Who am sca’ed ob small-pox? Pshaw!
Not dis nigger, sho.
Las’ yeah dar wus lots ob it
Down in Spilman’s row;
En de pleeceman walk erbout,
Keepin’ some in en some out.
En I ask: “What dey gwine do
Fo’ ’nough food to eat?”
En Sime answer: “Ez fo’ dat,
Small-pox cain’t be beat;
Kaze when it done shet yo’ gate,
Den de town gwine fill yo’ plate.”
He say dem dat’s quarantined
Down in Spilman’s row,
Gittin’ better things ter eat
Dan we am, fo’ sho;
Say he see ’em take some food
Back dar dat wus mighty good.
Den I min’ me ob my frien’s,
How dey lonesome be,
En I say: “I cain’t fo’get ’em—
Dey am deah ter me!”
En dey voices call en call,
Till I heah dem ober all.
’T last I say dat I mus’ go
If I am dey frien’;—
While de guard walk up dat way,
I slip in dis en’;—
En in Spilman’s row I stay
Till de small-pox pass erway.
I don’t ketch it—no, suhree!
Neber git de chance;
Zeke wus down dar wid his fiddle,
En I jine de dance;—
En de city furnish food
Dat, fo’ sho, tas’e mighty good.