All on a frosty morning.
No. 24.
_Do, Do, Pity my Case._
Do, do, pity my case,
In some lady's garden;
My clothes to wash when I get home,
In some lady's garden.
Do, do, pity my case,
In some lady's garden;
My clothes to iron when I get home,
In some lady's garden.
And so on, the performers lamenting the duty which lies upon them of
scrubbing their floors, baking their bread, etc.
_Louisiana._
This pretty dance, with its idiomatic English, which comes to us from
the extreme South, is obviously not modern. The chorus refers, not to
the place of the labor, but to the locality of the dance: it may have
been originally _in my lady's garden_. Our informant remembers the
game as danced by negro children, their scanty garments flying as the
ring spun about the trunk of some large tree; but (though the naive
appeal to pity may seem characteristic of Southern indolence) this is
evidently no negro song.
No. 25.
_When I Was a Shoemaker._
[Illustration]