Afterwhiles

  Granny's come to our house,
  And ho! My lawzy-daisy!
  All the childern round the place
  Is ist a-runnin' crazy!
  Fetched a cake fer little Jake,
  And fetched a pie fer Nanny,
  And fetched a pear fer all the pack
  That runs to kiss their Granny!

  Lucy Ellen's in her lap,
  And Wade and Silas Walker
  Both's a ridin' on her foot,
  And 'Pollos on the rocker;
  And Marthy's twins, from Aunt Marinn's
  And little Orphant Annie,
  All's a-eatin' gingerbread
  And giggle-un at Granny!

  Tells us all the fairy tales
  Ever thought er wundered—
  And 'bundance o' other stories—
  Bet she knows a hunderd—!

  Bob's the one fer "Whittington,"
  And "Golden Locks" fer Fanny!
  Hear 'em laugh and clap their hands,
  Listenin' at Granny!

  "Jack the Giant-Killer" 's good;
  And "Bean-Stalk" 's another—!
  So's the one of "Cinderell'"
  And her old godmother—;
  That-un's best of all the rest—
  Bestest one of any—,
  Where the mices scampers home
  Like we runs to Granny!

  Granny's come to our house,
  Ho! My lawzy-daisy!
  All the childern round the place
  Is ist a runnin' crazy!
  Fetched a cake fer little Jake,
  And fetched a pie fer Nanny,
  And fetched a pear fer all the pack
  That runs to kiss their Granny!

  Old October's purt' nigh gone,
  And the frosts is comin' on
  Little heavier every day—
  Like our hearts is thataway!
  Leaves is changin' overhead
  Back from green to gray and red,
  Brown and yeller, with their stems
  Loosenin' on the oaks and e'ms;
  And the balance of the trees
  Gittin' balder every breeze—
  Like the heads we're scratchin' on!
  Old October's purt' nigh gone.

  I love Old October so,
  I can't bear to see her go—
  Seems to me like losin' some
  Old-home relative er chum—
  'Pears like sorto' settin' by
  Some old friend 'at sigh by sigh
  Was a-passin' out o' sight
  Into everlastin' night!
  Hickernuts a feller hears
  Rattlin' down is more like tears
  Drappin' on the leaves below—
  I love Old October so!

  Can't tell what it is about
  Old October knock me out—!
  I sleep well enough at night—
  And the blamedest appetite
  Ever mortal man possessed—,
  Last thing et, it tastes the best—!
  Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws,
  'Iles and limbers up my jaws
  Fer raal service, sich as new
  Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too—.
  Yit fer all, they's somepin' 'bout
  Old October knocks me out!

  He was jes a plain ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour.,
  Consumpted-Iookin'— but la!
  The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliest
  Feller you ever saw!
  Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk,
  And his feelin's too!
  Lordy! Ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day, a- carryin' on
  Like he ust to do!

  Any shopmate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt,
  A better feller'n Jim!
  You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else—
  You could git it o' him!
  Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!
  Give up ever' nickel he's worth—
  And ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,
  He'd a-give you the earth!

  Allus a reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some
  Pore feller onto his feet—
  He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f,
  So's the feller got somepin' to eat!
  Didn't make no differ'nce at all to him how he was dressed,
  He ust to say to me—,
  "You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, a huntin' a job,
  And he'll git along!" says he.

  Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly much
  O' this world's goods at a time—.
  'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and haf to, more'n
  likely,
  Turn round and borry a dime!
  Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer awhile— then jerk his coat,
  And kindo' square his chin,
  Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench,
  And go to peggin' ag'in!

  Patientest feller too, I reckon, 'at ever jes natchurly
  Coughed hisse'f to death!
  Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whisper and say
  He could git ever'thing but his breath—
  "You fellers," he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say,
  "Is a-pilin' onto me
  A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to pack
  Through all Eternity!"

  Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me,
  'At ortn't a-never a-died!
  "But death hain't a-showin' no favors," the old boss said—
  "On'y to Jim!" and cried:
  And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the shop—
  Er the whole blame neighborhood—,
  He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that day
  But jes set around and feel good!"

  Sweet Singer that I loe the maist
  O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste
  I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste
  O' hinnied sang,
  I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist
  In Heaven lang!

  For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase,
  Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways,
  Could gar me freer blame, or praise,
  Or proffer hand,
  Where "Rantin' Robbie" and his lays
  Thegither stand.

  And sae these hamely lines I send,
  Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end,
  In echo o' the sangs that wend
  Frae thee to me
  Like simmer-brooks, wi mony a bend
  O' wimplin' glee.

  In fancy, as wi' dewy een,
  I part the clouds aboon the scene
  Where thou wast born, and peer atween,
  I see nae spot
  In a' the Hielands half sae green
  And unforgot?

  I see nae storied castle-hall,
  Wi' banners flauntin' ower the wall
  And serf and page in ready call,
  Sae grand to me
  As ane puir cotter's hut, wi' all
  Its poverty.

  There where the simple daisy grew
  Sae bonnie sweet, and modest too,
  Thy liltin' filled its wee head fu'
  O' sic a grace,
  It aye is weepin' tears o' dew
  Wi' droopit face.

  Frae where the heather bluebells fling
  Their sangs o' fragrance to the Spring,
  To where the lavrock soars to sing,
  Still lives thy strain,
  For' a' the birds are twittering
  Sangs like thine ain.

  And aye, by light o' sun or moon,
  By banks o' Ayr, or Bonnie Doon,
  The waters lilt nae tender tune
  But sweeter seems
  Because they poured their limpid rune
  Through a' thy dreams.

  Wi' brimmin' lip, and laughin' ee,
  Thou shookest even Grief wi' glee,
  Yet had nae niggart sympathy
  Where Sorrow bowed,
  But gavest a' thy tears as free
  As a' thy gowd.

  And sae it is we be thy name
  To see bleeze up wi' sic a flame,
  That a' pretentious stars o' fame
  Maun blink asklent,
  To see how simple worth may shame
  Their brightest glent.

        1
     The Hired Man Talks

  There's old man Willards; an' his wife;
  An' Marg'et— S'repty's sister—; an'
  There's me— an' I'm the hired man;
  An' Tomps McClure, you better yer life!

  Well now, old Willards hain't so bad,
  Considerin' the chance he's had.
  Of course, he's rich, an' sleeps an' eats
  Whenever he's a mind to: Takes
  An' leans back in the Amen-seats
  An' thanks the Lord fer all he makes—.
  That's purty much all folks has got
  Ag'inst the old man, like as not!
  But there's his woman— jes the turn
  Of them-air two wild girls o' hern—
  Marg'et an' S'repty— allus in
  Fer any cuttin'-up concern—
  Church festibals, and foolishin'
  Round Christmas-trees, an' New Year's sprees—
  Set up to watch the Old Year go
  An' New Year come— sich things as these;
  An' turkey-dinners, don't you know!
  S'repty's younger, an' more gay,
  An' purtier, an' finer dressed
  Than Marg'et is— but, lawzy-day!
  She hain't the independentest!
  "Take care!" old Willards used to say,
  "Take care—! Let Marg'et have her way,
  An' S'repty, you go off an' play
  On your melodeum—!" But, best
  Of all, comes Tomps! An' I'll be bound,
  Ef he hain't jes the beatin'est
  Young chap in all the country round!
  Ef you knowed Tomps you'd like him, shore!
  They hain't no man on top o' ground
  Walks into my affections more—!
  An' all the Settlement'll say
  That Tomps was liked jes thataway
  By ever'body, till he tuk
  A shine to S'repty Willards—. Then
  You'd ort'o see the old man buck
  An' h'ist hisse'f, an' paw the dirt,
  An' hint that "common workin'-men
  That didn't want their feelin's hurt
  'Ud better hunt fer 'comp'ny' where
  The folks was pore an' didn't care—!"
  The pine-blank facts is—, the old man,
  Last Christmas was a year ago,
  Found out some presents Tomps had got
  Fer S'repty, an' hit made him hot—
  Set down an' tuk his pen in hand
  An' writ to Tomps an' told him so
  On legal cap, in white an' black,
  An' give him jes to understand
  "No Christmas-gifts o' 'lily-white'
  An' bear's-ile could fix matters right,"
  An' wropped 'em up an' sent 'em back!
  Well, S'repty cried an' snuffled round
  Consid'able. But Marg'et she
  Toed out another sock, an' wound
  Her knittin' up, an' drawed the tea,
  An' then set on the supper-things,
  An' went up in the loft an' dressed—
  An' through it all you'd never guessed
  What she was up to! An' she brings
  Her best hat with her an her shawl,
  An' gloves, an' redicule, an' all,
  An' injirubbers, an' comes down
  An' tells 'em she's a-goin' to town
  To he'p the Christmas goin's-on
  Her Church got up. An' go she does—
  The best hosswoman ever was!
  "An" what'll We do while you're gone?"
  The old man says, a-tryin' to be
  Agreeable. "Oh! You?" says she—,
  "You kin jaw S'repty, like you did,
  An' slander Tomps!" An' off she rid!

  Now, this is all I'm goin' to tell
  Of this-here story— that is, I
  Have done my very level best
  As fur as this, an' here I "dwell,"
  As auctioneers says, winkin' sly:
  Hit's old man Willards tells the rest.

