Uncle Tom's Lament
H. J. Wehman, Song Publisher, 50 Chatham St., N. Y.
Uncle’s Tom’s Lament.
You will miss me darling Chole, when I sleep beneath the sod,
Where the Summer winds are murmuring o’er the lea;
You will think of me in kindness, as life’s weary road you plod,
When my spirit rests from pain and sorrow free;
The sands of life are slowly ebbing, darling, with the tide,
And soon these bones will mingle with the clay;
In the Winter of your sorrow you will think of how I died,
And you’ll miss me, Chole, when I’m laid away.
You tell our little children that their father dwells above,
How the angles led him up the golden stair;
You will tell them how I loved them, with a fond and sacred love—
They must try to meet their poor old father there.
And when the Judge his trumpet sounds from realms of bliss on
And the morning of the great day comes at last, [high,
I will meet you, darling Chloe, and together you and I
Will no longer dread December’s wintry blast.