In a trap th’s mornin’
By the ’simmon tree,
Saw a grea’ big ’possum,
Fat as he cou’d be.
Wou’d ’ve got th’t ’possum
Eph—he’d never kno’,
Th’t his trap co’t him,
Got a ’ligion tho’.
People got no bus’ness
Fo’ to temp’ a man;
’Fusin’ water-melons
More th’n I can stan’.
If theys out th’re waitin’
T’night whin I com’ ’long,
They shan’t teach no oth’r
Christ’an to go ’rong.
Sally bake a hoe cake;
Get the kittle hot.
Goin’ bring back a chicken
If I don’t git shot.
I find in Mr. McGirt’s verses a meaning and accent which belong only to the true poet.
(Mrs.) REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.