And the smokin’, chokin’ dust
O’ the turnpike at its wusst—
Saturd’ys, say, when it seems
Road’s jes jammed with country teams!
Whilse the old town, fur away
’Crosst the hazy pastur’-land,
Dozed-like in the heat o’ day
Peaceful’ as a hired hand.
Jolt the gravel th’ough the floor
O’ the ole bridge!—grind and roar