Sometimes w’en I got to hoe garden an’ hear
The boys playin’ ball in the next lot, so near
I hear ’em all cheerin’ an’ see ’em all score,
I can’t hardly stand it to hoe any more.
So ’en I ast Ma if I can’t go an’ play
An’ promise to hoe twict as much the next day,
But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can run
Off an’ play ’ist as soon as your work is all done.
You must work while you work,
You must play while you play
An’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”
An’ mebbe it’s so,
But, my goodness! to hoe
W’en you hear ’em a-playin’!—I guess she dunno.
Sometimes w’en the snow gets all piled up so deep
On the walk ’at she tells me to go out an’ sweep
It all off, an’ Sam Russell comes by with his sled,
My broom ’at I’m usin’ gets heavy as lead.
An’ I can’t hardly sweep, an’ I ast Ma if I
Can’t go out a-slidin’ an’ sweep by an’ by,
But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can run
Off and slide ’ist as soon as your work is all done.
You must work while you work,
You must play while you play
An’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”
An’ mebbe it’s so,
But to have to sweep snow
W’en the boys are a-slidin’!—I guess she dunno.
SO LONESOME NOW
OVER t’ Henry Murray’s, why,
They always had lots an’ lots o’ pie,
An’ toy automobiles an’ v’locipedes
An’ walkin’ toys, like a fellow reads
About sometimes, but he seldom sees,
An’ swings out under th’ big oak trees,
An’ childurn a-playin’ on every bough—
But my! It is turrible lonesome now.
Over t’ Henry Murray’s, why,
His mother an’ father ’ist seemed t’ try
An’ see if they couldn’t get some new toys
For Henry an’ all of us other boys
’At played with him; an’ she used t’ make
Th’ dandiest currant an’ raisin cake,
An’ boys ’ist flocked there like flies, somehow—
But my! It is turrible lonesome now.
Over’t Henry Murray’s, why,
His mother ’ud see you goin’ by
An’ ast you why you didn’t come an’ play
With Henry an’ all of his toys, some day.
An’ every Christmas she’d have a tree
With presents, th’ finest you ever see,
An’ nobody got forgot, somehow—
But my! It is turrible lonesome now.
An’ over t’ Henry Murray’s, why,
We boys ’ist look while we’re goin’ by,
An’ see all his toys layin’ there outside.
Once Big Bill Skinner broke down an’ cried
An’ says he don’t care—it was ’ist too bad,
’Cause Henry was all of th’ boy they had.
An’ th’ swings ’ist hang from th’ big oak bough bough—
An’ my! It is turrible lonesome now.