You tas’e petater an’ you say it sweet,
But you no know how hard we wuk fe it;
You want a basketful fe quattiewut,
’Cause you no know how ’tiff de bush fe cut.

De cowitch under which we hab fe ’toop,
De shamar lyin’ t’ick like pumpkin soup,
Is killin’ somet’ing for a naygur man;
Much less de cutlass workin’ in we han’. 

De sun hot like when fire ketch a town;
Shade-tree look temptin’, yet we caan’ lie down,
Aldough we wouldn’ eben ef we could,
Causen we job must finish soon an’ good. 

De bush cut done, de bank dem we deh dig,
But dem caan’ ’tan’ sake o’ we naybor pig;
For so we moul’ it up he root it do’n,
An’ we caan’ ’peak sake o’ we naybor tongue.

Aldough de vine is little, it can bear;
It wantin’ not’in’ but a little care:
You see petater tear up groun’, you run,
You laughin’, sir, you must be t’ink a fun. 

De fiel!’ pretty? It couldn’t less ’an dat,
We wuk de bes’, an’ den de lan’ is fat;
We dig de row dem eben in a line,
An’ keep it clean—den so it mus’ look fine. 

You tas’e petater an’ you say it sweet,
But you no know how hard we wuk fe it;
Yet still de hardship always melt away
Wheneber it come roun’ to reapin’ day.