Up from Methodism

by Herbert Asbury

5

I fell a willing victim to the wiles of the Rum Demon on the night of my conversion, and thereafter, in common with other boys of the town who were aflame with revolt against the religious taboos which had so oppressed us, I drank whenever I could obtain the liquor. This was not often, because I seldom had any money and it was difficult to find a bartender who would sell a drink to a minor. The eagle eye of the W. C. T. U. was constantly upon him. But occasionally the darkies would buy for us in return for one swig at the bottle, and as often as possible we purchased by this means a pint or quart of whisky or gin. I did not drink because I liked the taste of liquor, for I didn’t, and I do not now, but I thought it was smart and manly to get drunk.

And there was another, and a deeper reason. It seemed to me that in the eyes of the Preachers and the Brothers and Sisters a man could commit no more heinous sin than to get tight; it was even worse than smoking. Such being the case, I felt that it was incumbent upon me to achieve that condition, and thereby show them that I had no use for them and the things for which they stood. And that was also the reason we sang vulgar songs, and roared with gusto the parodies on hymns that we learned from time to time. It was our custom to get as drunk as possible and then group ourselves about the pump in the courthouse yard, where we bellowed ditties and parodies until the town marshal or some outraged Brother or Sister stopped us.

There were few such songs that we did not sing; it was at the pump, on a summer night, that I first heard the “Song of Jack Hall.” It was taught to us by a shoe drummer from St. Louis, who sang it with appropriate gestures, and for a long time it was our favorite song. The version that we sang was this—it should be rendered with great gusto and feeling, and the final line of each verse should be dragged from deep down in the chest:

Oh, me nyme it is Jack Hall, ’tis Jack Hall,

Oh, me nyme it is Jack Hall, ’tis Jack Hall;

Oh, me nyme it is Jack Hall,

And I’ll tell youse one and all,

The story of me fall,

God damn your eyes.

Oh, I killed a man ’tis said, so ’tis said,

Oh, I killed a man ’tis said, so ’tis said;

Oh, I killed a man ’tis said,

And I kicked his bloody head,

And I left him lyin’ dead,

God damn his eyes.

So they chucked me here in quod, here in quod,

So they chucked me here in quod, here in quod;

So they chucked me here in quod,

With a ball and chain and rod,

They did, so help me God,

God damn their eyes.

Well, the parson he did come, he did come,

Well, the parson he did come, he did come;

Well, the parson he did come,

And he looked so God-damned glum,

As he talked of Kingdom Come,

God damn his eyes.

And the sheriff he came, too, he came, too,

And the sheriff he came, too, he came, too;

And the sheriff he came, too,

With his little boys in blue,

He said: “Jack, we’ll see you through,

God damn your eyes.”

So it’s up the rope I go, up I go,

So it’s up the rope I go, up I go;

So it’s up the rope I go,

And those devils down below,

They’ll say: “Jack, we told you so!”

God damn their eyes.

The parodies on hymns that we sang were almost innumerable, and were undoubtedly sung all over the country by other boys who, in the eyes of their elders, were only being smart-alecky, but who, like us, had a deeper reason for the eagerness with which they paraded their disrespect for the Church and for religion. It was one of the few ways we knew to flaunt our sin, and nothing pleased us more than to break up a church service, or at least interrupt it, by bellowing at the top of our voices some disreputable and unholy parody that had reached us in one way or another.

One of our most enjoyable Sunday-night escapades was to gather in a group outside a church window, and sing a parody immediately after the choir and the congregation inside had sung the hymn itself. We persisted in this until finally the pastor of the Northern Methodist church had Wint Jackson, the Night Marshal, chase us away. We went without comment or objection when Jackson ordered us to disperse, because he had just killed a desperado named Yates, and we considered him something of a hero; we thought that he went about with his finger constantly in the trigger of his revolver, and that the finger itched.

On this particular night the parody which made the Methodist minister so angry, and swept from his mind all thought of his Christian duty to turn the other cheek for us to swat, was on “Oh, that will be glory for me.” Our version went like this:

Oh, there will be no chicken for me,

No chicken for me, no chicken for me;

When all the preachers have gulped their share,

There’ll be no chicken, no chicken for me.

To give the proper swing to the tune, “gulped” must be pronounced “gulluped.”

Perhaps the most celebrated of all the parodies, at that time, was on the favorite old hymn, “At the Bar.” We sang it thus:

At the bar, at the bar,

Where I smoked my first cigar,

And the nickels and the dimes rolled away;

It was there, by chance,

That I ripped my Sunday pants,

And now I can wear them every day.

Another parodied “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” thus:

Nero, my dog, has fleas,

Nero has fleas;

Although I wash him clean,

Nero, my dog, has fleas.

And thus, to the tune of “Hallelujah, Thine the Glory”:

Hellilujah, I’m a hobo,

Hellilujah, I’m a bum;

Hellilujah, give us a handout,

Revive us again.

There was also in circulation at that time a great number of parodies on hymns in which mention was made of Beecham’s Pills, the merits of which were emblazoned on every barn and fence throughout the countryside. I have heard that these parodies were circulated by the Beecham Pill people themselves in response to a plea of English churches for hymn books, but I do not know if the story is true. One of our favorites of this collection was the parody on “Hark, the herald angels sing.” It went:

Hark, the herald Angels sing,

Beecham’s Pills are just the thing;

Peace on earth and mercy mild,

Two for man and one for child.