Us fix ye up, or go ter bed.”
Thet hand o’ his was awful red, an’ swoll’d
Ez big ’s a baby colt’s hind legs;
The fingers on ’t looked whitish blew an’ cold,
An’ stuck up like ol’ harness pegs.
He suffered dretful, thet was plain enuff,
Tho’ Laury ’d doctered ’im with messes,
An’ polticed ’im with ev’ry kind o’ stuff,
Horse linyments an’ warm compresses.
But no, he wouldn’t go ter bed; he ’d see