And he puts a sight o’ ginger in the chitter of
the string,
—It isn’t frilly playin’ but he makes that fiddle
sing.
He slashes out promis’cus, sort o’ mixin’ up
the tune,
—Takes the Irish Washerivoman, slams’er up
agin Zip Coon;
And he Speeds the Plough a minute, then he’ll
sort o’change his mind