The poem
IT was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, For the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O: Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O: Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O.
All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost, Like the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O:
The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, In the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O; And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O: And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O: