Copyright, 1896, by Frank Harding.
Words and Music by Ben R. Harney.
T'other eb'ning when eb'ryting was still, oh, babe,
De moon was climbin' down behind de hill, oh, babe;
T'ought eb'rybody was a sound asleep,
But a old man a Johnson was a on his beat, oh, babe.
I went down into a nigger crap game,
Where de coons were a-gambling wid a might and main;
T'ought I'd a be a sport and be dead game;
I gambled my money And I wasn't to blame;
One nigger's point was a little, a Joe,
Bettin' six bits t'a quarter he could make de four;
He made dat point, but he made no more,
Just den Johnson jump'd through de door.
Oh, Mr. Johnson, turn me loose,
Got no money but a (rood excuse;
Oh, Mr. Johnson, I'll he good.
Oh! Mr. Johnson, turn me loose;
Don't take me to de calaboose;
Oh, Mr. Johnson, I'll be good.
Late de other eb'ning when the sun was down, oh, babe;
I went down on old man Johnson's chicken farm, oh, babe,
Climbed in de chicken loft on my knees,
Was a half way a through when de chicken sneezed, oh, babe.
I'll tell you, if you will only keep still,
'Bout a mile and a half from Louisville;
I am so nerbous dat I can't keep still,
When I think about it I can reel a big chill.
A big black coon was a-lookin' fer chickens,
When a great big bull-dog got to raisin' the dickens;
De coon got higher, de chicken got higher,
Just den Johnson opened up fire.
I got no chance for to be turned loose,
Got no chance for a good excuse; '
Oh, Mr. Johnson, I'll be good;
And now he's play in' seben eleben,
'Way up yonder in de nigger beab'n;
Oh, Mr. Johnson made him good.