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52 |
BLUE GRASS BALLADS |
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The sasser ain't no longer used to po' yo' coffee
in, An' eatin' with yo' knife has grow'd to be a
mortal sin; An' what is wuss than all the rest, an' seems to
me mos' quar' Cocktails, an' sich like truck as that, has knock'd
out whisky clar.
These things is much too much for me. It's
broke my heart in two, It's ru'nous to the country, an' it aint'er goin'
ter do; I'm goin' back—you hear me shout—clean back
to Washin'tun; I wanter find Old Skookumchuck, an' stay thar,
too, mer son. |
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DOWN SOUTH, i.
Tis summer in the quiet land of bloom, 'Neath skies that winter never knew;
In forests deep the dusky cypress plume Nods where the wild-vine tendrils clew
Among the humbler growth, beneath the shade Of centuried and hoary oaks, |
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