S.A. Beadle, "On the Commons of Brother John" (1904)
And a mansion for his home;
The humble bed where I rest my head
Is little less than a stone;
But love is there to soothe my care,
And brother John has pride,
So I pity him while I revel there,
For his is a world of care.
My brother John has a fertile farm
Broad fields of cotton and corn,
Naught have I but the deep blue sky,
Just space to look upon,
And a barren spot behind his lot,
He assigns to me as home;
But I feel for John as I revel there
For his is a world of care.
My brother John's lord of a town,
While I not a hovel own;
Without a home the world I roam,
A happier man than John.
I know not why that John and
I Have drifted so far apart,
And I feel for him, my brother there;
For his is a world of care.
My brother's hold is fixed on gold,
A carriage and horses four;
And they draw their load over the paved road
With a flash and a dash by the poor.
When go I must, I tramp through dust
Alone where they have sped,
Yet I feel for John as I revel there;
For his is a world of care.
My brother John has a splendid lawn,
Scythed and rolled and green,
A verdured spot of which I'm not
Even allowed to dream,
To all that pass, “Keep off the grass,"
Is the order, and I keep on,
Yet I envy not for I am happy here
On the commons of brother John.
Published in The Voice of the Negro, May 1904