Mos’ ob niggers sho believe
Dat de preacher know
All dat’s fit ter study ’bout
In dis worl’ below;
Think he am so smart dat he
Look beyon’ de sky,
Whar he read what am gwine be
In de by en by.
I’s a ’ception ter dat rule,
Ez you sho will fin’,
En I come ter my conclusions
Out ob my own min’:
Preachers ain’t no mo’ conspired
Dan is you en me;
Dat, if you des crack yo’ eyes,
You am sho gwine see. THE WOOD-SAWYER. “Oh, I work hard, sho,
When de col’ win’ blow,
Sawin’ en splittin’ de white folks’ wood!
But I do’n’ complain
Ob de col’ en de rain,
Kaze de Lawd gwine sen’ what He know am good.”
Eb’ry man what see a tex’
In de trees en stones,
Ain’t bin called ter preach en raise
Life in dead, dry bones.
Dat ole rooster scratchin’ dar
Am a sarmont, sho,
But des kaze I read him right,
I ain’t called, you know.
If you don’t read it, you ain’t
Got de seein’ eyes,
En yo’ heart cain’t see dem things
What would make you wise.
Sho’s de Bible done say dat
Dem what works kin eat,
Dat’s a noble sarmont dar—
One dat cain’t be beat.
When dat rooster scratch fo’ worms
In de lowly groun’,
He’s a sayin’ we mus’ work
Fo’ our bread, I’m boun’;
En when he fin’ food, en call
Till dat hen do run,
He sho mean dat man mus’ work
Fo’ de weakly one.
He don’t shet his knowledge up
In a selfish min’;
When he see de mornin’ break
He tell all mankin’.
Do ter me all dis en mo’,
Dat same rooster teach,
He don’t say dat I’s conspired
By de Lawd ter preach.
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