Holl farm,—a cross of stripèd pig an’ one o’ Jacob’s lambs;
’T wuz Dannil in the lions’ den, new an’ enlarged edition,
An’ everythin’ fust-rate o’ ’ts kind, the’ warn’t no impersition.
People’s impulsiver down here than wut our folks to home be,
An’ kin’ o’ go it ’ith a resh in raisin’ Hail Columby:
Thet’s so: an’ they swarmed out like bees, for your real Southun men’s
Time isn’t o’ much more account than an ole settin’ hen’s;
(They jest work semioccashnally, or else don’t work at all,
An’ so their time an’ ’tention both air et saci’ty’s call.)
Talk about hospitality! wut Nothun town d’ ye know