But that war cruel, and for months I felt Them bull thistle seeds takin’ root, And creepin’ about in the tender flesh From hat crown ter toe of my boot.
After that I went back on old Dick Scott, And lit out for York State ye bet; But each Spring I war sowin’ the thistles, No rest anywhar could I get.
I have toted them thistles all over, And planted ’em in every field, Whar I’ve halted ter rest; but dog on it! Thar seems a ter bounterful yield!
Now, neighbors, that is a right true story I’ve told ye, and is it not queer That I cannot get shut of ’em? That is How Canada thistles reached here!
So whenever ye cut down yer thistles Don’t cuss me ter strong. May I rot In a roadside ditch if I can help it! They are the curse of Richard Scott!
Bob Munn of Cape Cod.
