Pour O pour that parting soul in song,

     O pour it in the sawdust glow of night,

     Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night,

     And let the valley carry it along.

     And let the valley carry it along.



O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,

So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,

Now just before an epoch's sun declines

Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee,

Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.



In time, for though the sun is setting on

A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set;

Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet

To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone,

Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.



O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums,

Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air,

Passing before they stripped the old tree bare

One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes



An everlasting song, a singing tree,

Caroling softly souls of slavery,

What they were, and what they are to me,

Caroling softly souls of slavery.