I’ got no patience with blues at all!
And I ust to kindo’ talk
Aginst‘ em, and claim, tel along last Fall,
They wuz none in the fambly stock;
But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,
That visitud us last year,
He kindo’ convinct me differunt
Whilse he wuz a-stayin’ here.
From ev'ry-which-way that blues is from,
They'd pester him ev'ry-ways;
They'd come to him in the night, and come
On Sundys, and rainy days;
They'd tackle him in corn-plantin’ time,
And in harvest, and airly Fall,—
But a dos't o’ blues in the Wintertime,
He‘ lowed, wuz the worst of all!
Said “All diseases that ever he had —
The mumps, er the rhumatiz —
Er ev'ry-other-day-aigger — bad
As ever the blame thing is!—
Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
Er a felon on his thumb,—
But you keep the blues away from him,
And all o’ the rest could come!”
And he'd moan, “They's nary a leaf below!
Ner a spear o’ grass in sight!
And the whole woodpile's clean under snow!
And the days is dark as night!
You can n't go out — ner you can n't stay in —
Lay down — stand up — ner set!”
And a tetch o’ regular tyfoid-blues
Would double him jest clean shet!
I writ his parunts a postal-kyard
He could stay tel Springtime come;
And Aprile — first, as I rickollect —
Wuz the day we shipped him home!
Most o’ his relatives, sence then,
Has eether give up, er quit,
Er jest died off; but I understand
He's the same old color yit!