A Plantation Bacchanal
W’en ole Mister Sun gits tiah’d a-hangin’
High up in de sky;
W’en der ain’t no thunder and light’nin’ a-bangin’,
An’ de crap’s done all laid by;
W’en yo’ bones ain’t achin’ wid de rheumatics,
Den yo’ ride de mule to town,
Git a great big jug o’ de ole corn juice,
An’ w’en you drink her down—
Jes lay away ole Trouble,
An’ dry up all yo’ tears;
Yo’ pleasure sho’ to double
An’ you bound to lose yo’ keers.
Jes lay away ole Sorrer
High upon de shelf;
And never mind to-morrer,
’Twill take care of itself.
W’en ole Mister Age begins a-stealin’
Thoo yo’ back an’ knees,
W’en yo’ bones an’ jints lose der limber feelin’,
An’ am stiff’nin’ by degrees;
Now der’s jes one way to feel young and spry,
W’en you heah dem banjos soun’
Git a great big swig o’ de ole corn juice,
An’ w’en you drink her down—
Jes lay away ole Trouble,
An’ dry up all yo’ tears;
Yo’ pleasure sho’ to double
An’ you bound to lose yo’ keers.
Jes lay away ole Sorrer
High upon de shelf;
And never mind to-morrer,
’Twill take care of itself.