Black Mud

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The Story Is Everything

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Fleeing from the famine
Ship after ship they came
To New Orleans on promise
A man might make a name
Prideful, free, and hungry
Wretched, lean, and poor
They clambered down the gangway
Ready to endure
For Irishmen can stand their ground
And stand their ground they shall
In water to their waists they're digging
The New Basin Canal
Black mud for the Black Irish
And gray the water's wave
Yellow fever in the sun
And black mud for the grave

Houses in the channel
Long and straight in rows
Chimney stacks and barren rooms
And babes in ragged clothes
Washerwoman wives
Stood on the stoops alone
Waiting for the husbands
Who never made it home
But Irishmen can stand their ground
And stand their ground they shall
In water to their waists they're digging
The New Basin Canal
Black mud for the Black Irish
And gray the water's wave
Yellow fever in the sun
And black mud for the grave

Lower than the Germans
Not as valuable as slaves
Worked for almost nothing
Not even worth the time to save
Buried if they fell
Not long an empty space
Always another desperate 
Irishman to take their place
For Irishmen can stand their ground
And stand their ground they shall
In water to their waists they're digging
The New Basin Canal
Black mud for the Black Irish
And gray the water's wave
Yellow fever in the sun
And black mud for the grave

One-hundred-fifty years have come 
And gone since those dark days
Cars whiz over mindlessly
The Pontchartrain Expressway
But down below the concrete pylons
Underneath the fill
The ghosts of Irish immigrants
Are standing, digging still
For Irishmen can stand their ground
And stand their ground they shall
In water to their waists they're digging
The New Basin Canal
Black mud for the Black Irish
And gray the water's wave
Yellow fever in the sun
And black mud for the grave
For the grave

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