Yo' see, he wuz ole Marster's only chile; an' den,
He had a body-servant—at he will;
An' wid dat big plantation; dee 'd all like to be brides;
Dat is ef dee could have de groom, Marse Phil.
'T wuz dyah he met young Mistis—she wuz yo' ma, of co'se!
I disremembers now what mont' it wuz:
One night, he comes, an' seys he, "Sam, I needs new clo'es";
An' seys I, "Marse Phil, yes, suh, so yo' does."
Well, suh, he made de tailor meek ev'y thing bran' new;
He would n' w'ar one stitch he had on han'—
Jes' throwed 'em in de chip box, an' seys, "Sam, dem 's fur you."
Marse Phil, I tell yo', wuz a gentleman.
So Marse Phil co'tes de Mistis, an' Sam he co'tes de maid—
We always sot our traps upon one parf;
An' when we tole ole Marster we bofe wuz gwine, he seyd,
"All right, we 'll have to kill de fatted calf."
An' dat wuz what dee did, suh—de Prodigal wuz home;
Dee put de ring an' robe upon yo' ma.
Den you wuz born, young Marster, an' den de storm hit come;
An' den de darkness settled from afar.
De storm hit comed an' wrenchted de branches from de tree—
De war—you' pa—he 's sleep dyah on de hill;
An' do I know, young Marster, de war hit sot us free?
I seys, "Dat 's so; but tell me whar 's Marse Phil?"
"A dollar!"—thankee, Marster, you sutney is his son;
You is his spitt an' image, I declar'!
What sey, young Marster? Yes, suh: you sey, "It 's five—not one—"
Yo' favors, honey, bofe yo' pa an' ma!