So you've kem‘ yer agen,
And one answer wo n't do?
Well, of all the derned men
That I've struck, it is you.
O Sal!‘ yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin’ round‘ yer in the dew.
Kem in, ef you WILL.
Thar,— quit! Take a cheer.
Not that; you can n't fill
Them theer cushings this year,—
For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they do n't make such men about‘ yer.
He was tall, was my Jack,
And as strong as a tree.
Thar's his gun on the rack,—
Jest you heft it, and see.
And YOU come a courtin’ his widder! Lord! where can that critter, Sal, be!
You'd fill my Jack's place?
And a man of your size,—
With no baird to his face,
Nor a snap to his eyes,
And nary — Sho! thar! I was foolin’,— I was, Joe, for sartain,— do n't rise.
Sit down. Law! why, sho!
I'm as weak as a gal.
Sal! Do n't you go, Joe,
Or I'll faint,— sure, I shall.
Sit down,— ANYWHEER, where you like, Joe,— in that cheer, if you choose,— Lord! where's Sal?