O who was as happy as I?
She’d a brow like the blossoming pea,
And the rings of her dark glossy hair
Was shown on a darky like me.
Her face was exceedingly fair,
She’d a cheek like the wild rose of June,
And the rings of her dark, glossy hair
Was the pride of my pretty quadroon.
My pretty quadroon,
My flower that faded so soon,
My heart like the strings of my banjo
Was broke for my pretty quadroon.
I knew not that I was a slave,
So kind was my massa to me,
So gentle, so manly and true,
I had not one wish to be free.
For massa had gardens and flowers,
The flowers were always in bloom,
But he grudged me one pretty wild flower,
‘Twas Collia, my pretty quadroon.
Because I with grief tore my hair,
With a hand that was white as his own,
He shackled and sold me afar,
To die in the rice fields alone.
I heed not the sting nor the smart,
Nor the heat of the hot summer noon,
‘Tis nothing I fear but this heart
That breaks for my pretty quadroon.
Farewell to those beautiful shades,
Farewell to the little correll,
Where Collia and I often strayed,
Farewell to Kentucky’s green hills.
My sorrows will soon be forgot,
My heart will soon rest in the tomb,
But my soul shall fly back to the spot
And watch o’er my pretty quadroon.