De pe’simmons in de pastur’ am a-fallin’, fallin’ down,
En de sweet pertaters waitin’ ter be dug frum out de groun’;
Dat dey good de possum know,
En he fatten on ’em, sho!
En I tas’e his juice ter-morrer, else I neber tas’e it mo’.
Bring de light-wood torch, Horiah, en don’t creep so slow erlong;
Lif’ yo’ lazy feet up faster, so dey keep time ter dis song:
“Mr. Possum, hear me say,
’Tain’t no use ter run away,
Kaze I sho gwine ketch en bleed you ’fo’e de breakin’ ob de day!
Dem two dogs already trace him ter de big pe’simmon tree,
En I see dem eyes ob his’n shinin’ down lak stars at me.
He for sho am perch up high,
But I git him, by en by,
En dat feas’ I hab to-morrer beat de fines’ chicken pie.
I done grab him by de neck, en I comin’ down agin,
En de weight ob him do tell me he am fur frum bein’ thin;
En he droop hisse’f en play
Dat he dead en pass away,
Do he know dat if I loose him he gwine mighty soon be gay.
He am sho a fine one, en I proud ter take him home,
En de mammy en de chillun wake ter see him when he come;
En I singe his tender hide
Till it look lak it done fried,
Den I try ter go ter sleep, but my eyes stay open wide.

Oh, my eyes stay open wide, till de breakin’ ob de day,
When de long, long night oh waitin’ am at las’ done pass away;
En I go outside en scratch
Sweet pertaters frum de patch,
Kaze wid juices ob de possum dey ain’t nothin’ else ter match.
When we bake dat critter brown, wid pertaters stuff inside,
Den we say: “Oh, hasten, nigger, ez de bridegroom ter de bride!”
Come en dine wid us ter-day,
En we know dat you gwine stay
Till de las ob dat good possum am done hid frum sight away.