“The rev’rend man is scarcely through, When all the noise begins anew. And with such force assaults the ears, That through the din one hardly hears Old fiddling ‘Josey’ sound his ‘A’, Correct the pitch, begin to play.” Then the dance begins. “_S’lute yo’ pardners!_—scrape perlitely— Don’t be bumpin’ ’gin de res’— _Balance all!_—now, step out rightly; Alluz dance yo’ lebbel bes’. _Fo’wa’d foah!_—whoop up, niggers! _Back ag’in!_—don’t be so slow!— _Sw-i-i-ing cornahs!_—min’ de figgers! When I hollers, den yo’ go. _Top ladies cross ober!_ Hol’ on, till I takes a dram— _Gemmen solo!_—yes, _I’s_ sober— Cain’t say how de fiddle am. _Hands around!_—hol’ up yo’ faces, Don’t be lookin’ at yo’ feet! _Swing yo’ pardners to yo’ places!_ Dat’s de way—dat’s hard to beat _Sides fo’w’d!_—when yo’s ready— Make a bow as low’s you kin! _Swing acrosst wid opp’site lady!_ Now we’ll let you swap ag’in: _Ladies change!_—shet up dat talkin’; Do yo’ talkin’ arter while! _Right an’ lef’!_—don’t want no walkin’— Make yo’ steps, an’ show yo’ style! “And so the ‘set’ proceeds—its length Determined by the dancers’ strength; And all agree to yield the palm For grace and skill to ‘Georgy Sam,’ Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high, ‘Des watch him!’ is the wond’ring cry— ‘De nigger mus’ be, for a fac’, Own cousin to a jumpin’-jack!’ On, on the restless fiddle sounds, Still chorused by the curs and hounds; Dance after dance succeeding fast, Till supper is announced at last. That scene—but why attempt to show it? The most inventive modern poet, In fine new words whose hope and trust is, Could form no phrase to do it justice! When supper ends—that is not soon— The fiddle strikes the same old tune; The dancers pound the floor again, With all they have of might and main; Old gossips, almost turning pale, Attend Aunt Cassy’s gruesome tale Of conjurers, and ghosts, and devils, That in the smoke-house hold their revels; Each drowsy baby droops his head, Yet scorns the very thought of bed:— So wears the night, and wears so fast, All wonder when they find it past, And hear the signal sound to go From what few cocks are left to crow.” In the wee sma’ hours near daylight Uncle Booker sings the story of the first banjo.