The Real Ethiopian Serenader
This is a song about, and not from, the 'business' of minstrelsy in the 1840s, written and performed by a popular British entertainer from the early music halls of London. Brother Jonathan's references to the money made by burnt cork entertainers, and to the number of performers who blacked up to cash in, reinforce and corroborate the evidence that minstrelsy was not just ordinarily popular during this period--it was a 'pop phenomenon.'
For further information, see its page in The Juba Project's Minstrelsy Database.
Credits
Andrew Dale, lead vocals and tambourine; Tom Power, banjo; Kate Bevan-Baker, fiddle; Justin Merdsoy, sound technician.
Lyrics
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Oh! Once I was a seedy cove
I’d scarcely coat or breeches,
For then I was a spoor as Job
But now I’m reach as creases;
I’d scarce a rag upon my back,
To hide my wretched figure,
But when done brown I chang’d to black
And come out as a Nigger.
When I was young I had a woice,
And often would I then err,
I left the counter cos my choice
Was singing counter tenor.
But never till I black’d my nut,
Of Tin did I see traces,
When I to make my first debut
Come out as Epsom races!
So much the whole nobility,
By jumping Jim Crow was struck sirs,
That I resolv’d to have a shy,
In London Town for luck sirs;
A chaunting ballads was no go,
And Actors wulgar traders,
And so I jin’d the Ethiopian Sarah Naders!
Tom Thumb he had a tidy run, His money in the bank is,
So seeing how the folks was done, We svore we too vos Yankies.
Them Yanky boys they has such knacks, With them there’s nothing irksome.
For when they’re here they plays the blacks, And when at home they works ‘em.
They say that Day and Martin’s trade No customer is lacking,
But bless your heart they never made Half what we have by blacking!
Prince Albert’s werry fond of us And the Queen with mind Creative,
You know she always makes a fuss With ev’ry thing wots Native.
We’ve gammon’d all the London press Both weekly and diurnal,
Lor’ how we’ve taken in the Times done or the Court Journal!
They say we’re witty in our way, We never have out fun done,
And for their papers ev’ry day They bones our last Cunnumdrums!
Publication Information
Publisher: T.E. Purday, 50 St. Paul’s Church Yard. London
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