Smeared are her fin-gers and thumbs;
While a-round with nois-y clat-ter
Old hen, with her chick-ens comes.
Ba-by shoos and shoos, and strikes them
With the spoon that spills the crumbs:
“Do ’way chick-ies! ’ou s’an’t hab em—
My nice bwead an’ las-ses tums!”
But the chick-ies sly will pick them
When Miss Dim-ple’s not on the watch;
And old moth-er hen comes bold-ly