TRIBUTE TO MR. ATKINS’S BASS VOICE
E. Perley Atkins had a low—deep—bass.
The noise came out of his face,
But the place
Whence the sound sprung
And bubbled toward the bung,
When he sung,
To come lolloping up to his tongue,
In long fortissimo hoots,
Or staccato toots,
—That place was suttin’ly down in his boots.
Omp, omp!
That was the kind of a bass
That oozed from the face
Of E. Perley Atkins who lived in our place.
He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas,
and parti-ees
He sung at all the shindigees we had for miles
around.
He opened his lip and let her rip and folks were
never obliged to tease,
For he allowed
That he was proud
As well as the rest of the awe-struck crowd
Of the deep, profundo timbre of that sound.
Boomp, boomp!
He wended thus on his deep, bass way
Ready to omp, omp night or day.
He sung in the choir Sunday forenoon
And an hour later furnished a tune
For the Sabbath school and the Bible class,
With a voice that was meller’n apple sass.
At evenin’ meetin’ he came around
Full to the neck with that cream-rich sound,
And the way he would lead Coronation hymn
Would lift ye off’n your pew, by Jim.
On Monday nights he had a call
To sing for the Maltys at Jackson’s Hall.
Tuesdays the Masons and Wednesdays he
Sung like blazes for the I. G. T.
Thursdays, class-meetings, Fridays, sings
With Saturdays open for rackets and things.
A busy week? Well, I guess, but wait,
I mustn’t forget, my friend, to state
There warn’t no fun’ral for ten miles’round,
No dear departed tucked under ground,
No mourners jammed in a settin’ room,
Sozzled in grief and soaked in gloom,
But Perley was there with his rich, cream bass
To trickle like salve on the wounded place.
And the tears would dry on each mourner’s
nose,
They’d perk right up and forget their woes
And nudge each other and say, “Suz me,
What a beautiful funeral voice that be.”
And in time, though he sang for all who asked,
For saint and sinner, still he basked
In especial favor as one whose ease
And voice gave a tone to obsequies.
It’s whispered around, and I guess it’s so
That when he hinted he thought he’d go
To Rome and Paris to train that bass,
A widow and three old maids in the place,
Who were living along, no man knew why,
Decided they’d hurry up and die.
They just stopped breathing and died from
choice
For the sake of having that funeral voice
Draw copious streams from the mourner’s eyes
And give them a send-off toward Paradise.
—No man who’s monkeyed with bass B-flat
Got ever a compliment higher’n that.
He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas,
the parti-ees,
He sung at all the shindigees for twenty miles
around.
He opened his lip and let her rip,
Admirers had no need to tease,
And he sprung a bass that joggled the roof and
fairly shook the ground.
While the echoes of his “funeral voice”
Made even the cherubim rejoice,
As the melody pulsed against the skies
And ushered a soul into Paradise.