Till I can’t tell
Whuther I’m ailin’ or whuther I’m well.”
“Think,” says I,
“It’s too early to hoe when the ground’s so dry?”
Says he, “’Bout all
I’m sartin’ of is, I shall dig come fall.”
Says I, “Things look
Like we farmers can fatten the pocket-book.”
“Mebbe,” says he,
“But inarm vows there ain’t much she can see.”