Go ’way fiddle!--folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’.
Keep silence fur yo’ betters--don’t you heah de banjo talkin’?
About de ’possum’s tail she’s gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!--
About de ha’r what isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’.
“Dar’s gwine to be an oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn--
For Noah tuk the Herald, an’ he read de ribber column--
An’ so he sot his hands to work a-cl’arin’ timber-patches,
An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah “Natchez.”
Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’, an’ a-chippin’, an’ a-sawin’;
An’ all de wicked neighboirs kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’;
But Noah didn’t min’ ’em--knowin’ what wuz gwine to happen;
An’ forty days and forty nights de rain it kept a-drappin’.
Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebery sort o’ beas’es--
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’ it beat ’em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt, an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle--
An’ drew ’em ’board de ark as soon’s he heared de thunder rattle.
Den sech anoder fall ob rain!--it come so awful hebby
De ribber riz immegitly, an’ bursted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out--’cept Noah an’ de critters,
An’ men he’d hired to work de boat--an’ one to mix de bitters.
De ark she kep’ a-sailin’, an’ a-sailin’, an’ a-sailin’;
De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’--
De sarpints hissed--de painters yelled--tell--what wid all de fussin’,
You c’u’d’n’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ roun’ an’ cussin’.
Now, Ham, de only niggar what wuz runnin’ on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;
An’ so, for to amuse he-self, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,
An’ soon he had a banjo made--de fust dat wuz invented.
He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge, an’ screws, an’ apron;
An’ fitted in a proper neck--’twas bery long and tap’rin’;
He tuk some tin and twisted him a thimble for to ring it;
An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?
De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a singin’;
De ha’r’s so long, an’ thick, an’ strong--jes’ fit for banjo
stringin’--
Dat niggar shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces;
An’ sorted ob ’em by de size, from little E’s to basses.
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig--’twas Nebber Min’ de Wedder--
She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder;
Some went to pattin’, some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers--
An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggars!
Now, sence dat time--it’s mighty strange--dere’s not de slightest
showin’.
Ob any ha’r upon de cunnin’ ’possum’s tail a-growin’;
An’ curi’s too--dat nigger’s ways; his people nebber los’ ’em--
For, whar you finds de niggar, dar’s de banjo an’ de possum!