'Do they miss me at home—do they miss me?'
'Twould be an assurance to me,
To know that I'm really forgotten,
My face they could never more see.

'Do they miss me at home—do they miss me?'
By light, as the horn echoes loud,
And the slaves are marched off to the corn-field,
I'm miss'd from that half-naked crowd.

'Do they miss me at home—do they miss me?'
The hut, with its bare floor of dirt,
Where the ash-cake is waiting to greet me,
When done with my thankless day's work.

'Do they miss me at home—do they miss me?'
The driver his lash used to ply,
As the blood trickl'd down from my shoulders
The flesh from my body would fly.

'Do they miss me at home—do they miss me?'
The blood-hounds are scenting my track,
And for long weary days they have hunted,
In order to hurry me back.

'Do they miss me at home—do they miss me?'
The pockets are empty of cash,
While the auction-block 's waiting to meet me
The trader stands by with his lash.

'Do they miss me at home—do they miss me?'
In the fields of rice, sugar, and grain;
If they do, I am glad, I assure you,
They never shall see me again.