But afore I bergin I would warn ye, Ye may fix yer faces ter blush; So jist let thar be silence all around And I’ll spin the yarn with a rush.
Ha! ha! ha! I larf when I think of it— The days when a youngster I sat On a rough pine bench in the lorg school house, And din’d orf the rim of my hat!
The other boys war bigger than I war, And studied thar lesson right well, While I ermus’d myself as I wish’d ter In quar tricks on which I’ll not dwell.
I war ter young ter learn my letters,— They let me ’tend school for all that; And then when I run short of ermusement I jerk’d at the tail of the cat!
As I increas’d in years and mischief, Sich as hazin’ our neighbor’s pig, Pourin’ ink on the floor, or applyin’ Powder’d chalk ter the master’s wig—
Richard Scott—that war the pedergogue’s name— Declar’d in wrath he’d be killin’ Me, if I did not be quiet and sit Bertween ter gals—I war willin’!
Young as I war I lik’d that ye may swar On the hilts of yer bowie knives; And though but eight years I bergun ter sigh For a plurality of wives!
Now, Tip Tracey, ye may smile over thar At the picter I’ve painted you; But that gal-punershment of Richard Scott War a pleasure ter them gals, too!
By-an’-by I had master’d my letters, And bergun on my b i bi’s; From that I prergress’d to somethin’ better— Admirin’ my companions’ eyes.