Der's no use bein' scared o' cungers,
An' lettin' black cats turn you back,
You jus' go on about your business,
And let de cungers hav' your track.

Fo' Friday aint no wus' dan Monday,
As far as luck to you's concerned,
You han' may itch don't spit into it,
You won't git nothin' but what you earn.

Your nose may itch, no one is coming,
Your foot may itch, you'll go nowhere,
An' you can let de worms crall o'er you,
An' den no new dress get to wear.

'N' caus' you have a little learnin',
You need not try to figure rich,
Jus' go and get a spaid or shovel,
And go runnin' to de ditch.

And when you feel a little happy,
Don't think of all de grief you've had.
An' 'caus your eyes is trimblin' little,
Dat ain't no sign you goin' git mad.

An' if de toe next to de big one,
Is kinder long—you ain't go'in rule,
Because my hair grows on my forehead,
You need not take me for a fool.

I'm going to sing soon in de mornin',
De hawks may catch me before night,
But if da do you need not worry,
Jus' say: 'I bet they had to fight.'