Our Aunt‘ Mandy thinks that boys
Never ought ter make a noise,
Or go swimming or play ball,
Or have any fun at all;
Thinks a boy had ought ter be
Dressed up all the time, and she
Hollers jest as if she's hurt
At the littlest mite er dirt
On a feller's hands or face,
Or his clothes, or any place.
Then at dinner-time she's there,
Sayin’, “Must n't kick the chair!”
Or “Why do n't yer sit up straight?”
“‘ Tai n't perlite to drum yer plate.”
An’ yer got ter eat as slow,
‘ Cause she's dingin’ at yer so.
Then, when Chris'mus comes, she brings
Nothin’, only useful things:
Han'kershi' fs an’ gloves an’ ties,
Sunday stuff yer jest despise.
She's a ole maid, all alone,
‘ Thout no children of her own,
An’ I s'pose that makes her fuss
‘ Round our house a-bossin’ us.
If she‘ d had a boy, I bet,
‘ Tween her bossin’ and her fret
She'd a-killed him, jest about;
So God made her do without,
For he knew no boy could stay
With Aunt‘ Mandy every day.