Thet mebby kep’ another chap frum washin’ off a wreck;
An’ you will see the taters grow in one poor feller’s patch,
So small no self-respectin’ hen thet vallied time ’ould scratch,
So small the rot can’t find ’em out, an’ then agin, nex’ door,
Ez big ez wut hogs dream on when they’re ’most too fat to snore.
But groutin’ ain’t no kin’ o’ use; an’ ef the fust throw fails,
Why, up an’ try agin, thet’s all,—the coppers ain’t all tails;
Though I hev seen ’em when I thought they hed n’t no more head
Than’d sarve a nussin’ Brigadier thet gits some ink to shed.
When I writ last, I’d ben turned loose by thet blamed nigger, Pomp,