The hens are all a-laying, the potatoes sprouting
well,
And fodder spent so nicely that I’ll have some
hay to sell.
But when I get to feeling just as well as I can feel,
All to once it comes across me that I’ve got
them calves to veal.
Oh! I can’t go in the stanchion, look them
mothers in the eye,
For I’m meditatin’ murder; planning how their