Fer Mary she has three 'r four
Mischeevous little tykes, sir,
An' Sally has a houseful more—
You never seen the like, sir;
While Jim has six, an' Billy eight—
They'll tear the house to flinders,
An' dig the cellar out in chunks
An' pitch it through the winders.
The gals 'll tag me to the barn;
An' climb the mows, an' waller
All over ev'ry ton o' hay—
An' laugh an' scream an' holler.
The boys 'll git in this an' that;
An' git a lickin'—p'r'aps, sir—
Jest like the'r daddies used to git
When they was little chaps, sir.
But—lawzee-me!—w'y, I won't care.
I'm jest so glad they're comin',
I have to whistle to the tune
That my ol' heart's a-hummin'.
An' me an' Mammy—well, we think
It's good to be a-livin',
Sence all the children's comin' home
To spend the day Thanksgivin'.
PRAISE-GOD BAREBONES
BY ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON CORTISSOZ
I and my cousin Wildair met
And tossed a pot together—
Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed,
For it was nipping weather.
'Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench
Set all the inn folk laughing!
They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers
At kissing and at quaffing.
"Oddsfish!" says Dick, "the sack is rare,
And rarely burnt, fair Molly;
'Twould cure the sourest Crop-ear yet
Of Pious Melancholy."
"Egad!" says I, "here cometh one
Hath been at 's prayers but lately."
—Sooth, Master Praise-God Barebones stepped
Along the street sedately.
Dick Wildair, with a swashing bow,
And touch of his Toledo,
Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue
And bade him say his Credo;
Next crush a cup to the King's health,
And eke to pretty Molly;
"'T will cure your saintliness," says Dick,
"Of Pious Melancholy."
Then Master Barebones stopped and frowned;
My heart stood still a minute;
Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang,
Or else the devil's in it!
For me, I care not for old Noll,
Nor all the Rump together.
Yet, faith! 't is best to be alive
In pleasant Xmas weather.