Old Black Joe

Gone are the days when my heart was young and gay,

Gone are my friends from the cotton fields away,

Gone from the earth to a better land I know,

I hear their gentle voices calling “Old Black Joe.”

I’m coming, I’m coming, for my head is bending low:

I hear those gentle voices calling, “Old Black Joe.”

Why do I weep when my heart should feel no pain

Why do I sigh that my friends come not again,

Grieving for forms Now departed long a go?

I hear their gentle voices calling “Old Black Joe.”

I’m coming, I’m coming, for my head is bending low:

I hear those gentle voices calling, “Old Black Joe.”

Where are the hearts once so happy and so free?

The children so dear that I held upon my knee,

Gone to the shore where my soul has longed to go.

I hear their gentle voices calling “Old Black Joe.”

I’m coming, I’m coming, for my head is bending low:

I hear those gentle voices calling, “Old Black Joe.”