| Stephen sprawled across the bed,
|
| Raised the bottle to his mouth.
|
| Pictures danced inside his head,
|
| Gentle breezes from the south,
|
| Cotton fields with voices ringin' low,
|
| Old Black Joe.
|
| And here’s to one tender and fair
|
| Jeannie with the light brown hair
|
| Raised a banjo to her knee,
|
| Sang a lovely melody.
|
| Weep no more, my lady; |
| shed your care.
|
| I’ll be there.
|
| And the Swanee River runs outside the door,
|
| And the whiskey bottles gather on the floor,
|
| And the camp-town ladies stop and ring the bell
|
| Of the American Hotel.
|
| He wrote a song for ev’ryone,
|
| Lifted hearts throughout the land.
|
| Now his world’s an empty one,
|
| A broken dream and a tremblin' hand,
|
| Sad and weary ev’rywhere he’d roam,
|
| Kentucky home.
|
| And the Swanee River runs outside the door,
|
| And the whiskey bottles gather on the floor,
|
| And the camp-town ladies stop and ring the bell
|
| Of the American Hotel. |