My Mountain Home

De mango tree in yellow bloom,
    De pretty akee seed,
De mammee where de John-to-whits come
    To have their daily feed,

Show you de place where I was born,
    Of which I am so proud,
’Mongst de banana-field an’ corn
    On a lone mountain-road.

One Sunday marnin’ ’fo’ de hour
    Fe service-time come on,
Ma say dat I be’n born to her
    Her little las’y son.

Those early days be’n neber dull,
    My heart was ebergreen;
How I did lub my little wul’
    Surrounded by pingwin!

An’ growin’ up, with sweet freedom
    About de yard I’d run;
An’ tired out I’d hide me from
    De fierce heat of de sun.

So glad I was de fus’ day when
    Ma sent me to de spring;
I was so happy feelin’ then
    Dat I could do somet’ing.

De early days pass quickly ’long,
    Soon I became a man,
An’ one day found myself among
    Strange folks in a strange lan’.

My little joys, my wholesome min’,
    Dey bullied out o’ me,
And made me daily mourn an’ pine
    An’ wish dat I was free.

Dey taught me to distrust my life,
    Dey taught me what was grief;
For months I travailed in de strife,
    ’Fo’ I could find relief.

But I’ll return again, my Will,
    An’ where my wild ferns grow
An’ weep for me on Dawkin’s Hill,
    Dere, Willie, I shall go.

An’ dere is somet’ing near forgot,
    Although I lub it best;
It is de loved, de hallowed spot
    Where my dear mother rest.

Look good an’ find it, Willie dear,
    See dat from bush ’tis free;
Remember that my heart is near,
    An’ you say you lub me.

An’ plant on it my fav’rite fern,
    Which I be’n usual wear;
In days to come I shall return
    To end my wand’rin’s dere.

From Songs of Jamaica (Aston W. Gardner & Co., 1912) by Claude McKay. This poem is in the public domain.