THE MOURNER’S BENCH

They’re holding a revival at New Hope Meeting house, I can’t keep from going, I ought to stay away. For I come home and toss in bed till day, For thinking of my sin, and the trouble I am in. I dream I hear the dancers In the steps and swings, The quadrilles and the lancers They danced at Revis Springs. I lie and think of Charley, Charley, Charley The Bobtown dandy Who had his way with me. And no one is so handy A dancer as Charley To Little Drops of Brandy, Or the Wind that Shakes the Barley, Or Good mornin’ Uncle Johnny I’ve fetched your Wagon Home. And Greenberry Atterberry, who toed it like a pigeon Has gone and got religion; He’s deserted the dancers, the fiddlers, merry-makers, And I should do it too. For Charley, Charley has left me for to roam. But a woman at the mourner’s bench must tell her story true— What shall I do? What shall I do? My grandmother told me of Old Peter Cartwright Who preached hell-fire And the worm that never dies. And here’s a young preacher at the New Hope Meeting house, And every one allows, he has old Peter’s brows, And flaming of the eyes, And the very same way, they say. Last night he stuck his finger right down in my direction, And said: “God doesn’t care For your woman’s hair. Jesus wants to know if your soul is fair As your woman’s complexion.” And then I thought he knew— O what shall I do? Greenberry Atterberry, weeping and unsteady Had left his seat already. He stood at the mourner’s bench in great tribulation And told the congregation: That fiddling and dancing and tobacco chewin’ Led up to whisky and to woman’s ruin— And I thought he looked at me. Well, you can stop dancing, and you can stop drinking And you can leave the quarter-horses at the crooked races. But a woman, a woman, the people will be thinking Forever of a woman who confesses her behavior. And then I couldn’t look in the people’s faces, All weeping and singing, O gentle Saviour! Then the devil said: You wench You’d cut a pretty figure at the mourner’s bench, Go out and look for Charley, Go out and look for Charley, He’s down at Leese’s Grove. He has found a fresh love Go win him back again. He is dancing on the platform to the Speckled Hen. O Saviour, Saviour, how can I join the mourners, Face all the scorners? But how can I hunt Charley at Leese’s Grove? How can I stand the staring, the whispering of things Down at Revis Springs? How can I stand the mocking of the fiddle strings? Charley! Charley! So it’s knowing what’s best to do, Saviour! Saviour! Its knowing what’s best to do!