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Nor confiscate me for his use,
To black and clean his sojers' shoes,
Far away, etc., To " dig- his trenches " and save his health, For a picayune a day and find myself,
Far away, far away, far away,
From de cotton land of Dixie.
Chorus.
O, I'm gwine back to de old plantations, To tell de boys ob nry observations,
Far away, etc., Made by myself in de British nation— I'll tell de trufe widout " sensation,"
Far away, etc.
Chorus.
I've been across de Atlantic Ocean,
Where dey all do make so great commotion,
Far away, etc., About de war and cotton " famine," Dey talk a heap of "twaddle and gammon,"
Far away, etc.
Chorus.
For in dis English land I've bin in, Dey've got no cotton for de spinnin',
Hard times, etc., For de warehousemen of Manchester, De spinners, too, of Lancashire,
Far away, etc.
Chorus. |
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