There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed, |In a rather high key—as delicately as possible|
A million boats of the angels sailed
With oars of silver, and prows of blue
And silken pennants that the sun shone through.
’Twas a land transfigured, ’twas a new creation.
Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation,
And on through the backwoods clearing flew:— |To the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices”|
“Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle.
Never again will he hoo-doo you.
Never again will he hoo-doo you.”