Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die
    In the gale that rides the sea,
  But we’ll not believe it, not you and I,
    Who mind us of Galilee. 
      Heave ho, weave low,
        Waves of the briny deep;
      Seethe low and breathe low,
        But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

FAITH

  I’s a-gittin’ weary of de way dat people do,
  De folks dat’s got dey ‘ligion in dey fiah-place an’ flue;
  Dey’s allus somep’n comin’ so de spit’ll have to turn,
  An’ hit tain’t no p’oposition fu’ to mek de hickory bu’n. 
  Ef de sweet pertater fails us an’ de go’geous yallah yam,
  We kin tek a bit o’ comfo’t f’om ouah sto’ o’ summah jam. 
  W’en de snow hit git to flyin’, dat’s de Mastah’s own desiah,
  De Lawd’ll run de wintah an’ yo’ mammy’ll run de fiah.

  I ain’ skeered because de win’ hit staht to raih and blow,
  I ain’t bothahed w’en he come er rattlin’ at de do’,
  Let him taih hisse’f an’ shout, let him blow an’ bawl,

  Dat’s de time de branches shek an’ bresh-wood ’mence to fall. 
  W’en de sto’m er railin’ an’ de shettahs blowin’ ’bout,
  Dat de time de fiah-place crack hits welcome out. 
  Tain’ my livin’ business fu’ to trouble ner enquiah,
  De Lawd’ll min’ de wintah an’ my mammy’ll min’ de fiah.

  Ash-cake allus gits ez brown w’en February’s hyeah
  Ez it does in bakin’ any othah time o’ yeah. 
  De bacon smell ez callin’-like, de kittle rock an’ sing,
  De same way in de wintah dat dey do it in de spring;
  Dey ain’t no use in mopin’ ‘round an’ lookin’ mad an’ glum
  Erbout de wintah season, fu’ hit’s des plumb boun’ to come;

  An’ ef it comes to runnin’ t’ings I’s willin’ to retiah,
  De Lawd’ll min’ de wintah an’ my mammy’ll min’ de fiah.

THE FARM CHILD’S LULLABY

  Oh, the little bird is rocking in the cradle of the wind,
    And it’s bye, my little wee one, bye;
  The harvest all is gathered and the pippins all are binned;
    Bye, my little wee one, bye;
  The little rabbit’s hiding in the golden shock of corn,
  The thrifty squirrel’s laughing bunny’s idleness to scorn;
  You are smiling with the angels in your slumber, smile till morn;
    So it’s bye, my little wee one, bye.

  There’ll be plenty in the cellar, there’ll be plenty on the shelf;
    Bye, my little wee one, bye;
  There’ll be goodly store of sweetings for a dainty little elf;
    Bye, my little wee one, bye. 
  The snow may be a-flying o’er the meadow and the hill,
  The ice has checked the chatter of the little laughing rill,
  But in your cosey cradle you are warm and happy still;
    So bye, my little wee one, bye.