Dat Sambo ain’t got good sense;
Work agin hisse’f for sho;
’Tain’t no parable I’m tellin’,
’Tis de truf, en dat am so.
He wus ’ployed by Missus Johnsing
Ter run erran’s en bring wood;—
Ter do anything, in fac’,
Roun’ de place a nigger could;
En Sambo, he done right well
Till de boys begin ter sell
Bunches ob de mistletoe.
’Twus de Chris’mas time ercomin’,
En it tingled in his blood,
Till he couldn’t stick ter sawin’
En ter choppin’ ob de wood;
En he couldn’t heah de Missus
When she say: “Be smart, Sambo!”
Kaze de soun’ ob dem boys callin’
In de street wus all he know;
En a nigger stop en say:
“We is lucky, sho, ter-day;
We des sells de mistletoe!”
Sambo didn’t stop ter say:
“’Scuse me, Missus, I mus’ go!”
Do his po’ ole mammy teach him
Better manners, dat you know.
He des leave dat yard en clim’
Up de neares’ ole oak tree,
Whar de mistletoe wus growin’
Fresh en green ez it could be;
En he jine dem boys dat cry:
“Mistletoe er passin’ by!
Don’ you want some mistletoe?”
En he sell it mighty good—
He des scoop de nickles in!
Seem de Lawd wus blessin’ him
In his foolishness en sin.
Dar de Missus wus er needin’
Him ter chop en bring in wood,
En he orter gone en done it—
Kaze she sho bin mighty good,
But he strut erlong de street,
Hol’rin’ out: “It’s hard to beat
Dis fine bunch ob mistletoe!”
But de jedgment come at las’,
Ez it boun’ ter come, fo’ sho,
When a nigger work agin
His ownse’f, lak dat Sambo.
When de holidays wus pas’
Missus say dat she don’ need
Him to work no mo’ fo’ her,
Kaze she got some one instead.
En dat boy got sense ter know
White folks don’ buy mistletoe
When de season am done pas’!