Classic Poem

Gittin' to'rds campmeetin'-time — fixin' up the tent,
An' groomin' all the oxen in the Billville settlement;
We that ain't up on singin' air a-projickin' about,
An' some air tryin' of their lungs to shout the loudest shout!

Some don't believe in shoutin', but to me it's cl'ar as day
Ef a feller has religion it'll sometimes act that way!
It ain't no sign the angels air deef up thar on high,
But we jest can't help a-sendin' in a halleluia cry!

Some preachers preach about it from mornin' till the night,
An' say the shoutin' fellers ain't got religion right!
They rule it out o' meetin'; but I feel it more an' more,
A shipwrecked feller's 'bleeged to shout the time he sights the shore!

Fer he's been lost an' lonesome on the ocean's roarin' tide,
An' when he sees the lights shine on the welcome other side,
It ain't a bit o' wonder, in the night o' storm an' foam,
He shouts that shout o' welcome — fer he hears the bells o' home!

But — talkin' 'bout campmeetin' — we're fixin' fer it fine;
An' ef it comes to shoutin', we'll ax the worl' to jine!
We'll let each brother have his way — each one that's feelin' blest —
An' tell us, any fashion, how he likes religion best!