Which ’mounts to pooty much the same; fer it’s ben proved repeated
A betch o’ bread thet hain’t riz once ain’t goin’ to rise agin,
An’ it’s jest money throwed away to put the emptins in:
But thet’s wut folks wun’t never larn; they dunno how to go,
Arter you want their room, no more ’n a bullet-headed beau;
Ther’ ’s ollers chaps a-hangin’ roun’ thet can’t see pea-time’s past,
Mis’ble as roosters in a rain, heads down an’ tails half-mast:
It ain’t disgraceful bein’ beat, when a holl nation doos it,
But Chance is like an amberill,—it don’t take twice to lose it.
I spose you’re kin’ o’ cur’ous, now, to know why I hain’t writ.