Oh, please, Missus, don’t as’ dat!
Is you neber heah it sed
Him dat plants a holly tree
Sho gwine lie down, stiff en dead,
Soon’s dat tree grow big en high
’Nough ter shade him whar he lie?
I ain’t sca’ed ob death, not me!
I’s bin baptized in de creek,
En in big experience meetin’s
I does rise sometimes ter speak;
But I don’t tempt Providence;—
’Tis a act ob wickedness.
“How ter git it planted, den?”
Ain’t got time, yo’se’f, you say?
Lis’n, mum, en I will tell you
What’s, fo’ true, de only way,
’Th’out you hab somebody die
Soon’s dat tree grow big en high:

Put a seed somewhar out do’s,
So de win’ will blow it down
Des whar you would hab it planted,
On a nice, sof’ bit ob groun’.
Dar it will take root en grow;
I is tried it, en I know.
But ter put de seed in groun’,
Or ter plant dar de young tree,
Am sho temptin’ Providence—
En it ain’t bin done by me;
Dat am how I’m heah ter-day
Ter teach ole Missus de right way.