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I am dying, brother, dying. Soon you'll miss me in your berth, And my form will soon be lying 'Neath the ocean's briny surf. Oh, lie up nearer, brother, nearer, For my limbs are growing cold, And thy presence seemeth dear When thy arms around me fold. Tell my father when you greet him, That in death I prayed for him. Prayed that I might one day meet him In a world that's free from sin. Tell my mother, God as sister . . . Now that she is growing old. Tell her son was glad to have kissed her When his lips grew pale and cold. Also found in Randolph, Vol. II, #183; Belden, p. 350. |
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All Songs Recorded by John Quincy Wolf, Jr., unless otherwise noted The John Quincy Wolf Folklore Collection Lyon College, Batesville, Arkansas Back to the Song Index Back to the Wolf Collection Homepage ©Copyright 2002 Lyon College |