A New Negro Song

Me be one poor slave, brought into Barbado, Ven one pickaninny, such de cruel trado, How me vetch and carry, now go here and dere, Dey no let me rest, dey for black man no care, sir. Tol de rol, de rol.

Now chain'd like de horse, and de weder hot, Vipt along de road, poor negro go to pot; If me faint or dying, still along must go; Devil take de driver, him always serve me so. Tol de rol, &c.

If me stay at home, still me run about, sir, Now up, now down, now kick, now vip, now in and out, sir; My massa swear, my missa scold, if I no come de safer, I could not be used vorse, if old Nick he was my massa. Tol de rol, &c.

De pickaninnies too, de littel boy and miss, sir, Dey laugh and call me name, and tump me wit dere fis, sir; Yet me must not complain, poor negro must endure it, Alas! a well a day, dere be no means to cure it. Tol de rol, &c.

All de night and day, me be toiling, moiling, Never can be rest, but ever sweat and broiling; Me, poor negro, black, all dat's hard be trying, White man use me so, me wish dat I vas dying. Tol de rol, &c.