James Weldon Johnson, ed. (1871–1938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922.
Black Mammies
I
Ah expec’ to hyah a story, an’ Ah hope you’ll hyah it, too,—
Hit’ll kiver Maine to Texas, an’ f’om Bosting to Miami,—
Ov de highes’ shaf’ in glory, ’rected to de Negro Mammy.
An’ good of Fathah Lincoln, tow’rin’ ’bove de rest o’ men;
But dar’ll be a bunch o’ women standin’ hard up by de th’one,
An’ dey’ll all be black an’ homely,—’less de Virgin Mary’s one.
An’ de whi’ folks would go crazy ’thout their Mammy folks again
If it’s r’ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart’,
Den our blessed, good of Mammies must ’a’ been of noble birt’.
Dey’ll be standin’ nex’ to Jesus, sub to no one else but Him;
If de crown goes to de fait’ful, an’ de palm de victors wear,
Dey’ll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere.
But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o’ joy was full;
Dough’ of Satan tried to shake huh f’om huh knees wid scowl an’ frown,
She jes’ “clumb up Jacob’s ladder,” an’ he nevah drug huh down.
An’ no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a song;
She jes’ prayed huh way to heaben, findin’ comfort in de rod;
She jes’ “stole away to Jesus,” she jes’ sung huh way to God!
Kep’ a-lookin’ fo “de char’et,” kep’ “a-waitin’ fo’ de Lawd,”
If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt,
It ain’t nevah been discovahed, fo’ she nevah sung it out;
An’ she longed fo’ one possession: “dat heaben to be mine”;
An’ she prayed huh chil’en freedom, but she won huhse’f de bes’,—
Peace on eart’ amids’ huh sorrows, an’ up yonder heabenly res’!