An' ef he ax 'bout yo' affairs,
Des 'low you gwine ter hunt some hares,
An' ax 'im is he seen a jack—
An' dat 'll put 'im off de track.
Now, ef you'll foller dis advice,
Instid o' bein' et wid rice,
Ur baked in pie, ur stuffed wid sage,
You'll live ter die of nachel age.
'Sh! hush! What's dat? Was dat a gun?
Don't trimble so. An' don't you run!
Come, set heah on de lorg wid me—
Hol' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee.
Don't run, I say. Tut—tut! He's gorn.
Right 'cross de road, as sho's you born!
Slam bang! I know'd he'd ketch a shot!
Well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot!