But I wool not tell you where, my boys,
Nor wool not tell you why.
The varmer he comes screeching out,
To zave ‘uns new brood mare;
Zays I, ‘You and your stock may roast,
Vor aught us poor chaps care.’
“Coorus, boys, coorus!”
And the chorus burst out—
“Then here’s a curse on varmers all
As rob and grind the poor;