Come, all my brethren, let us take a rest,
While the moon shines so brightly and clear;
Old master is dead, and left us at last,
And has gone at the Bar to appear.
Old master has died, and lying in his grave,
And our blood will awhile cease to flow;
He will no more trample on the neck of the slave;
For he's gone where the slaveholders go.
Hang up the shovel and the hoe—
Take down the fiddle and the bow—
Old master has gone to the slaveholder's rest;
He has gone where they all ought to go.
I heard the old doctor say the other night,
As he passed by the dining–room door—
'Perhaps the old man may live through the night,
But I think he will die about four.'
Young mistress sent me, at the peril of my life,
For the parson to come down and pray,
For says she, 'Your old master is now about to die,'
And says I, 'God speed him on his way.'
Hang up the shovel and the hoe—
Take down the fiddle and the bow—
Old master has gone to the slaveholder's rest;
He has gone where they all ought to go
At four o'clock at morn the family was called
Around the old man's dying bed;
And oh! but I laughed to myself when I heard
That the old man's spirit had fled.
Mr. Carlton cried, and so did I pretend;
Young mistress very nearly went mad;
And the old old person's groans did the heavens fairly rend;
But I tell you I felt mighty glad.
Hang up the shovel and the hoe—
Take down the fiddle and the bow—
Old master has gone to the slaveholder's rest;
He has gone where they all ought to go
We'll no more be roused by the blowing of his horn,
Our backs no longer he will score;
He no more will feed us on cotton–seeds and corn;
For his reign of oppression now is o'er.
He no more will hang our children on the tree,
To be ate by the carrion crow;
He no more will send our wives to Tennessee;
For he's gone where the slaveholders go.
Hang up the shovel and the hoe,
Take down the fiddle and the bow,
We'll dance and sing,
And make the forest ring,
With the fiddle and the old banjo.
While the moon shines so brightly and clear;
Old master is dead, and left us at last,
And has gone at the Bar to appear.
Old master has died, and lying in his grave,
And our blood will awhile cease to flow;
He will no more trample on the neck of the slave;
For he's gone where the slaveholders go.
Hang up the shovel and the hoe—
Take down the fiddle and the bow—
Old master has gone to the slaveholder's rest;
He has gone where they all ought to go.
I heard the old doctor say the other night,
As he passed by the dining–room door—
'Perhaps the old man may live through the night,
But I think he will die about four.'
Young mistress sent me, at the peril of my life,
For the parson to come down and pray,
For says she, 'Your old master is now about to die,'
And says I, 'God speed him on his way.'
Hang up the shovel and the hoe—
Take down the fiddle and the bow—
Old master has gone to the slaveholder's rest;
He has gone where they all ought to go
At four o'clock at morn the family was called
Around the old man's dying bed;
And oh! but I laughed to myself when I heard
That the old man's spirit had fled.
Mr. Carlton cried, and so did I pretend;
Young mistress very nearly went mad;
And the old old person's groans did the heavens fairly rend;
But I tell you I felt mighty glad.
Hang up the shovel and the hoe—
Take down the fiddle and the bow—
Old master has gone to the slaveholder's rest;
He has gone where they all ought to go
We'll no more be roused by the blowing of his horn,
Our backs no longer he will score;
He no more will feed us on cotton–seeds and corn;
For his reign of oppression now is o'er.
He no more will hang our children on the tree,
To be ate by the carrion crow;
He no more will send our wives to Tennessee;
For he's gone where the slaveholders go.
Hang up the shovel and the hoe,
Take down the fiddle and the bow,
We'll dance and sing,
And make the forest ring,
With the fiddle and the old banjo.
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