To W. G. G.
Come, come wid me, my tired soul,
’Way from de miserable wul’;
Come from de noise, de wild alarm,
To heights o’ mountain peace an’ calm.
Do you not hear de battle’s roar,
De tumult ragin’ on de shore?
Do you not see de poisonous bait
Man sets for man t’rough deadly hate?
Come flee de envy an’ de strife,
Before dey ruin our life:
Come to de hills; dey may be drear,
But we can shun de evil here.
De northers now are blowin’ chill,
De fog hangs dismal on de hill,
An’ sometimes fe long dreary days
De sun is wrapt up in-a haze.
De season rain is on te-day,
De flowers all are fadin’ ’way;
But dere ’ll be sun upon de heights
After de gloomy Christmas nights.
76
