“That the present condition of these people is in favourable contrast with that under their masters, is evident from their songs, which constitute a striking feature in their manifestations of character. They are a musical people. When they work in concert, as in rowing or grinding at the mill, their hands keep time to music. Their boat songs are the ones most frequently heard. The islands are made and permeated by rivers and creeks, and the boat furnishes the most common mode of locomotion.
When the negroes begin to row, they at the same time begin to sing. All their songs are in the minor key. If one chances to begin on the major, it quickly saddens and passes into the minor. Their songs are all religious, barcaroles and all. I speak without exception. So far as I heard, or was told of their singing, it was all religious. None of their songs express mirth or present joy. The only joy expressed or implied is that of hope "Rest at last," was their general burthen; "Heaven is my home;" Have a little patience;" "God will deliver"-these and the like were the refrains of all their ballads.
There was one, which, on shore, we heard more than any other, and which was irresistibly touching. It was a sort of ballad, known as "Poor Rosy, Poor Gal." It is almost impossible to give an idea of the effect of this or any of their songs by a mere recital or description. They are all exceedingly simple, both in sentiment and music. Each stanza contains but a single thought, set in perhaps two or three bars of music; and yet as they sing it, in alternate recitative and chorus, with varying inflections and dramatic effect, this simple and otherwise monotonous melody will, to a musical ear, and heart susceptible of impression, have all the charm of variety. Take, for instance, a few stanzas from the dirge of "Poor Rosy." Fancy the first line sung in the major key, and the two following changed by an easy transition, and with varying inflections, into the minor, and you will have some idea of the effect.
Poor Rosy, poor gal! Poor–Rosy–poor–gal! P-o-o-r R-o-s-y, p-o-o-r g-a-l! Heaven shall be my home.
Hard trial on my way! Hard–trial–on–my–way! H-a-r-d t-r-i-a-l o-n m-y w-a-y! Heaven shall be my home.
Wonder what de people want of me, Wonder–what–de–people–want–of–me, W-o-n-d-e-r w-h-a-t d-e p-e-o-p-l-e w-a-n-t o-f m-e, Heaven shall be my home.
When I talk I talk with God! When–I–talk–I–talk–with–God! W-h-e-n I t-a-l-k I t-a-l-k w-i-t-h G-o-d! Heaven shall be my home.
I asked one of these blacks-one of the most intelligent I had met-where they got these songs. "Dey make 'em, sah. How do they make them?" After a pause, evidently casting about for an explanation, he said, "I'll tell you; it's dis way My master call me up and order me a short peck of corn and a hundred lash. My friends see it and is sorry for me. When dey come to de praise meeting dat night dey sing about it. Some's very good singers and know how; and dey work it in, work it in you know, till dey get it right; and dat's de way." A very satisfactory explanation.
I said these songs were all in the minor key. This was a mistake. They have one that has a cheerful, and, as it sounded when I first heard it, a hilarious ring. It is a new one, made, as they said, "since secesh times." It runs thus:
No more driver call for me, No more driver call; No more driver call for me, Many a thousand die!
No more peck of corn for me, No more peck of corn; No more peck of corn for me, Many a thousand die.
No more hundred lash for me, No more hundred lash; No more hundred lash for me, Many a thousand die.
And so on, recounting all the incidents of slave life.
When I first heard this song I was going up from Hilton Head to Beaufort, in a boat rowed by a half dozen men detailed from the 1st regiment of South Carolina volunteers*. They were in fine voice and spirits, and the echoes came back from the inlets of Ladies and St. Helena with fine effect….” [The Freed Men of South Carolina, Port Royal Relief Society, McKim, 1862] James Miller McKim (1810 – 1874)
Also: Thomas Wentworth Higginson's Negro Spirituals, for the Atlantic Monthly and Army Life in a Black Regiment, 1862, covered in various other threads.