Don’t you know Miss Angelina?  She ‘s de da’lin’ of de place. 
  W’y, dey ain’t no high-toned lady wif sich mannahs an’ sich grace. 
  She kin move across de cabin, wif its planks all rough an’ wo’;
  Jes’ de same ‘s ef she was dancin’ on ol’ mistus’ ball-room flo’. 
  Fact is, you do’ see no cabin—­evaht’ing you see look grand,
  An’ dat one ol’ squeaky fiddle soun’ to you jes’ lak a ban’;
  Cotton britches look lak broadclof an’ a linsey dress look fine,
  When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin’ down de line.

  Some folks say dat dancin ‘s sinful, an’ de blessed Lawd, dey say,
  Gwine to punish us fu’ steppin’ w’en we hyeah de music play. 
  But I tell you I don’ b’lieve it, fu’ de Lawd is wise and good,
  An’ he made de banjo’s metal an’ he made de fiddle’s wood,
  An’ he made de music in dem, so I don’ quite t’ink he ’ll keer
  Ef our feet keeps time a little to de melodies we hyeah. 
  W’y, dey’s somep’n’ downright holy in de way our faces shine,
  When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin’ down de line.

  Angelina steps so gentle, Angelina bows so low,
  An’ she lif huh sku’t so dainty dat huh shoetop skacely show: 
  An’ dem teef o’ huh’n a-shinin’, ez she tek you by de han’—­
  Go ‘way, people, d’ ain’t anothah sich a lady in de lan’! 
  When she ‘s movin’ thoo de figgers er a-dancin’ by huhse’f,
  Folks jes’ stan’ stock-still a-sta’in’, an’ dey mos’ nigh hol’s dey bref;
  An’ de young mens, dey ‘s a-sayin’, “I ’s gwine mek dat damsel mine,”
  When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin’ down de line.

FOOLIN’ WID DE SEASONS

  Seems lak folks is mighty curus
    In de way dey t’inks an’ ac’s. 
  Dey jes’ spen’s dey days a-mixin’
    Up de t’ings in almanacs. 
  Now, I min’ my nex’ do’ neighbour,—­
    He’s a mighty likely man,
  But he nevah t’inks o’ nuffin
    ‘Ceptin’ jes’ to plot an’ plan.

  All de wintah he was plannin’
    How he ’d gethah sassafras
  Jes’ ez soon ez evah Springtime
    Put some greenness in de grass. 
  An’ he ’lowed a little soonah
    He could stan’ a coolah breeze
  So ’s to mek a little money
    F’om de sugah-watah trees.

  In de summah, he ‘d be waihin’
    Out de linin’ of his soul,
  Try ‘n’ ca’ci’late an’ fashion
    How he ’d git his wintah coal;
  An’ I b’lieve he got his jedgement
    Jes’ so tuckahed out an’ thinned
  Dat he t’ought a robin’s whistle
    Was de whistle of de wind.

  Why won’t folks gin up dey plannin’,
    An’ jes’ be content to know
  Dat dey ‘s gittin’ all dat’s fu’ dem
    In de days dat come an’ go? 
  Why won’t folks quit movin’ forrard? 
    Ain’t hit bettah jes’ to stan’
  An’ be satisfied wid livin’
   In de season dat ‘s at han’?