Carefully as an old maid over needlework,
Or, as some black deacon, over his Bible, lovingly,
He'd tune up specially for this. There'd be
No chatter now, no patting of the feet.
After a few slow chords, knelling and sweet
Oh, when de saints go ma'chin' home

Oh, when de sayaints goa ma'chin' home . . .
He would forget
The quieted bunch, his dimming cigarette
Stuck into a splintered edge of the guitar,
Sorrow deep hidden in his voice, a far
And soft light in his strange brown eyes;
Alone with his masterchords, his memories . . .

Lawd, I wanna be one in nummer
When de saints go ma'chin' home.

Deep the bass would rumble while the treble scattered high
For all the world like heavy feet a trompin' toward the sky.
With shrill-voiced women getting 'happy
All to celestial tunes.
The chap's few speeches helped me understand
The reason why he gazed so fixedly
Upon the burnished strings.
For he would see
A gorgeous procession to 'de Beulah Land'
Of Saints—his friends—'a climbin, fo' deir wings.'
Oh, when de saints go ma'chin' home
Lawd, I wanna be one o' dat nummer
When de saints goa ma'chin' home . . .

II

There'd be—so ran his dream—
"Old Deacon Zachary
With de asthmy in his chest
A puffin’ an' a wheezin’
Up de golden stair
Wid de badges of his lodges
Strung acrost his heavin’ breast
An' de hoggrease jest shinin'
In his coal-black hair . . .

An' old Sis Joe
In huh big straw hat
An' huh wrapper flappin'
Flappin' in de heavenly win'
An' huh thin-soled easy walkers
Goin' pitty pitty pat
Lawd, she'd have to ease her corns
When she got in!"

Oh, when de saints go ma'chin, home.

"Ole Elder Peter Johnson
Wid his corncob jes a puffin'
And de smoke a rollin'
Like storm clouds out behin'
Crossin’ de cloud mountains
Widout slowin' up fo' nuffin'
Steamin' up de grade
Lak Wes' bound No. 9.
An' de little brown-skinned chillen
Wid deir skinny legs a dancin'
Jes' a kickin' up ridic'lous
To de heavenly band
Lookin’ at de Great Drum Major
On a white hoss jes' a prancin'
Wid a gold and silver drumstick
A waggin' in his han’.

Oh when de sun refuse to shine
Oh when de mo-on goes down
     In Blood . . .

"Old Maumee Annie
Wid huh washin' done
An' huh las' piece o' laundry
In de renchin' tub,
A wavin' sof’ pink han's
To de much obligin' sun
An' her feet a moverin' now
To a swif' rub-a-dub;
And old Grampa Eli
Wid his wrinkled old haid
A puzzlin' over summit
He ain’ understood
Intendin' to ask Peter
Pervidin’ he hain't skyaid
Jes' what mought be de meanin'
Of de moon in blood? . . .

When de saints go ma'chin' home . . .'

III

Whuffolks, he dreams, will have to stay outside
Being so onery. But what is he to do
With that red brakeman who once let him ride
An empty, going home? Or with that kindfaced man
Who paid his songs with board and drink and bed?
Or with the Yankee Cap'n who left a leg
At Vicksburg? Mought be a place, he said
Mought be another mansion for white saints
A smaller one than hisn . . . not so gran'
As for the rest . . . oh, let them howl and beg.
Hell would be good enough, if big enough
Widout no shade trees, lawd, widout no rain
Whuffolks sho to bring nigger out behin'
Excep'---when de saints go ma'chin' home.

IV

Sportin’ Legs would not be there—nor lucky Sam
Nor Smitty, nor Hambone, nor Hardrock Gene
An' not too many guzzlin', cuttin' shines,
Nor bootleggers to keep his pockets clean.
An' Sophie wid de sof’ smile on her face,
Her foolin' voice, her strappin' body, brown
Lak coffee doused wid milk—she had been good
To him, wid lovin', money, and wid food.—
But saints and heaven didn't seem to fit
Jes rite wid Sophy's beauty—nary bit—
She mought stir trouble, somehow, in dat peaceful place
Mought be some dressed up dudes in dat fair town.

V

Ise got a dear ole modder
She is in hebben I know . . .
He sees
Mammy
L'il mammy—wrinkled face
Her brown eyes, quick to tears—to joy
With such happy pride in her
Guitar plunkin' boy.
Oh, kain't I be one in nummer?

Mammy
With deep religion defeating the grief
Life piled so closely about her
Ise so glad trouble doan las' alway' . . .
And her dogged belief
That some fine day
She'd go a ma'chin'
When de saints go ma'chin' home.

He sees her ma'chin' home, ma'chin' along,
Her perky joy shining in her furrowed face,
Her weak and quavering voice singing her song—
The best chair set apart for her worn-out body
In that restful place . . .

I pray to de Lawd I'll meet her
When de saints go ma'chin' home.

VI