You ax about dat music made On banjos long ago, An’ wants to know why it ain’t played By niggers any mo’. Dem banjos b’longed to by-gone days When times an’ chunes was rare, When we was gay as children—’case We did n’t have a care. But when we got our freedom, we Found projeckin’ was done; Our livin’ was to make—you see, An’ dat lef’ out de fun. We learned to vote an’ read an’ spell, We learned de taste ob tears— An’ when you gets dat ’sponsible, De banjo disappears!
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...
You ax about dat music made On banjos long ago, An’ wants to know why it ain’t played By niggers any mo’. Dem banjos b’longed to by-gone days When times an’ chunes was rare, When we was gay as children—’case We did n’t have a care. But when we got our freedom, we Found projeckin’ was...
