THE POOR OLD SLAVE
Tis just one year ago to-day,
That I remember well;
I sat down by poor Nelly's side,
A story she did tell;
'Twas about a poor unhappy slave,
That lived for many a year;
But now he's dead and in his grave,
No master does he fear.
The poor old slave has gone to rest,
We know that he is free;
Disturb him not, but let him rest,
'Way down in Tennessee.
She took my arm, we walked along
Into an open field;
And here she paused to breathe a while,
Then to his grave did steal.
She sat down by that little mound,
And softly whispered there:
Come to me, father, 'tis thy child!
Then gently dropped a tear.-Chorus.
But since that time, how things have changed!
Poor Nelly, that was my bride,
Is laid beneath the cold grave-sod,
With her father by her side.
I planted there, upon her grave,
The weeping willow-tree;
I bathed its roots with many a tear,
That it might shelter me.-Chorus.