O all you little blackey tops,

a
O all you little blackey tops,
Pray don't you eat my father's crops,
While I lie down to take a nap.
Shua-O! Shua-O!

b
If father he perchance should come,
With his cocked hat and his long gun,
Then you must fly and I must run.
Shua-O! Shua-O!