Poetry Archives

W’en ole Mister Sun gits tiah’d a-hangin’
High up in de sky;
W’en der ain’t no thunder and light’nin’ a-bangin’,
An’ de crap’s done all laid by;
W’en yo’ bones ain’t achin’ wid de rheumatics,
Den yo’ ride de mule to town,
Git a great big jug o’ de ole corn juice,
An’ w’en you drink her down—

      Jes lay away ole Trouble,
      An’ dry up all yo’ tears;
      Yo’ pleasure sho’ to double
      An’ you bound to lose yo’ keers.
      Jes lay away ole Sorrer
      High upon de shelf;
      And never mind to-morrer,
      ’Twill take care of itself.

W’en ole Mister Age begins a-stealin’
Thoo yo’ back an’ knees,
W’en yo’ bones an’ jints lose der limber feelin’,
An’ am stiff’nin’ by degrees;
Now der’s jes one way to feel young and spry,
W’en you heah dem banjos soun’
Git a great big swig o’ de ole corn juice,
An’ w’en you drink her down—

      Jes lay away ole Trouble,
      An’ dry up all yo’ tears;
      Yo’ pleasure sho’ to double
      An’ you bound to lose yo’ keers.
      Jes lay away ole Sorrer
      High upon de shelf;
      And never mind to-morrer,
      ’Twill take care of itself.