I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane fibs,)
When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs.
I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;
I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;
And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,
And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.
Well said! the door is locked! out here she’s left the key,
Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;
I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell;
But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.