by Irwin Russell
I GITS up heah — like good ol' Paul,
Obed'ent to de Mahsr's call —
To tell my sperunce, tell it all!
Ol' S HAME'S put up;
An' I's led Glory out de stall,
To win de cup.
Den, all you sinnahs, cl'ar de track!
I's mounted on ol' Glory'S back;
Her huts is gwine ta-click-ta-clack, —
Dat's how dey's gwine!
An' Satan's rattlin', shacklin' hack
Is lef' behin'.
Ah, Christuns, in my foolish days
I rid de debbil's blooded bays,
P ERSUMPCHUS P RIDE , an' W ORL'LY W AYS ,
An' made 'em lope;
But now I's turned 'em out to graze
Widout a rope.
Yah! Yah! Oh! how I used to — Well,
De 'tic'lars 'tain't no use to tell,
But oncet I rid de road to hell
Wid nar a bit,
An' went two-forty on the shell
Toward de pit.
Like Balaam, when he rid de ass,
I 'sisted on a-trablin' fas';
But 'twuz a pace 'at c'u'dn't las',
An' I got th'owed,
I cotch R ELIGION , trottin' pas',
An' back I goed.
An' now I simply vises you,
You deblish boys I's talkin' to,
Don't nebber hab a thing to do
Wid Satan's hosses;
Dey'll buck an' fling you in de sloo,
Fus one you crosses.
But git R ELIGION well in han',
An' ride her like a little man —
Dere ain't no hoss in all de lan'
Kin run agin her —
An' you'll come by de jedges' stan'
A' easy winner.
Last updated September 05, 2017