Like the billowy pine with plume and cone,
While a minor strain subdued and slow,
She sings in a plaintive monotone:
("I'm mos' don' a trablin' an' I boun'
To carry my sould to Jesus
I'm mos' don' a trablin' an' I boun'
To carry my sould to de Lord.")
Then 'neath the whitewashed cottage vines,
From its window that looks on the dying day,
I gaze at the pictures in the pines,