The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home, The voters are boozy and gay; The rye is ripe and the Bourbon is in bloom, And the shotgun makes music all the day. The stone jug rises to kiss the waiting mouth, And the upturned eyes gladly play On the soft blue skies of the sunny, sunny South In my old Kentucky home far away. Put on a shirt of mail beneath your Sunday coat, Wear an armor plate under your vest; That’s the safest way when the nigger gets to vote, The white man is there to protect. O, there’s gay old times when the election comes around, There’s music to liven the day; The sexton’s spade stabs the Dark and Bloody Ground In my old Kentucky home far away. The black smoke pours from the chimney of the still, The fragrance of the corn taints the breeze, It rises up until tears of angels spill, And the man in the moon has to sneeze. The red juice shines in the bottle on the shelf, The sunbeams around it play, When your throat gets dry pull the cork and help yourself, In my old Kentucky home far away. The feud man hides in the corner of the fence, And waits for a shot at his foe; The toeman’s soul goes a-kiting to the hence, To the land where they don’t shovel snow. The coroner comes to investigate the death, And jags up comfortable gay, And the verd’ct says that he died from the want of breath— In my old Kentucky home far away. Weep no more, my lady, Weep no more to-day, For things have changed in my old Kentucky home, In my old Kentucky home far away.