And sech inventions! I’m never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot,
That ’Bijah hain’t been “improvin’” it, and it mayn’t go off like a shot.
Why, didn’t he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin’;
And didn’t it pitch the baby out, and wasn’t his head bruised shockin’?
And there was his “Patent Peeler,” too—a wonderful thing, I’ll say;
But it hed one fault—it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.
As for locks, and clocks, and mowin’ machines, and reapers, and all sech trash,
Why, ’Bijah’s invented heaps of em, but they don’t bring in no cash.
Law! that don’t worry him—not at all; he’s the aggravatin’est man—
He’ll set in his little workship there, and whistle, and think, and plan.