None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,
He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells,—
All is, he couldn’t love ’em.
But long o’ her his veins ’ould run
All crinky like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.