An’ in a righchis frame ob min’ we’s gwine to dance an’ sing,
A-feelin’ like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.
It seems to me—indeed it do—I mebbe mout be wrong—
Dat people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along;
Des dance bekase dey’s happy—like de birds hops in de trees,
De pine-top fiddle soundin’ to be bowin’ ob de breeze.
We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul’s prophet king;
We has no harp to soun’ de chords, to holp us out to sing;
But ’cordin’ to de gif’s we has we does de bes’ we knows,
An’ folks don’t ’spise de vi’let-flower bekase it ain’t de rose.