At the Old Folks' Whang

Flappy-doodle, flam, flam--whack, whack, whack!
Balance to the corners and forward folks and back;
Gaffle holt an' gallop for an eight hands round,
While the brogans and the cowhides they pessle and they pound;-
No matter for the Agger providin' there's the time.
Jest cuff'er out and jig'er;--jest hoe'er down and climb!
No matter'bout your toes or corns; let rheumatiz go hang,
For we're weltin' out the wickin at the old folks' whang.
--At the old folks' whang
Hear the cowhides bang,
When we "up and down the center" at the old folks' whang.
Yang, tangty, yee-yah!--yang, yang, yang!
Old Branscomb plays the fiddle at the old folks' whang;
And he puts a sight o' ginger in the chitter of the string,
--It isn't frilly playin' but he makes that fiddle sing.
He slashes out promis'cus, sort o' mixin' up the tune,
--Takes the Irish Washerivoman, slams'er up agin Zip Coon;
And he Speeds the Plough a minute, then he'll sort o'change his mind
And go off a-gallivantin' with the Girl I left Behind.
Oh, he mixes up his music queerest way I ever saw,
For he shifts the tune he's playin' ev'ry time he shifts his chaw;
But we never mind the changes for he keeps us on the climb,
--He may twist the tune a little but he's thunder on the time!
So line up and choose your pardners--we're the old ones out for fun,
You'll forgit your stiff rheumaticks jest as soon as you've begun.
'Course we ain't so spry and spiffy as we used to be, but yet
We can show them waltzy youngsters jest a thing or two, you bet.
We will dance the good old contras as we used to years ago,
Jest as long as Uncle Branscomb has the strength to yank the bow.
There is no one under sixty--we've shet out the youngster gang
And we're goin' to welt the wickin' at the old folks' whang.
--At the old folks' whang
Hear the cowhides bang,
When we canter up the center at the old folks' whang.