The Borrowed Child
My chile? Lord, no, she ’s none o’ mine;
She ’s des one I have tried
To put in place of Anna Jane—
My little one what died.
Dat ’s long ago; no one but me
Knows even where she lies:
But in her place I ’ve always kept
A borrowed chile, her size.
As soon as it outgrows my chile,
I lets it go, right straight—
An’ takes another in its place
To match dat Heabenly mate.
It ’s took a sight o’ chillin, sho’,
To ease dat dull ol’ pain,
An’ keep de pretty likeness fresh
Of my dead Anna Jane.
Der ’s more den forty years, you see,
Since she has been in Heaben,
But wid de angels years don’t count—
So she ’s still only seben.
Time treats us all up dere, des lak
It do white ladies here—
It teches ’em so light—one’s still
A gal at forty year!