Home Sick Poem by James Ephraim McGirt

Sittin' by de windo',
Gazin' at de snow,
Up here in de Norf land,
No friends dat I know.

Sick o' ways o' city.
Tired o' de rip and tare—
Peaceful, happy Georgia,
Lord, if I was dare!

No one hear to talk to,
'Bout de joy I's seen,
Speak o' possum huntin'—
Don' no what yo' mean.

Banjo lyin' idle,
Not allow'd to play,
People in de nex' room,
Too much noise, da' say.

Write hum' fo' a ticket?
Dat 'ould be no use,
Sent me one las' summer,
Sole' it like a goose.

Way too long fo' walkin',
Snow a fallin', too,
Lord a mercy on me,
Wh't am I to do?

Com' hear little banjo,
Lie close to my ear,
I'll jus' pic' yo' easy,
So dem fools can' hear.

What! you say der postman,
Letter he'r fo' me,
No, I jus' can' b'leve it,
Han' me; let me see.

Yes dis is her writin',
Ticket too hav' com',
Com' on little banjo,
Com', I'm goin' hom'.