An’ I’m swattin’ a bothersome fly.
The sky was ez black ez one o’ Bill’s blots
When over a letter he muddles;
An’ the win’ blow’d a blast, an’ the rain fell fast,
An’ the groun’ was a huddle o’ puddles.
Thet was yistiddy, pard; but terday, by Joel,
It’s Aprul excep’ fer the leaves;
They’re a copper an’ green with a pigeony sheen,
An’ a red like our Heryford beeves.
Mos’ potes will all spring suthin’ on ye ’bout russet,