry me 'long,

Carry me till I die ;

Carry me down to de buryin' groun',
Massa, don't you cry.

Farewell to de hills,

De meadows covered wid green,
Old brindle Boss, and de old grey hoss,
All beaten, broken and lean.

Farewell to de dog,

Dat always followed me round;
Old Sancho 'll wail, and droop his tail,
When I am under de ground.

Oh! boys, carry me 'long,

Carry me till I die;

Carry me down to de buryin' groun',

Massa, don't you cry.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

DE MASSA OB DE SHEEPFOL'.

DE Massa ob de sheepfol',

Dat guard de sheepfol' bin,

Look' out in de gloomerin' meadows,

Whar' de long night rain begin ;—

So he call to de hirelin' shep'a'd,

66

Is my sheep, is dey all come in?"

So he call to de hirelin' shep'a'd,

66

'Is my sheep, is dey all come in?'

Oh, den says de hirelin' shep'a'd,

66

Dey's some, dey's black and thin, An' some, dey's po' ol' wedda's,

Dat can't come home ag'in,

Dey is los'," says de hirelin' shep'a'd,—
But de res' dey's all brung in,

Dey is los'," says de hirelin' shep'a'd,—

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But de res' dey's all brung in."

Den de Massa ob de sheepfol',

Dat guard de sheepfol' bin,
Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows,
Whar' de long night rain begin ;—
So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol',
Callin' sof', "Come in, come in."
So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol',
Callin' sof'," Come in, come in."

Den up tro' de gloomerin' meadows,
Tro' de col' night rain and win',
And up tro' de gloomerin' rain-paf,
Whar' de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin,
De po' los' sheep o' de sheepfol',
Dey all comes gadderin' in.
De po' los' sheep o' de sheepfol',
Dey all comes gadderin' in.

SARAH P. MCLEAN GREENE.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it shelter'd me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut its earth-bound ties;

Oh spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters play'd. My mother kiss'd me here;

My father press' my handForgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!

Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well.

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when return'd from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow-
ing!

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,

As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave

it,

Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in the well.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

AT THE HEARTHSIDE.

THE children tucked away,

His heartside bright and still,
The farmer's frowns are all that say
The day has brought him ill.

The wife-her work is done

Moves cheerily here and there;
The comforts gather, one by one,
Around the easy chair.