To th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn;

An’ he says, “Whew!” an’ nen leans on

His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,

An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn!

Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies,

It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!”

An’ nen he’ll say,

“Clear out o’ my way!

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!

Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!