I was raised in Mississippi, where the sugar-cane grows tall, And I loved a pretty yellow girl, much sweeter than them all. She left the place one moonlight night--we sorrow’d much to part; No token did she leave me, but her picture on my heart, And I moan, and I groan, all alone, all alone. CHORUS. But fretting won’t do for a darkey of this figure-- Time enough for that when he gits a little bigger; Dancing with the yellow girls, and shucking out the corn, Will make him forget ’Tilda Horn. While ago I got a letter from her, thinking, as I sat, If I met her, how she’d like me, in my stylish Kossuth hat. ’Twas the last I heard about her, and since then I’m much in dread That’s she’s married to another man, or else she must “gone dead.” In despair, I declare, I is crack’d, that’s a fact. But fretting won’t do, &c. Now I go about, down in the mouth, and stockings down at heel; Like Massa Shakspeare’s Hamlet, too. I’m touch’d up here I feel. His uncle gave him good advice--mine took my clothes in pawn; And all to raise the cash to dress--deceitful ’Tilda Horn. Oh! this wool I could pull, this poor heart is so full. But fretting won’t do, &c. Since the Shakspere’s coming in my head, I’m like Othello, too, The victim of my jealous fears, I don’t know what to do; Desdemona lost his handkerchief--that wasn’t much to lose; But ’Tilda took my ’bacca-box, my shirts, and Sunday shoes, Now I stray all the day, from the gay far away. But fretting won’t do, &c. CONTENTS OF Beadle’s Dime Military Song Book AND SONGS FOR THE WAR.