Page:The complete poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.pdf/77



I've been watchin' of 'em, parson,
 * An' I'm sorry fur to say

'At my mind is not contented
 * With the loose an' keerless way

'At the young folks treat the music;
 * 'T ain't the proper sort o' choir.

Then I don't believe in Christuns
 * A-singin' hymns for hire.

But I never would 'a' murmured
 * An' the matter might 'a' gone

Ef it wasn't fur the antics
 * 'At I've seen 'em kerry on;

So I thought it was my dooty
 * Fur to come to you an' ask

Ef you would n't sort o' gently
 * Take them singin' folks to task.

Fust, the music they've be'n singin'
 * Will disgrace us mighty soon;

It's a cross between a opry
 * An' a ol' cotillion tune.

With its dashes an' its quavers
 * An' its hifalutin style—

Why, it sets my head to swimmin'
 * When I'm comin' down the aisle.

Now it might be almost decent
 * Ef it wasn't fur the way

'At they git up there an' sing it,
 * Hey dum diddle, loud and gay.

Why, it shames the name o' sacred
 * In its brazen wordliness,

An' they 've even got "Ol' Hundred"
 * In a bold, new-fangled dress.

You 'll excuse me, Mr. Parson,
 * Ef I seem a little sore;

But I've sung the songs of Isr'el
 * For threescore years an' more,

An' it sort o' hurts my feelin's
 * Fur to see 'em put away

Fur these harum-scarum ditties
 * 'At is capturin' the day.

There 's anuther little happ'nin'
 * 'At I'll mention while I'm here,

Jes' to show 'at my objections
 * All is offered sound and clear,

It was one day they was singin'
 * An' was doin' well enough—

Singin' good as people could sing
 * Sich an awful mess o' stuff—

When the choir give a holler,
 * An' the organ give a groan,

An' they left one weak-voiced feller
 * A-singin' there alone!

But he stuck right to the music,
 * Tho' 't was tryin' as could be;