We labors in de vin’ya’d, wukin’ hard an’ wukin’ true; Now, shorely yo’ won’t notus, ef we eats a grape or two, An’ takes a leetle holiday,—a leetle restin’-spell,— Bekase, nex’ week, we’ll start in fresh, an’ labor twicet as well. Remember, Mahsr,—min’ dis now,—de sinfullness ob sin Is ’pendin’ ’pon de sperrit what we goes an’ does it in; An’ in a righchis frame ob min’ we’s gwine to dance an’ sing, A-feelin’ like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing. It seems to me—indeed it do—I mebbe mout be wrong— Dat people raly _ought_ to dance, when Chrismus comes along; Des dance bekase dey’s happy—like de birds hops in de trees, De pine-top fiddle soundin’ to be bowin’ ob de breeze. We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul’s prophet king; We has no harp to soun’ de chords, to holp us out to sing; But ’cordin’ to de gif’s we has we does de bes’ we knows, An’ folks don’t ’spise de vi’let-flower bekase it ain’t de rose. Yes, bless us, please, Sah, eben ef we’s doin’ wrong to-night; Kase den we’ll need de blessin’ more’n ef we’s doin’ right; An’ let de blessin’s stay wid us, untel we comes to die, An’ goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky! Yes, tell dem preshis anguls we’s a-gwine to jine ’em soon: Our voices we’s a-trainin’ fur to sing de glory tune; We’s ready when you wants us, an’ it ain’t no matter when. O Mahsr! call yo’ chillen soon, an’ take ’em home! _Amen._ DE FUST BANJO Go ’way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’. Keep silence fur yo’ betters! don’t you heah de banjo talkin’? About de ’possum’s tail she’s gwine to lecter—ladies, listen! About de ha’r whut isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’: “Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn— Fur Noah tuk de “Herald,” an’ he read de ribber column— An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin’ timber-patches, An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah _Natchez_. Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’; An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’; But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen: An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’. Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o’ beas’es— Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle— An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle. Den sech anoder fall ob rain! It come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an’ busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out—’cep’ Noah an’ de critters, An’ men he’d hired to wuk de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters. De Ark she kep’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’ _an’_ a-sailin’; De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tel’, whut wid all de fussin’, You c’u’dn’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ ’roun’ an’ cussin’.