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18 BLUE GRASS BALLADS |
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'Twuz late along one summer time—
We'd all laid by ow cawn— A lot of us was loafin' 'roun',
An' some was sorter gone, On rock-en-rye, an' sich like truck,
Fum outen Nagle's sto', When a feller, jis 'bout six-foot-two,
Comes stalkin' in the do.'
He wo' a pa'r er navy guns,
En a knife, I think, er two, An' he 'lowed a mighty heap er things,
'Bout all that he could do. Well, I kep' on a layin' back,
An' didn' aim to rise— I hadn' lost no fightin' man—
Eespeshly of his size.
The feller 'lowed he'd come out here
To run the place awhile, Then take the pootyiss gal an go,
Ez that was 'bout his style. He hadn' mo' than said it, good
Tell Ike lit inter him, An' the wuss licked man I evah seed
Was that gun-loadened slim.
Ike swep' the flo' an' road with him, An' thowed him crost some logs, |
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