Thet men, (an’ guv’nors, tu,) thet hez sech Normal names ez Pickens,
Accustomed to no kin’ o’ work, ’thout ’t is to givin’ lickins,
Can’t masure votes with folks thet git their livins from their farms
An’ prob’ly think thet Law ’s ez good ez hevin’ coats o’ arms.
Sence I’ve ben here, I’ve hired a chap to look about for me
To git me a transplantable an’ thrifty fem’ly-tree,
An’ he tells me the Sawins is ez much o’ Normal blood
Ez Pickens an’ the rest on ’em, an’ older ’n Noah’s flood.
Your Normal schools wun’t turn ye into Normals, for it’s clear,
Ef eddykatin’ done the thing, they’d be some skurcer here.