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I went up on the mountain top
To give my horn a blow; An' I thought I heard Miss Lizy say,
"Yonder comes my beau."
Po' little Lizy, po' little gal,
Po' little Lizy Jane! Po' little Lizy, po' little gal,
She died on the train.
I went into the acre-fiel'
To plant some 'lasses-cane, To make a jug of molasses,
For to sweeten Lizy Jane.
She went up the valley road,
An' I went down the lane, A-whippin' of my ol' grey mule,
An* it's good bye, Lizy Jane.
Certain songs are always mixed with soapsuds in my mind, for I see Susie, yellow, mountainous of bulk, poking clothes in the big iron washpot in our back yard on Monday mornings, her voice rising higher as the clothes bubbled and leaped. To me there was something witch-like in her voice and her use of the long stick in the boiling pot.
Go tell Aunt Patsy, Go tell Aunt Pa-atsy, Go tell Aunt Patsy,
Her old grey goose is dead.
The one she's been saving, The one she's been sa-aving, The one she's been saving To make a feather bed.
Somebody killed it, Somebody ki-illed it, Somebody killed it,
Knocked it in the head.
Susie looked like a feather bed herself.
Certain songs are inevitably a part of my memory of Aunt Myra, the faithful black soul who fed and scolded and bossed me in my childhood. She was at once sterner and more indulgent than mother