Way down upon the swanee river, far, far, away.
There’s where my heart is turning ever there’s where the old folks stay.
All up and down the whole creation, sadly I roam.
Still longing for the old plantation and for the old folks at home.
All the world is sad and dreary, everywhere I roam.
Oh, lady, how my heart grows weary, far from the old folks at home.
One little hut among the bushes, one that I love.
Still sadly to my memory rushes, no matter where I love.
When will I see the bees a-hummin’ all round the comb?
When will I hear the banjo strummin’ down in my good old home?
All the world is sad and dreary, everywhere I roam.
Oh, lady, how my heart grows weary, far from the old folks at home. |