Biografia:
Stephen Collins Foster (July 4, 1826 – January 13, 1864), known as the "father of American music," was the pre-eminent songwriter in the United States of the 19th century. His songs, such as "Oh! Susanna", "Camptown Races", "My Old Kentucky Home", "Old Black Joe", "Beautiful Dreamer" and "Old Folks at Home" ("Swanee River") remain popular over 150 years after their composition.
Foster was born in Lawrenceville, now part of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
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D A7 Bm D/G D Bm A/A7
Way down upon the Swanee River, far, far away
D A7 Bm D/G
That's where my heart is turning ever
D Bm A7 D
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
A7 D D7 G A/A7
All the world is sad and dreary everywhere I roam
D A7 Bm D G
Oh darkies, how my heart grows weary
D A7 D
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
Way down upon the Swanee River, far, far away
D A7 Bm D/G
That's where my heart is turning ever
D Bm A7 D
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
A7 D D7 G A/A7
All the world is sad and dreary everywhere I roam
D A7 Bm D G
Oh darkies, how my heart grows weary
D A7 D
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
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