OLD FOLKS AT HOME

“Old Folks at Home,” also known by the words of its first line, “(Way Down Upon the)

Swanee River,” is a song written in 1851 by composer Stephen Foster, to be performed

by the New York performing troupe Christy’s Minstrels. The name of E. P. Christy, the

troupe’s leader, appears on early printings of the music as the song’s creator, as shown in

the illustration; Christy had paid Foster to be credited, something Foster himself had

suggested. Though Foster later regretted this, the deal stood. It has been the official state

song of Florida since 1935.

According to legend, Foster had most of the lyrics in place but was casting about to give

a name to the river of the opening line and asked his brother to suggest one. The first

suggestion was “the Yazoo” of Mississippi, which, despite fitting the melody perfectly,

Foster rejected. The second suggestion was “the Pee Dee” of the Carolinas, to which

Foster said, “Oh pshaw! I won’t have that.” His brother then consulted an atlas and called

out “Suwannee!”. Foster immediately wrote it in (misspelling it “Swanee” to fit the

melody), saying “That’s it exactly!”. Foster himself never saw the Suwannee or even

visited Florida, but the popularity of the song singlehandedly started a major tourist

movement to Florida to see the river, as travelers from the Northeastern states in

particular flocked to the region.

Way down upon the Swanee River, far, far away

That’s where my heart is turning ever

That’s where the old folks stay

All up and down the whole creation, sadly I roam

Still longing for the old plantation

And for the old folks at home

All the world is sad and dreary everywhere I roam

Oh darkies, how my heart grows weary

Far from the old folks at home

All ’round the little farm I wandered, when I was young

Then many happy days I squandered, many the songs I sung

When I was playing with my brother, happy was I

Oh, take me to my kind old mother, there let me live and die

One little hut among the bushes, one that I love

Still sadly to my mem’ry rushes, no matter where I rove

When shall I see the bees a humming, all ’round the comb

When shall I hear the banjo strumming, down by my good old home

Banjo Mountain