'Twas in a southern grove I dwelt,
No sorrow then I knew;
It seem'd dat eb'ry hour was bright,
Dat gayly o'er me flew;
De little ones dat clung around,
Ere I from dem did roam,
Made ev'ery hour still happier seem,
Oh! dear Young Folks at Home!
I'm berry sad-- no joy for me,
Why did I eber roam?
Oh! shall I nebber, nebber see
De dear Young Folks at Home!
We play'd de banjo, tambourine,
And danced beneath de shade;
And all around us love to hear
De music dat we made;
De mocking-bird sung sweetly then;
De wild birds dey would come,
And make de grove wid music sing--
Oh! dear "Young Folks at Home!"
But now I broken-hearted go--
Poor Tom dey all despise;
I grieve o'er all de happy past
Wid bitter tears and sighs;
I'm scorned by all de careless crowd,
No matter where I roam;
Oh! shall I neber see again
De dear "Young Folks at Home!"
Ah! no,-- I now am far away,
Where no such pleasures shine;
I neber dream'd dat sorrow'd come
To dis poor heart of mine!
Den take me to dat dear old spot,
Nor longer let me roam,--
And lay me in de cold, cold grave,
Near de dear "Young Folks at Home!"