There warn’t no stoves (tel comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin’.
The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An’ leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s arm thet Gran’ the Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.