(A-callin’ me to my long home!)
Said de wolf to de har’, “Don’ hit so hard.”
(De dew on de hollyhock’s all a-dryin’!)
An’ he killed de har’ w’en he co’t him oaf his guard.
(Ah’ll dry up an’ go home!)
Up the vista formed by a narrow, tortuous Virginia lane, came Uncle ’Rasmus, an aged darky, singing one of the songs of his race that never grow old—because they die young, it may be.
As he hobbled along the path, he talked to himself, as was his wont:
“Golly! Ah mus’ hurry up, o’ de fo’kses won’ hab no dinnah; for, be jabers, ’tis mesilf that has got to git riddy dthat same. Och, worra! worra! but ’tis no synekewer Oi’m havin’, an’ dthat’s dther trut’.”