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 the world is sad and dreary,
ev'rywhere I roam,
oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary
far from the old folks at home.
All up and down the whole creation, sadly I roam,
still longing for the old plantation
and for the old folks at home.
All 'round the little farm I wandered when I was young,
then many happy days I squander'd, many the songs I sung.
When I was playing with my brother, happy was I,
Oh! Take me to my kind old mother, there let me live and die!
One little hut among the bushes, one that I love,
still sadly to my mem'ry rushes, no matter where I rove.
When will I see the bees a-humming all round the comb?
When will I hear the banjo strumming down in my good old home?