Let alone the hay’s to mow—
Ef you’re arter folks o’ gumption,
You’ve a darned long row to hoe.
Take them editors thet’s crowin’
Like a cockerel three months old—
Don’t ketch any on ’em goin’,
Though they be so blasted bold;
Ain’t they a prime lot o’ fellers?
’Fore they think on’t they will sprout
(Like a peach thet’s got the yellers),