There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin’.
The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her,
An’ leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
Again the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.