My Mountain Home

De mango tree in yellow bloom, De pretty akee seed, De mammee where de John-to-whits come To have their daily feed, Show you de place where I was born, Of which I am so proud, ’Mongst de banana-field an’ corn On a lone mountain-road. One Sunday marnin’ ’fo’ de hour Fe service-time come on, Ma say dat I be’n born to her Her little las’y son. Those early days be’n neber dull, My heart was ebergreen; How I did lub my little wul’ Surrounded by pingwin! An’ growin’ up, with sweet freedom About de yard I’d run; An’ tired out I’d hide me from De fierce heat of de sun. So glad I was de fus’ day when Ma sent me to de spring; I was so happy feelin’ then Dat I could do somet’ing. De early days pass quickly ’long, Soon I became a man, An’ one day found myself among Strange folks in a strange lan’. My little joys, my wholesome min’, Dey bullied out o’ me, And made me daily mourn an’ pine An’ wish dat I was free. Dey taught me to distrust my life, Dey taught me what was grief; For months I travailed in de strife, ’Fo’ I could find relief. But I’ll return again, my Will, An’ where my wild ferns grow An’ weep for me on Dawkin’s Hill, Dere, Willie, I shall go. An’ dere is somet’ing near forgot, Although I lub it best; It is de loved, de hallowed spot Where my dear mother rest. Look good an’ find it, Willie dear, See dat from bush ’tis free; Remember that my heart is near, An’ you say you lub me. An’ plant on it my fav’rite fern, Which I be’n usual wear; In days to come I shall return To end my wand’rin’s dere.