It warn’t like Wilbur’s meetin’, where you’re shet up in a pew,
Your dickeys sorrin’ off your ears, an’ bilin’ to be thru;
Ther’ wuz a tent clost by thet hed a kag o’ sunthin’ in it,
Where you could go, ef you wuz dry, an’ damp ye in a minute;
Au’ ef you did dror off a spell, ther’ wuzn’t no occasion
To lose the thread, because, ye see, he bellered like all Bashan.
It’s dry work follerin’ argymunce, an’ so, ’twix’ this an’ thet,
I felt conviction weighin’ down somehow inside my hat;
It growed an’ growed like Jonah’s gourd, a kin’ o’ whirlin’ ketched me,
Ontil I fin’lly clean giv out an’ owned up thet he’d fetched me;