Chorus.—Rise, shine, give God the glory.
[Repeat glory.]
Don’t you tink hit’s gwine to rain?
Maybe was, a little;
Maybe one ole hurricane
’S bilin’ in de kittle!—Chorus.
Craps done fail in Egypt lan’—
Say so in de papers;
Maybe little slight o’ hand
’Mong de specerlaters.—Chorus.
Put no faith in solemn views;
Keep yo’ pot a smokin’,
Stan’ up squah in yo’ own shoes—
Keep de debble chokin’!—Chorus.
Fetch me ’roun’ dat tater juice!
Stop dat sassy grinnin’!
Turn dat stopper clean a-loose—
Keep yo’ eye a skinnin’!—Chorus.
Here’s good luck to Egypt lan’!
Hope she ain’t a-failin’!
Hates to see my fellerman
Straddle ob de pailin’!—Chorus.
The church filled up; the meeting was well conducted, and measures taken to protect cotton-raisers, showing that these people, newly-made free, and uneducated, were looking to their interests.
Paying a flying visit to Tennessee, I halted at Columbia, the capital of Maury County. At Redgerford Creek, five miles distant from Columbia, lives Joe Budge, a man with one hundred children. Never having met one with such a family, I resolved to make a call on the gentleman and satisfy my own curiosity.
This distinguished individual is seventy-one years old, large frame, of unadulterated blood, and spent his life in slavery up to the close of the war.
“How many children have you, Mr. Budge?” I asked.