They’re all a-kiddin’ me fer what I done,
And she looks on and seems to think it’s fun
Confound it! that’s What nearly breaks my heart.
XVII.
I’M sorry fer the poor old boy we’ve got
In seven-sixty-six; he’s nearly due
To ask St. Peter to please let him through.
His wife’s a beaut and young, and mebby what
She’s doin’ right along is hope he’ll not
Be yanked away and planted in the sod