Nothin’ to say, my daughter! Nothin’ at all to say!
Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!
Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me —
Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother — where is she?
You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;
And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:
Like her, too, about livin’ here,— because she could n't stay:
It'll‘ most seem like you was dead — like her!— But I hai n't got nothin’ to say!
She left you her little Bible — writ yer name acrost the page —
And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.
I've allus kep'em and gyuarded‘ em, but ef yer goin’ away —
Nothin’ to say, my daughter! Nothin’ at all to say!