Fust, the music they ‘ve be’n singin’
    Will disgrace us mighty soon;
  It ’s a cross between a opry
    An’ a ol’ cotillion tune. 
  With its dashes an’ its quavers
    An’ its hifalutin style—­
  Why, it sets my head to swimmin’
    When I ‘m comin’ down the aisle.

  Now it might be almost decent
    Ef it was n’t fur the way
  ‘At they git up there an’ sing it,
    Hey dum diddle, loud and gay. 
  Why, it shames the name o’ sacred
    In its brazen wordliness,
  An’ they ‘ve even got “Ol’ Hundred”
    In a bold, new-fangled dress.

  You ’ll excuse me, Mr. Parson,
    Ef I seem a little sore;
  But I ’ve sung the songs of Isr’el
    For threescore years an’ more,
  An’ it sort o’ hurts my feelin’s
    Fur to see ’em put away
  Fur these harum-scarum ditties
    ‘At is capturin’ the day.

  There ‘s anuther little happ’nin’
    ’At I ’ll mention while I ’m here,
  Jes’ to show ’at my objections
    All is offered sound and clear. 
  It was one day they was singin’
    An’ was doin’ well enough—­
  Singin’ good as people could sing
    Sich an awful mess o’ stuff—­

  When the choir give a holler,
    An’ the organ give a groan,
  An’ they left one weak-voiced feller
    A-singin’ there alone! 
  But he stuck right to the music,
    Tho’ ‘t was tryin’ as could be;
  An’ when I tried to help him,
    Why, the hull church scowled at me.

  You say that’s so-low singin’,
    Well, I pray the Lord that I
  Growed up when folks was willin’
    To sing their hymns so high. 
  Why, we never had sich doin’s
    In the good ol’ Bethel days,
  When the folks was all contented
    With the simple songs of praise.

  Now I may have spoke too open,
    But ’twas too hard to keep still,
  An’ I hope you ’ll tell the singers
    ’At I bear ’em no ill-will. 
  ’At they all may git to glory
    Is my wish an’ my desire,
  But they ‘ll need some extry trainin’
    ’Fore they jine the heavenly choir.

ALICE

  Know you, winds that blow your course
    Down the verdant valleys,
  That somewhere you must, perforce,
    Kiss the brow of Alice? 
  When her gentle face you find,
  Kiss it softly, naughty wind.

  Roses waving fair and sweet
    Thro’ the garden alleys,
  Grow into a glory meet
    For the eye of Alice;
  Let the wind your offering bear
  Of sweet perfume, faint and rare.

  Lily holding crystal dew
    In your pure white chalice,
  Nature kind hath fashioned you
    Like the soul of Alice;
  It of purest white is wrought,
  Filled with gems of crystal thought.

AFTER THE QUARREL