Poetry Archives

So you’ve kem ‘yer agen,
  And one answer won’t do?
Well, of all the derned men
  That I’ve struck, it is you.
O Sal! ‘yer’s that derned fool from Simpson’s, cavortin’ round ‘yer
   in the dew.

Kem in, ef you WILL.
  Thar,—quit!  Take a cheer.
Not that; you can’t fill
  Them theer cushings this year,—
For that cheer was my old man’s, Joe Simpson, and they don’t make
   such men about ‘yer.

He was tall, was my Jack,
  And as strong as a tree.
Thar’s his gun on the rack,—
  Jest you heft it, and see.
And YOU come a courtin’ his widder!  Lord! where can that critter,
   Sal, be!

You’d fill my Jack’s place?
  And a man of your size,—
With no baird to his face,
  Nor a snap to his eyes,
And nary—Sho! thar! I was foolin’,—I was, Joe, for sartain,—don’t
   rise.

Sit down.  Law! why, sho!
  I’m as weak as a gal.
Sal!  Don’t you go, Joe,
  Or I’ll faint,—sure, I shall.
Sit down,—ANYWHEER, where you like, Joe,—in that cheer, if you
   choose,—Lord! where’s Sal?