the soul.
At Hilton, Paddy's Hollow, at the Oaks, on Kidder's Hill,
Where good and bad alike could dance their fill.
Then there was Jim, the drummer,
Who could beat a drum like Jim?
Oh! we little ones were awful proud of him.
How nicely he could keep the time.
"Shoo Fly, don't bother me!"
For I'm a member of old Comp'ny D.
It was down old Seventh to Market,
And through Market down to Third.
Playin' Molly Darlin', sweetes' ever heard;
From thence up Third to Castle, while "Up in a Balloon"
Made us wish to pay a visit to the moon.
Then we had no Gen'l Jacksons
Dressed in gol' lace all for show,
Then such hifullutin notions didn't go.
It was music! Sweetes' music!
"Darlin', I am growin' old,"
Will live, forever live within the soul.

The old Shoo Fly Band is a thing of the past; no more shall we listen to
its inspiring music, for the majority of its members have crossed the
melancholy flood. The last time that they appeared on the streets of
Wilmington only a sextet remained. Dick Stove's trombone horn had been
curtailed in order to hide the marks of decay upon its bell. They
gallantly marched up Market street, and with a dismal, yet not
discordant blast, turned into Fourth, en route to Hilton. I think that
Uncle Guy is the only remaining one of that gallant few living in
Wilmington to-day, and the friends of those who departed this life in
later years followed their bodies to the grave keeping step to the sad
wail of his lone clarionet. Jim Richardson, Dick Stove, Johnson, Adams,
Anderson--I wonder, does he think of them now, tenderly, emotionally and
with a longing to join them on the other side. I wonder if they all
cluster about him when in his lonely hours he consoles himself with his
clarionet. For many years Uncle Guy has been Wilmington's chief
musician. Bands magnificent in equipment and rich in talent have been
organized, to flourish for a few years only. But Uncle Guy's trio of
clarionet and drums has withstood the test of time; yea, they were
indispensable for base ball advertisement and kindred amusements,
heading both civic and military processions, white and black, in their
outings and celebrations, or with bowed head and thoughtful countenance
he has led the march to the grave. As I recollect Uncle Guy, he was the
embodiment of neatness, feminine in build--it seemed that nature
intended to form a woman instead of a man. Like a woman, he plaited