And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors,

"BLOOD" Screamed the skull-faced, lean witchdoctors,

"Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle,

Harry the uplands,

Steal all the cattle,

Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,

Bing!

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,"
A roaring, epic, rag-time tune
From the mouth of the Congo
To the Mountains of the Moon.
Death is an Elephant,
Torch-eyed and horrible,
Foam-flanked and terrible.
BOOM, steal the pygmies,

BOOM, kill the Arabs,

BOOм, kill the white men,

Hoo, Hoo, Hoo.

Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost

Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host.
Hear how the demons chuckle and yell.
Cutting his hands off, down in Hell.
Listen to the creepy proclamation,

Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation,

Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay,

Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:

"Be careful what you do,

Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
And all of the other

Gods of the Congo,

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."

II. THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS

and high.

Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call Rather shrill Danced the juba in their gambling-hall

And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town,

And guyed the policemen and laughed them

down

Read exactly as in first section.

With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.
THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING

THROUGH THE BLACK,

CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A

GOLDEN TRACK.

A negro fairyland swung into view,

A minstrel river

Where dreams come true.

The ebony palace soared on high

Through the blossoming trees to the evening

sky,

The inlaid porches and casements shone
With gold and ivory and elephant-bone.
And the black crowd laughed till their sides.

were sore

At the baboon butler in the agate door,
And the well-known tunes of the parrot band
That trilled on the bushes of that magic-land.

A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came
Through the agate doorway in suits of flame,
Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust
And hats that were covered with diamond-

dust.

And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call

And danced the juba from wall to wall.

Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible.

With pomposity.

deliberation and

But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng With a great With a stern cold glare, and a stern old ghostliness.

song:

"Mumbo-Jumbo 'will hoo-doo you."

Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes,
Came the cake-walk princes in their long red

coats,

Shoes with a patent leather shine,

And tall silk hats that were red as wine.
And they pranced with their butterfly partners
there,

Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair,
Knee-skirts trimmed with the jessamine sweet,
And bells on their ankles and little black feet.
And the couples railed at the chant and the
frown

Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them
down.

(O rare was the revel, and well worth while That made those glowering witch-men smile).

The cake-walk royalty then began

To walk for a cake that was tall as a man
To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, Booм,'
While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister

air,

With overwhelmgood cheer, and

ing assurance,

pomp.

With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm.

With a touch of negro dialect,

And sang with the scalawags prancing there:- and
"Walk with care, walk with care,

Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
And all of the other

Gods of the Congo,

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Beware, beware, walk with care,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,

BOOM."

as rapidly as possible toward the end.

O rare was the revel, and well worth while Slow philo

That made those glowering witch-men smile.

sophic calm.

III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION

With a literal imitation of camp-meeting

A good old negro in the slums of the town Heavy bass.
Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.
Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, racket, and
His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.
Beat on the Bible till he wore it out,
Starting the jubilee revival shout.

And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,
And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs.
And they all repented, a thousand strong,
From their stupor and savagery and sin and
wrong

And slammed their hymn books till they shook

the room

With "Glory, glory, glory,"

And "Boom, boom, Booм."

THEN I SAW THE CONGO,

THROUGH THE BLACK,

trance.

CREEPING Exactly as in the first section.

CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A

GOLDEN TRACK.

And the gray sky opened like a new-rent

veil

And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.

In bright white steel they were seated round And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.

And the twelve apostles, from their thrones on high,

Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly

"Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;
Never again will he hoo-doo you,
Never again will he hoo-doo you."
Then along that river, a thousand miles,
The vine-snared trees fell down in files.

Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices."

With growing deliberation and joy.

Pioneer angels cleared the way

For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.

There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed In a rather

A million boats of the angels sailed

With oars of silver, and prows of blue

And silken pennants that the sun shone

through.

'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new crea

tion.

Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation;
And on through the backwoods clearing

flew :

"Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. Never again will he hoo-doo you.

Never again will he hoo-doo you."

Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the

men,

And only the vulture dared again

By the far, lone mountains of the moon
To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:-
"Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo . . . Jumbo . . . will

you.

high key-as delicately as possible.

To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices."

Dying off into a pene

hoo-doo trating,

terrified whisper.

TO A GOLDEN-HAIRED GIRL IN A

LOUISIANA TOWN 1

You are a sunrise,

If a star should rise instead of the sun.

You are a moonrise,

If a star should come in the place of the moon.

1 Reprinted from Collected Poems by Vachel Lindsay, by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Company.