Back in the state of Georgia
There live a wicked man,
Who held a spite at preachers,
And on them placed a ban.

He was a bitter skeptic,
And Tom Paine was his song,
He swore he'd whip all preachers
That chanced to come along.

His shop stood by the wayside,
He was both large and stout,
And when he trounced a parson
He quickly laid him out.

First came a Presbyterian,
Of manners mild and meek,
Old Wild Bill simply snorted:
He left within a week!

But that was all predestined,
Decreed just as it came,
Before the world's foundation,
And no one was to blame!

Next came a sturdy Baptist,
And he was stout and bold,
But ere Wild Bill could touch him
He left his little fold!

He did not mind a thrashing,
He came of valiant race,
But feared that Wild Bill's antics
Might make him fall from grace!

And upset that good doctrine,
Which is a bond and stay,
So he sought other pastures,
In regions far away!

Next came a gospel warrior,
Brim full of fume and fight,
He popped his fists and bantered,
They called him Campbellite.'

But he used texts for weapons,
He fought with brain, not brawn,
He so out-classed old Wild Bill---
In ten days he was gone!

Then came a circuit-rider,
Of good John Wesley's brand,
He sat his horse as stately
As general in command.

He had large voice and physique,
And, as he rode along,
He made the hills and valleys
Reverberate with song.

Old Wild Bill said, "Good mornin',"
And asked him to alight:
He said he was no slugger,
He'd rather sing than fight.

Wild Bill eschewed excuses,
He thirsted for his gore:
"I have not whipped a Wesleyan
In fifteen days or more!"

The preacher asked permission
To say a little prayer,
And then he doffed his vestments
With dignity and care.

At college he learned lessons:
To box, to sing, to pray,
To punch, to quote the Scriptures,
And did it every day.

He hit Wild Bill a thumper,
That made things come to pass,
(They call it solar plexus,)
And laid him on the grass!

The parson leaped upon him,
And boxed him--biff-bum-bang!
And punched his wicked corpus,
As joyfully he sang:

"Shout, shout, we're gainin' ground,
O halle-halle-lujah!
This devil's kid I'll punch and pound,
O glory-halle-lujah!"

Bill saw his day had ended,
Though he was old and tough,

He cried in tones of pity,
"Enough! Enough! Enough!"

"Sure I must fight to win the goal,
O halle-halle-lujah!
I'll pound the grace into his soul,
O glory-halle-lujah!"

"Enough! Enough! E-n-o-u-g-h!"

"With song and prayer and music too,
O halle-halle-lujah!
I'll surely fetch this mourner through,
O glory-halle-lujah!"

"On one good plain condition,"
The preacher did propose,
"I'll say the benediction,
And this revival close."

"Wild Bill must go to meeting,
And join my holy band,
And quit his sinful capers,
And start for Canaan's land."

"And he must pay his quarterage,
When I send round the hat,
And sing and shout with vigor,
To show that he stands pat!"

Old Wild Bill quick accepted,
And rose up from the ground,
Became a noted Methodist
In all that country round!

Now who will call in question,
In sermon or debate,
The DIRECT OPERATION,
To change a sinner's state!

This case stands un-refuted,
As on the ages roll,

The saving grace was pounded
Into old Wild Bill's soul!

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