I hai n't no great detective, like yer read about,— the kind That solves a whole blame murder case by footmarks left behind; But then, again, on t'other hand, my eyes hai n't shut so tight But I can add up two and two and get the answer right;
So, when prayer-meet'ns, Friday nights, got keepin’ awful late, And, fer an hour or so, I'd hear low voices at the gate — And when that gate got saggin’ down‘ bout ha'f a foot er so — I says ter mother: “Ma,” says I, “Matildy's got a beau.”
We ought ter have expected it — she's‘ most eighteen, yer see; But, sakes alive! she's always seemed a baby, like, ter me; And so, a feller after her! why, that jest did beat all! But, t’ other Sunday, bless yer soul, he come around ter call;
And when I see him all dressed up as dandy as yer please, But sort er lookin’‘ s if he had the shivers in his knees, I kind er realized it then, yer might say, like a blow — Thinks I, “No use! I'm gittin’ old; Matildy's got a beau.”
Just twenty-four short years gone by — it do'n' t seem five, I vow!— I fust called on Matildy — that's Matildy's mother now; I recollect I spent an hour a-tyin’ my cravat, And I'd sent up ter town and bought a bang-up shiny hat.
And, my! oh, my! them new plaid pants; well, wa'n' t I something grand When I come up the walk with some fresh posies in my hand? And did n't I feel like a fool when her young brother, Joe, Sang out: “Gee crickets! Looky here! Here comes Matildy's beau!”
And now another feller comes up my walk, jest as gay, And here's Matildy blushin’ red in jest her mother's way; And when she says she's got ter go an errand to the store, We know he‘ s waitin’‘ round the bend, jest as I've done afore;
Or, when they're in the parlor and I knock, why, bless yer heart! I have ter smile ter hear how quick their chairs are shoved apart. They think us old folks do n't “catch on” a single mite; but, sho! I reckon they fergit I was Matildy's mother's beau.
Cookies on Poetry Cove