But what he said was, “Faix, Miss Alice, thim was rare foine sades,
But ye’ve murthered ivery blissed wan, an’ only lift the wades.”
Well, cabbage-raising does not pay, my garden is a fright.
There came a Morning-Glory Vine, and like a thief last night
He stole along my pretty rows, and this is what he’s done:
He’s twined around my cabbage plants, and pulled them every one,
And hung them with their roots to dry, like clothes upon a line—
Just spoiled my little garden-plot—that wicked ’Glory Vine.
And that is why we do not care for gardening to-day;
The crops are very poor this year, and kites are better play.