It come right at the bizzy season; Bill
Was all laid up an’ couldn’t work;
An’ when he wan’t around, ez co’se they will,
The help would soljer, loaf an’ shirk.
They’d be’n so slow ’bout gittin’ in the corn
On “Thirty-one”—the “Lower bottom”—
Thet when ’twas drown’d an’ scorched, I could ’a’ sworn
Thet Bill was mad enuff ter shot ’em.
An’ then we found ’t th’ alfalfy ’n’ wheat hed heaved
So bad thet most of it would die;