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BLUE GRASS BALLADS 55 |
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While the teacher lammed it to us, till we had
the mortal cinch On everything the old man knowed, plum to the rule of three,
But frequent we got licked for that, Old Mart an' me.
We was raised on farms adjinin' with plenty all
aroun' But still we'd skip off, atter dark, an' pole away
to town, Three mile, up hill, ef 'twar a foot, an' jine the
boys up there, To eat sardines, and smoke seegyars, an' have a
sort of "tare," Or rob a neighbor's million patch—for deviltry,
you see,
But frequent we got licked for that, Old Mart an' me.
At spellin' bouts and singin' school, thar's whar
we useter shine; We couldn't spell a little bit, ner sing so mighty
fine, But when it come to courtin' gals an' seein' of
'em home, Why we was thar, an' you hear me, 'twas honey
in the comb, |
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