’Tilda Horn.
Copied by permission of Wm. Hall & Son, 543 Broadway, N. Y., owners of the copyright.
I was raised in Mississippi, where the sugar-cane grows tall,
And I loved a pretty yellow girl, much sweeter than them all.
She left the place one moonlight night—we sorrow’d much to part;
No token did she leave me, but her picture on my heart,
And I moan, and I groan, all alone, all alone.
CHORUS
But fretting won’t do for a darkey of this figure—
Time enough for that when he gits a little bigger;
Dancing with the yellow girls, and shucking out the corn,
Will make him forget ’Tilda Horn.
While ago I got a letter from her, thinking, as I sat,
If I met her, how she’d like me, in my stylish Kossuth hat.
’Twas the last I heard about her, and since then I’m much in dread
That’s she’s married to another man, or else she must “gone dead.”
In despair, I declare, I is crack’d, that’s a fact.
But fretting won’t do, &c.
Now I go about, down in the mouth, and stockings down at heel;
Like Massa Shakspeare’s Hamlet, too. I’m touch’d up here I feel.
His uncle gave him good advice—mine took my clothes in pawn;
And all to raise the cash to dress—deceitful ’Tilda Horn.
Oh! this wool I could pull, this poor heart is so full.
But fretting won’t do, &c.
Since the Shakspere’s coming in my head, I’m like Othello, too,
The victim of my jealous fears, I don’t know what to do;
Desdemona lost his handkerchief—that wasn’t much to lose;
But ’Tilda took my ’bacca-box, my shirts, and Sunday shoes,
Now I stray all the day, from the gay far away.
But fretting won’t do, &c.