They ‘ve got a brand-new organ, Sue,
For all their fuss and search;
They’ve done just as they said they’d do,
And fetched it into church.
They’re bound the critter shall be seen,
And on the preacher’s right
They’ve hoisted up their new machine,
In every body’s sight.
They’ve got a chorister and choir,
Ag’in’ my voice and vote;
For it was never my desire,
To praise the Lord by note!
I’ve been a sister good an’ true
For five-an’-thirty year;
I’ve done what seemed my part to do,
An’ prayed my duty clear;
I’ve sung the hymns both slow and quick,
Just as the preacher read,
And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,
I took the fork an’ led!
And now, their bold, new-fangled ways
Is comin’ all about;
And I, right in my latter days,
Am fairly crowded out!
To-day the preacher, good old dear,
With tears all in his eyes,
Read, “I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies.”
I al’ays liked that blessed hymn–
I s’pose I al’ays will;
It somehow gratifies my whim,
In good old Ortonville;
But when that choir got up to sing,
I couldn’t catch a word;
They sung the most dog-gondest thing
A body ever heard!
Some worldly chaps was standin’ near;
An’ when I see them grin,
I bid farewell to every fear,
And boldly waded in.
I thought I’d chase their tune along,
An’ tried with all my might;
But though my voice is good an’ strong,
I couldn’t steer it right;
When they was high, then I was low,
An’ also contrawise;
An’ I too fast, or they too slow,
To “mansions in the skies.”
An’ after every verse, you know,
They play a little tune;
I didn’t understand, an’ so
I started in too soon.
I pitched it pretty middlin’ high,
I fetched a lusty tone,
But oh, alas! I found that I
Was singin’ there alone!
They laughed a little, I am told;
But I had done my best;
And not a wave of trouble rolled
Across my peaceful breast.
And Sister Brown–I could but look–
She sits right front of me;
She never was no singin’-book,
An’ never went to be;
But then she al’ays tried to do
The best she could, she said;
She understood the time right through,
An’ kep’ it with her head;
But when she tried this mornin’, oh,
I had to laugh, or cough!
It kep’ her head a-bobbin’ so,
It e’en a’most came off!
An’ Deacon Tubbs–he all broke down,
As one might well suppose;
He took one look at Sister Brown,
And meekly scratched his nose.
He looked his hymn-book through and through,
And laid it on the seat,
And then a pensive sigh he drew,
And looked completely beat.
An’ when they took another bout,
He didn’t even rise;
But drawed his red bandanner out,
An’ wiped his weepin’ eyes.
I’ve been a sister, good an’ true,
For five-an’-thirty year;
I’ve done what seemed my part to do,
An’ prayed my duty clear;
But Death will stop my voice, I know,
For he is on my track;
And some day I to church will go,
And never more come back;
And when the folks gets up to sing–
Whene’er that time shall be–
I do not want no _patent_ thing
A-squealin’ over me!
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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