The year and the day he war cradl’d By the nurse what waited about; And stood watch over Polly jist thar, And heer’d his first inferntile shout?
He’s a brilliant pearl in our cabin— Is “Little Boots”—that’s cartenly true: But durn me if I know he war born! Maybe—like Miss Topsey—he grew!
Come, strenger; bring yer cheer ter the fire. Here’s some juice of the grape. Maybe Ye’ll not stand upon manners jist now, For I’ve no great larnin’, ye see.
So I’ll tell ye the story of “Boots”— Dog on’d strenge as ’t may seem ter you;— But may my ha’r be cheng’d ter black snakes If it is not Scripterly true!
Ye see, we come down ter Car’lina Five years ago, comin’ next Fall,— Polly and me, and our setter dorg: Without a mule or beast ter haul.
Here I knock’d up a little cabin, And skeer’d up a nigger or so, At odd times ter jine in the plantin’, And a startin’ the crop ter grow!
Wal, for a time we prosper’d right smart— Long afore “Little Boots” war born— But we fretted in vain for a somethin’, Though harvestin’ cotton and corn.
But the drought spil’d the crops, and one day— Leavin’ Polly ter boss the help— I kissed her good bye, and dug out Ter rough it a while by myself!