MY PRETTY QUADROON.
Oh, my pretty, my pretty quadroon, my flowers have faded too soon;
My heart, like the strings of my banjo, will break for my pretty quadroon.
I never thought I was a slave, but that was found out too soon;
I'd gather one handsome wild rose and call it my pretty quadroon.
My troubles will now soon be o'er, and I find rest in the tomb;
My spirit will then soar above and watch o'er my pretty quadroon.