Th’ ain’t not a juror here but wut’ll ’quit ye double-quick.”
To cut it short, I wun’t say sweet, they gi’ me a good dip,
(They ain’t perfessin’ Bahptists here,) then give the bed a rip,—
The jury ’d sot, an’ quicker ’n a flash they hetched me out, a livin’
Extemp’ry mammoth turkey-chick fer a Feejee Thanksgivin’.
Thet I felt some stuck up is wut it’s nat’ral to suppose,
When poppylar enthusiasm hed furnished me sech clo’es;
(Ner ’t ain’t without edvantiges, this kin’ o’ suit, ye see,
It’s water-proof, an’ water’s wut I like kep’ out o’ me;)
But nut content with thet, they took a kerridge from the fence