And den I axed dem, by de pound
How much dey gabe for rags?
De missionary had de mose
Insurance of dem all;
He tole me I was ole, and said,
Leabes had dar time to fall.
He simply wished to ax, he said,
As pastor and as friend,
If wid unruffled bosom I
Approached my latter end.
Now how he knew dat story I
Should mightily like to know.
I ‘clar to goodness, Massa Guy,
If dat ain’t really you!
You say dat in your wash I sent
You only one white vest;
And as you’se passin’ by you t’ought
You’d call and get de rest.
Now, Massa Guy, about your shirts,
At least, it seems to me
Dat you is more particular
Dan what you used to be.
Your family pride is stiff as starch,
Your blood is mighty blue—
I nebber spares de indigo
To make your shirts so, too.
I uses candle ends, and wax,
And satin-gloss and paints,
Until your wristbands shine like to
De pathway ob de saints.
But when a gemman sends to me
Eight white vests eberry week,
A stain ob har-oil on each one,
I tinks it’s time to speak.
When snarled around a button dar’s
A golden har or so,
Dat young man’s going to be wed,
Or someting’s wrong, I know.
You needn’t laugh, and turn it off
By axing ‘bout my cap;
You didn’t use to know nice lace,
And never cared a snap
What ‘twas a lady wore. But folks
Wid teaching learn a lot,
And dey do say Miss Bella buys
De best dat’s to be got.
But if you really want to know,
I don’t mind telling you
Jus’ how I come by dis yere lace—
It’s cur’us, but it’s true.
My mother washed for Washington
