Part 32

Ef you niggers don't watch, you'll sing anudder chune, Fer de sun'll rise'n ketch you ef you don't be mighty soon; En de stars is gittin' paler, en de ole gray coon Is a settin' in de grape-vine a watchin' fer de moon. W'en a feller comes a knockin' Des holler--Oh, shoo! Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo! Oh, swing dat yaller gal! Do, boys, do! Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo!

Oh, tu'n me loose! Lemme 'lone! Go way, now! W'at you speck I come a dancin' fer ef I dunno how? Deze de ve'y kinder footses w'at kicks up a row; Can't you jump inter de middle en make yo' gal a bow? Look at dat merlatter man A follerin' up Sue; Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo! De boys ain't a gwine W'en you cry boo hoo-- Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo!

VII. TRANSCRIPTIONS *1

1. A PLANTATION CHANT

Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-fo', Christ done open dat He'v'mly do'-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer; Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-five, Christ done made dat dead man alive-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer. You ax me ter run home, Little childun-- Run home, dat sun done roll-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.

Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-six, Christ is got us a place done fix-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer; Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-sev'm Christ done sot a table in Hev'm An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer. You ax me ter run home, Little childun-- Run home, dat sun done roll-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.

Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-eight, Christ done make dat crooked way straight-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer; Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-nine, Christ done tu'n dat water inter wine-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer. You ax me ter run home, Little childun-- Run home, dat sun done roll-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.

Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-ten, Christ is de mo'ner's onliest fr'en'-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer; Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-lev'm, Christ 'll be at de do' w'en we all git ter Hev'm-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer. You ax me ter run home, Little childun-- Run home, dat sun done roll-- An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.

*1 If these are adaptations from songs the negroes have caught from the whites, their origin is very remote. I have transcribed them literally, and I regard them as in the highest degree characteristic.

2.A PLANTATION SERENADE

DE ole bee make de honey-comb, De young bee make de honey, De niggers make de cotton en co'n, En de w'ite folks gits de money.

De raccoon he's a cu'us man, He never walk twel dark, En nuthin' never 'sturbs his mine, Twel he hear ole Bringer bark.

De raccoon totes a bushy tail, De 'possum totes no ha'r, Mr. Rabbit, he come skippin' by, He ain't got none ter spar'.

Monday mornin' break er day, W'ite folks got me gwine, But Sat'dy night, w'en de sun goes down, Dat yaller gal's in my mine.

Fifteen poun' er meat a week, W'isky for ter sell, Oh, how can a young man stay at home, Dem gals dey look so well?

Met a 'possum in de road-- Bre' 'Possum, whar you gwine? I thank my stars, I bless my life, I'm a huntin' for de muscadine.

VIII. THE BIG BETHEL CHURCH

DE Big Bethel chu'ch! de Big Bethel chu'ch! Done put ole Satun behine um; Ef a sinner git loose fum enny udder chu'ch, De Big Bethel chu'ch will fine um!

Hit's good ter be dere, en it's sweet ter be dere, Wid de sisterin' all aroun' you-- A shakin' dem shackles er mussy en' love Wharwid de Lord is boun' you.

Hit's sweet ter be dere en lissen ter de hymns, En hear dem mo'ners a shoutin'-- Dey done reach de place whar der ain't no room Fer enny mo' weepin' en doubtin'.

Hit's good ter be dere w'en de sinners all jine Wid de brudderin in dere singin', En it look like Gaberl gwine ter rack up en blow En set dem heav'm bells ter ringin'!

Oh, de Big Bethel chu'ch! de Big Bethel chu'ch, Done put ole Satun behine am; Ef a sinner git loose fum enny udder chu'ch De Big Bethel chu'ch will fine um!

IX. TIME GOES BY TURNS

DAR'S a pow'ful rassle 'twix de Good en de Bad, En de Bad's got de all--under holt; En w'en de wuss come, she come i'on-clad, En you hatter hol' yo' bref for de jolt.

But des todes de las' Good gits de knee-lock, En dey draps ter de groun'--ker flop! Good had de inturn, en he stan' like a rock, En he bleedzd for ter be on top.

De dry wedder breaks wid a big thunder-clap, For dey ain't no drout' w'at kin las', But de seasons w'at whoops up de cotton crap, Likewise dey freshens up de grass.

De rain fall so saf' in de long dark night, Twel you hatter hol' yo' han' for a sign, But de drizzle w'at sets de tater-slips right Is de makin' er de May-pop vine.

In de mellerest groun' de clay root 'll ketch En hol' ter de tongue er de plow, En a pine-pole gate at de gyardin-patch Never 'll keep out de ole brindle cow.