DEACON JONES' GRIEVANCE
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've been watchin' of 'em, parson,An' I 'm sorry fur to say'At my mind is not contentedWith 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 ChristunsA-singin' hymns for hire. But I never would 'a' murmuredAn' the matter might 'a' goneEf it was n't fur the antics'At I've seen 'em kerry on;So I thought it was my dootyFur to come to you an' askEf you would n't sort o' gentlyTake them singin' folks to task. Fust, the music they 've be'n singin'Will disgrace us mighty soon;It 's a cross between a opryAn' a ol' cotillion tune.With its dashes an' its quaversAn' its hifalutin style--Why, it sets my head to swimmin'When I 'm comin' down the aisle. Now it might be almost decentEf it was n't fur the way'At they git up there an' sing it,Hey dum diddle, loud and gay.Why, it shames the name o' sacredIn 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'elFor threescore years an' more,An' it sort o' hurts my feelin'sFur to see 'em put awayFur 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 objectionsAll is offered sound and clear.It was one day they was singin'An' was doin' well enough--Singin' good as people could singSich an awful mess o' stuff-- When the choir give a holler,An' the organ give a groan,An' they left one weak-voiced fellerA-singin' there alone!But he stuck right to the music,Tho' 't was tryin' as could be;An' when I tried to help him,Why, the hull church scowled at me. You say that's so-low singin',Well, I pray the Lord that IGrowed up when folks was willin'To sing their hymns so high.Why, we never had sich doin'sIn the good ol' Bethel days,When the folks was all contentedWith the simple songs of praise. Now I may have spoke too open,But 'twas too hard to keep still,An' I hope you 'll tell the singers'At I bear 'em no ill-will.'At they all may git to gloryIs my wish an' my desire,But they 'll need some extry trainin''Fore they jine the heavenly choir.
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