LAST WORDS OF THE DYING RECRUIT
31
Now’s full time fe me to wake,
’Causen we ha’ bread fe bake;
Git up, Sam, you lazy wretch,
For de beas’ dem fe go ketch:
Ef you ’low de sun fe grow,[1]
Grass-lice wi’ sure mek you know;
S’arch up to de ole-groun’ side,
For de jack wi’ ’tan’ deh hide.
Mumma, me wan’ go a school,
Te-day we gwin’ play tom-fool:
Quick! Gi’e me my book an’ slate,
For I doana want fe late.
Sister, wha’ de doctor t’ink?
Say mumma a lower sink?
Lard! ef she gwin’ go lef’ we,
Wha’ de use o’ life fe me?
Sister, sister, a no true,
Mumma caan’ dis dead ’way so;
Sister, sister, leave me ’lone,
Me won’ believe dat she gone.
Ah! no fe her own han’ now
Restin’ on me fevered brow?
Mumma, lay me ’pon you’ breas’,
Mek me get a drop o’ res’.
- ↑ See glossary, under “Ef.”
