Tried mighty hard fo' to cure mahse'f; Tried all dem t'ings on de pantry she'f; Couldn' fin' not'in' a-tall would do, An' so Ah sent fo' you. "Wha'd Ah take?" Well, le' me see: Firs',--horhound drops an' catnip tea; Den rock candy soaked in rum, An' a good sized chunk o' camphor gum; Next Ah tried was castor oil, An' snakeroot tea brought to a boil; Sassafras tea fo' to clean mah blood; But none o' dem t'ings didn' do no good. Den when home remedies seem to shirk, Dem pantry bottles was put to work: Blue-mass, laud'num, liver pills, "Sixty-six, fo' fever an' chills," Ready Relief, an' A.B.C., An' half a bottle of X.Y.Z. An' sev'al mo' Ah don't recall, Dey nevah done no good at all. Mah appetite begun to fail; 'Ah fo'ced some clabber, about a pail, Fo' mah ol' gran'ma always said When yo' can't eat you're almost dead. So Ah got scared an' sent for you.-- Now, doctor, see what you c'n do. Ah'm sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah'm sick! Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, Don't,--Ah'll die! THE CORN SONG Jes' beyan a clump o' pines,-- Lis'n to 'im now!-- Hyah de jolly black boy, Singin', at his plow! In de early mornin', Thoo de hazy air, Loud an' clear, sweet an' strong Comes de music rare: "O mah dovee, Who-ah! Do you love me? Who-ah! Who-ah!" An' as 'e tu'ns de cotton row, Hyah 'im tell 'is ol' mule so; "Whoa! Har! Come'ere!" Don't yo' love a co'n song? How it stirs yo' blood! Ever'body list'nin', In de neighborhood! Standin' in yo' front do' In de misty mo'n, Hyah de jolly black boy, Singin' in de co'n: "O Miss Julie, Who-ah! Love me truly, Who-ah! Who-ah!" Hyah 'im scol' 'is mule so, W'en 'e try to mek 'im go: "Gee! Whoa! Come 'ere!" O you jolly black boy, Yod'lin' in de co'n, Callin' to yo' dawlin', In de dewy mo'n, Love 'er, boy, forevah, Yodel ever' day; Only le' me lis'n, As yo' sing away: "O mah dawlin'! Who-ah! Hyah me callin'! Who-ah! Who-ah!" Tu'n aroun' anothah row, Holler to yo' mule so: "Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!" BLACK MAMMIES If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek it thoo, Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, too,-- Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to Miami,-- Ov de highes' shaf in glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy. You will see a lot o' Washington, an' Washington again; An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' men; But dar'll be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de th'one, An' dey'll all be black an' homely,--'less de Virgin Mary's one. Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men, An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy folks again: If it's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart', Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of noble birt'.