The great
big church wus crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk
An' satin rich as
cream that grows on our ole Brindle's milk:
Shined boots, b'iled
shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were there,
An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel
down in prayer,
The elder, in his poolpit high, said as he slowly riz:
"Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith rheumatiz,
An' as we hey no substitoot, as Brother Moore ain't here,
Will some'un in the congregation be so kind's to
volunteer?"
An' then a red-nosed drunken tramp of Iowan' rowdy style
Give an introductory
hiccup an' then staggered up the aisle.
Then thro' thet holy
atmosphere there crep' a sense ov sin,
An' thro' thet air uv sanctity the odor uv ole gin.
Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge:
"This man perfanes the house uv God. W'y, this is sacrilege
!"
The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith
stumbling feet,
An' sprawled an' staggered up the stairs an' gained the
organ seat. ..
He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a
strain
That seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the
brain,
An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head
an' knees:
He slam dashed his whole body down kerflop upon the keys.
The organ roared, the music flood went sweep in' high
an'dry:
It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky.
The old church shook an' staggered and seemed to reel an'
sway,
An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out
"Hooray!"
An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears,
That brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith
tears;
An' we dreamed of old-time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat,
Uv home an' love and baby-days, an' mother an' all that.
An' then he struck a streak of hope, a song from souls
forgiven, .
Thet burst the prison 'bars uv sin an' stormed the gates of
Heaven;
The morning stars they sung together, no soul wus left
alone,
We felt the universe was safe an' God wus on His throne.
An' then a wail of deep despair and darkness came again,
An' long black.crepe hung on the door uv all the homes of
men:
No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs uv glad delight,
An' then-the tramp he staggered down and reeled into the
night,
But he knew he'd tor his story. though he never spoke a
word,
An' it wuz the saddest story that our ears had ever heard;
He hed tor his own life history, an' no eye wuz dry that
day,
When the elder rose an' simply said, "My brethren, let
us pray!"
Sam Walter
Foss.
I was reminded of this poem, last night, with a power outage - it was in one of my mother’s favorite books, a collection of the public’s sentimental stories and whatnots, titled Heart Throbs, published circa 1900-10, as I recall. I used this poem in high school for a competitive forensics reading in 1970, and did quite well, with a decent hybrid between a Downeaster and a rural Appalachian lilt... There seem to be a few typos in this, but I’ll have to find the book for details, and dates. I also understand that there’s another version, turned into the lyrics of an old ballad/hymn...
ReplyDeleteI’m no longer at the email below, it has been deleted, but I can’t change it. I’m temporarily at ddotday@gmail.com Dorothy Day
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