When de Marster an' de Mistis lived up dyah;
When de niggers 'd stan' all roun' de do',
Like grains o' corn on de cornhouse flo'.

"Live' mons'ous high?" Yes, Marster, yes;
D' cut 'n' onroyal 'n' gordly dash;
Eat an' drink till you could n' res'.
My folks war n' none o' yo' po'-white-trash;
Nor, suh, dey was of high degree--
Dis heah nigger am quality!

"Tell you 'bout 'em?" You mus' 'a' hearn
'Bout my ole white folks, sho'!
I tell you, suh, dey was gre't an' stern;
D' didn' have nuttin' at all to learn;
D' knowed all dar was to know;
Gol' over dey head an' onder dey feet;
An' silber! dey sowed 't like folks sows wheat.

"Use' ter be rich?" Dat warn' de wud!
D' jes' wallowed an' roll' in wealf.
Why, none o' my white folks ever stir'd
Ter lif' a han' for d' self;
De niggers use ter be stan'in' roun'
Jes' d' same ez leaves when dey fus' fall down;
De stable-stalls up heah at home
Looked like teef in a fine-toof comb;
De cattle was p'digious--I mus' tell de fac'!
An' de hogs mecked de hill-sides look lite black;
An' de flocks o' sheep was so gre't an' white
Dey 'peared like clouds on a moonshine night.
An' when my ole Mistis use' ter walk--

_Jes'_ ter her kerridge (dat was fur
Ez ever she walked)--I tell you, sir,
You could almos' heah her silk dress talk;
Hit use' ter soun' like de mornin' breeze,
When it wakes an' rustles de Gre't House trees.
An' de Marster's face!--de Marster's face,
Whenever de Marster got right pleased--
Well, I 'clar' ter Gord! 't would shine wid grace
De same ez his countenance had been greased.
Dat cellar, too, had de bes' o' wine,
An' brandy, an' sperrits dat yo' could fine;
An' ev'ything in dyah was stored,
'Skusin' de Glory of de Lord!

"Warn' dyah a son?" Yes, suh, you knows
_He_ 's de young Marster now;
But we heah dat dey tooken he very clo'es
Ter pay what ole Marster owe;
He 's done been gone ten year, I s'pose.
But he 's comin' back some day, of co'se;
An my ole 'ooman is aluz 'pyard,
An' meckin' de Blue-Room baid;
An' ev'ry day dem sheets is ayard,
An' will be tell she 's daid;
An' dem styars she 'll scour,
An' dat room she 'll ten',
Ev'y blessed day dat de Lord do sen'!

What say, Marster? Yo' say, you knows--?
He 's young an' slender-like an' fyah;
Better-lookin' 'n you, of co'se!
Hi! you 's he? 'Fo'