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BLUE GRASS BALLADS
Ike's hat was made of plaited straw,
An' 'peared a good size stack, Ez it flopped about his shoulders,
An' meandered down his back; His shirt was common fact'ry,
An' his britches was of jeans, An' him, a long an' ganglin' cuss,
Jis outen of his teens.
I think it was, in common, 'lowed,
Et Ike could hoe mo' cawn, An' worm an' top mo' 'backer,
Fo' the blowin' of the hawn, En any man yan side the crick,
Fur miles an' miles aroun', An' yit, you sildom seed him here,
Er loafin' 'bout the town.
He never 'lowed whut he could do,
But went an' done it fus, An' anyone could josh him, lots,
An' not ezpect a muss. He was peaceful as er sack er oats,
An' some was 'clined to say, He was light about the livah—
Er sorter thater way.