Till it crip up in the stable whar de ole gray mule wus stayin’
An’ skeered ’im so he jined de church an’ got right down to prayin’.
But dat didn’t stop de freshet, Nachur’ bleeves in er variety—
An’ de good Lord He don’t bank much on dis ober-sudden piety—
So He made it rain de harder—O He was mad es pizen’—
For de rain it kep’ er fallin’ an’ de crick it kep’ er risin’!
Sed de mule onto de yudder stock: “Dear frien’s, you all am sinners,
Better think mo ’bout yore mortal souls an’ less erbout yo’ dinners!
’Tis cla’r to my min’ sum ob you dun clean furgot yo’ raisin’
Er follerin’ arter idul gods—or mebbe chicken chasin’!