 The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Red for LibriVox.org by Brenda J. Davis In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way Sat an old man, bent and feeble, Dusk of face and hair of gray, And beside him on the table, battered, old and worn as he, lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last. Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land. And if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs, when labour's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door. And of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap. While you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me. And again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded. Circumstance may make us bend. But they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade? In the end. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lauren Stunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Andy Glover In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way, sat an old man, bent and feeble, musk of face and hair of gray, and beside him on the table, battered old and worn as he, lay a banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last. Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land. And if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when labor's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me. Build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstances may make us bend. But they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade, in the end. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for Libby Rocks.org by algae pug In a small and lonely cabin, out of noisy traffic's way, sat an old man, bent and feeble, dusk of face and hair of grey, and beside him on the table, battered, old and worn as he, lay a banjo droning forth his reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. But I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, and if, love tales, were not sacred, there's a tale I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when labour's hour was all, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend, but they'll only find us mellower, where they comrade, in the end. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Red for LibriVox.org by Anita Sloma Martinez In a small and lonely cabin, out of noisy traffic sway, sat an old man, bent and feeble, dusk of face and hair of grey, and beside him on the table, battered, old and worn as he, Lea Banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had, let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, and if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when labour's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? One may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend, but they'll only find a smellower, won't they, comrade, in the end? And if poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk In a small and lonely cabin, out of noisy traffic's way, Yet an old man bent and feeble, dusk of face and hair of grey, And beside him on the table, battered old and worn as he, Libanjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last, Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past, For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, When the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land. And if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell Of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell, And I speak to you of carefree songs when labour's hour was o'er. And a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, And of something roly-poly that you took up on your lap, While you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, Pup! Pup! I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, Build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, Circumstance may make us bend, But they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade? In the end, and a poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo, by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Read for Libberbox.org by Chad Horner from Ballyclair in County Under Northern Ireland, Situated in the north-east of the island of Ireland, In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way, Sat an old man bent in feeble, dusk of face and hair of grey, And beside him on the table, battered old and worn as he, Lay a banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, But don't be sad, Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last, Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past, For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, When the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land. And if love tales were not scared, there's a tale that I could tell, Of your many nightly wanderings with the dusk and lovely bell, And I speak to you of carefree songs, When labours are was oar, And a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, And of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, While you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, PAP PAP! I could tell you of a possum-hunt across the wooded grounds, I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up in smelling of the timber that's in me, Build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree, So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us purr and stranded, Circumstance may make us band, But they'll only find us mellower, Won't they comrade in the end? The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way, At an old man, bent and feeble, dusk of face and hair of grey, And beside him on the table, battered, old and worn as he, Leia Banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last, Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, When the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, And of love-tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell Of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when Labour's hour was o'er, And a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, And of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, While you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, PAP! PAP! I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up, and smelling of the timber that's in me, Build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you were blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, Circumstance may make us bend. But they'll only find us knower, won't they, comrade, in the end. The voice of the banjo by Paul Laurence Dunbar read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way sat an old man bent and feeble, Dusk of face and hair of grey, and beside him on the table, battered, old and worn as he, They a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past, for I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land. And if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and a lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when labour's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pat, pat, I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds, I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds, you could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend, but they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade, in the end? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, read for Librebox.org by Erin Stone. In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way, said an old man bent in feeble, dusk of face and hair of gray, and beside him on the table, battered old and worn as he, lay a banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silverying all the land. And if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and a lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when laborer's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call you to mind the sweetness of the bang of the hounds. You could lift me up in smelling of the timber that's in me. Build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you were blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend, but they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade, in the end. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Garth Burton In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way sat an old man bent and feeble, dusk of face and hair of grey, and beside him on the table battered, old and worn as he lay a banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last. Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, and if love tales were not sacred there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when labour's hours are, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap-pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up, and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend, but they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade? In the end. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Scott Cheltenham, England GrahamScottAudio.com In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way sat an old man bent and feeble, dusk of face and hair of grey, and beside him on the table, battered, old and worn as he, lay a banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last. Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, and if love-tales were not sacred there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when Labour's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds, I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend. But they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade, in the end. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Joseph Campbell In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way sat an old man bent in feeble dusk of face and hair of grey, and beside him on the table batted old in war-ness he lay in banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and all the joys that we have had, let us keep a merry vestige and be happy till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, and if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when labour's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds, I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up in smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstances may make us bend, but they'll only find a smell of her. But they calm that in the end. Into poem this recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Laurence Dunbar, read from LibriVox.org by Ky 11, November 10, 2019, Grandie Connecticut, USA. In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way, said an old man bent in feeble, dusk of face and hair of gray, and beside him on the table, battered old and worn as he, lay a banjo turning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had, let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. Before I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, and if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell, that your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell, and I seek to you of carefree songs when labor's hour was over, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pat-pat, I could tell you of a possum hunt across the woody grounds, I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds, you could lit me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us, while we keep the past in mind, what care I for trembling fingers, what care you that you are blind? I may leave as poor and stranded circumstance may make it spend, but they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade, in the end? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Laurence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA In a small and lonely cabin, out of noisy traffic's way, sat an old man bent in feeble, dusk of face and hair of gray, and beside him on the table, battered, old and worn as he, lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happily till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land. And if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs, when labour's hour was o'er. In a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mine the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up in smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend. But they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade, in the end. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf. In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way sat an old man bent and feeble, dusk of face and hair of gray, and beside him on the table, battered, old and worn as he, lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last. Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silverying all the land, and if love tales were not secret there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. When I speak to you of carefree songs when labour's hour was over, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pep, pep, I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds. I could call to mind the sweetness of the bane of the hounds. You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend. But they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade, in the end? In the poem this recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley In a small and lonely cabin, out of noisy traffic's way, sat an old man bent and feeble, dusk of face and hair of grey, and beside him, on the table, battered old and worn as he, lay a banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last. Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, and if love-tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. When I speak to you of carefree songs when labour's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roley-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap, pap! I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds, I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds. You could lift me up, and, smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend, but they'll only find us mellower once they comrade in the end. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, read for Vibrevox.org by Roaring Lionfish of Los Angeles, California. In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way sat an old man bent in feeble, dusk of face and hair of gray, and beside him on the table battered old and worn as he lay a banjo droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past. For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land, and if love tales were not sacred there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when labor's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door, and of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pap-pap. I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wood of grounds, I could call to mine the sweetness of the bane of the hounds. You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind. What care I for trembling fingers? What care you that you are blind? You may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend, but they'll only find us mellower, won't they, comrade, in the end. The Voice of the Banjo by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, read for LibriVox by Rebecca Zimmerman. In a small and lonely cabin, out of noisy traffic's way sat an old man, bent and feeble, mask of face and hair of gray, and beside him on the table battered, old and worn as he lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody. Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don't be sad. Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had. Let us keep a merry visage and be happy till the last, let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past, for I speak to you of summer nights upon this yellow sand, when the southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land. And if love tales were not sacred, there's a tale that I could tell of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely bell. And I speak to you of carefree songs when labor's hour was o'er, and a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door. And if something roly-poly that you took upon your lap, while you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, pep-ap, I could tell you of a possum hunt across the wooded grounds I could call to mine the sweetness of the bang of the hounds, you could lift me up and smelling of the timber that's in me, build again a whole green forest with the memory of a tree. So the future cannot hurt us while we keep in mind the past. What care I for trembling fingers would carry you that you are blind? Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend, but they'll only find us mellower won't they comrade, in the end. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.