THE HEART OF A CONSTAB
63
’Tis grievous to think dat, while toilin’ on here,
My people won’t love me again,
My people, my people, me owna black skin,—
De wretched t’ought gives me such pain.
But I’ll leave it, my people, an’ come back to you,
I’ll flee from de grief an’ turmoil;
I’ll leave it, though flow’rs here should line my path yet,
An’ come back to you an’ de soil.
For ’tis hatred without an’ ’tis hatred within,
An’ how can I live ’douten heart?
Then oh for de country, de love o’ me soul,
From which I shall nevermore part!
