Classic Poem

She was a woman who played the fiddle
And never professed to have religion, —
At least not orthodox. Now, her husband
Was a deacon, and 'twas unbecoming
For a deacon's wife not to be pious,
And often he was ashamed in meeting
To see her sitting in a back seat
Stony-like, while he prayed and exhorted.
And sinners coming to the Mercy Seat
Thought it strange she never shook hands with them
And urged them to " go forward, " or said " Amen "
To the deacon's exhorting.

She was kind
To poor folks, and went out to nurse the sick;
And when Abe Scripture's boy got diphtheria
She was the first one to go and watch there,
But there was something about her still ways,
And the guard she set always on her tongue,
That made folks talk and gossip about her;
And some of them went so far as to say
She didn't believe in God.

When we had
Our church revival meetings in the Fall,
And the minister prayed for lost sinners,
We felt that the deacon's wife was one of them,
And prayed for her without mentioning names,
Hoping she'd see the light.

But she didn't,
And held to her own way, while the deacon
Groaned and wrestled with God for salvation.
He never complained, but we thought often
How a real pious wife would have helped him.
He had married her when he was away
And brought her up to the country a stranger.
She could have turned the whole feeling we had
If she had once talked out in class meeting
And let us know that she believed in original sin
And infant damnation and other church doctrine;
But she never did.

And we never knew
How queer she was until the deacon
Dropped dead one day out in the cornfield.
She buried him proper; had a sermon,
And the choir singing hymns the deacon liked;
But after that she never came to church.
When we pass the house going to meeting
We always hear her playing the fiddle —
Scraping out some jig-tune on the Sabbath.