        2
     The Old Man Talks

  Adzackly jes one year ago,
  This New Year's day, Tomps comes to me—
  In my own house, an' whilse the folks
  Was gittin' dinner—, an' he pokes
  His nose right in, an' says, says he:
  "I got yer note— an' read it slow!
  You don't like me, ner I don't you,"
  He says—, "we're even there, you know!
  But you've said, furder that no gal
  Of yourn kin marry me, er shall,
  An' I'd best shet off comin', too!"
  An' then he says—, "Well, them's Your views—;
  But havin' talked with S'repty, we
  Have both agreed to disagree
  With your peculiar notions— some;
  An', that s the reason, I refuse
  To quit a-comin' here, but come—
  Not fer to threat, ner raise no skeer
  An' spile yer turkey-dinner here—,
  But jes fer S'repty's sake, to sheer
  Yer New Year's. Shall I take a cheer?"

  Well, blame-don! Ef I ever see
  Sich impidence! I couldn't say
  Not nary word! But Mother she
  Sot out a cheer fer Tomps, an' they
  Shuk hands an' turnt their back on me.
  Then I riz— mad as mad could be—!
  But Marg'et says—, "Now, Pap! You set
  Right where you're settin'—! Don't you fret!
  An' Tomps— you warm yer feet!" says she,
  "An throw yer mitts an' comfert on
  The bed there! Where is S'repty gone!
  The cabbage is a-scortchin'! Ma,
  Stop cryin' there an' stir the slaw!"
  Well—! What was Mother cryin' fer—?
  I half riz up— but Marg'et's chin
  Hit squared— an' I set down ag'in—
  I allus was afeard o' her,
  I was, by jucks! So there I set,
  Betwixt a sinkin'-chill an' sweat,
  An' scuffled with my wrath, an' shet
  My teeth to mighty tight, you bet!
  An' yit, fer all that I could do,
  I eeched to jes git up an' whet
  The carvin'-knife a rasp er two
  On Tomps's ribs— an' so would you—!
  Fer he had riz an' faced around,
  An' stood there, smilin', as they brung
  The turkey in, all stuffed an' browned—
  Too sweet fer nose, er tooth, er tongue!
  With sniffs o' sage, an' p'r'aps a dash
  Of old burnt brandy, steamin'-hot
  Mixed kindo' in with apple-mash
  An' mince-meat, an' the Lord knows what!
  Nobody was a-talkin' then,
  To 'filiate any awk'ardness—
  No noise o' any kind but jes
  The rattle o' the dishes when
  They'd fetch 'em in an' set 'em down,
  An' fix an' change 'em round an' round,
  Like women does— till Mother says—,
  "Vittels is ready; Abner, call
  Down S'repty— she's up-stairs, I guess—."
  And Marg'et she says, "Ef you bawl
  Like that, she'll not come down at all!
  Besides, we needn't wait till she
  Gits down! Here Temps, set down by me,
  An' Pap: say grace...!" Well, there I was—!
  What could I do! I drapped my head
  Behind my fists an' groaned; an' said—:
  "Indulgent Parent! In Thy cause
  We bow the head an' bend the knee
  An' break the bread, an' pour the wine,
  Feelin'—" (The stair-door suddently
  Went bang! An' S'repty flounced by me—)
  "Feelin'," I says, "this feast is Thine—
  This New Year's feast—" an' rap-rap-rap!
  Went Marg'ets case-knife on her plate—
  An' next, I heerd a sasser drap—,
  Then I looked up, an' strange to state,
  There S'repty set in Tomps lap—
  An' huggin' him, as shore as fate!
  An' Mother kissin' him k-slap!
  An' Marg'et— she chips in to drap
  The ruther peert remark to me—:
  "That 'grace' o' yourn," she says, "won't 'gee'—
  This hain't no 'New Year's feast,'" says she—,
  "This is a' Infair-Dinner, Pap!"

  An' so it was—! Be'n married fer
  Purt' nigh a week—! 'Twas Marg'et planned
  The whole thing fer 'em, through an' through.
  I'm rickonciled; an' understand,
  I take things jes as they occur—,
  Ef Marg'et liked Tomps, Tomps 'ud do—!
  But I-says-I, a-holt his hand—,
  "I'm glad you didn't marry Her—
  'Cause Marg'et's my guardeen— yes-sir—!
  An' S'repty's good enough fer you!"

  The Town Karnteel—! It's who'll reveal
  Its praises jushtifiable?
  For who can sing av anything
  So lovely and reliable?
  Whin Summer, Spring, or Winter lies
  From Malin's Head to Tipperary,
  There's no such town for interprise
  Bechuxt Youghal and Londonderry!

  There's not its likes in Ireland—
  For twic't the week, be gorries!
  They're playing jigs upon the band,
  And joomping there in sacks— and— and—
  And racing, wid wheelborries!

  Kanteel— it's there, like any fair,
  The purty gurrls is plinty, sure—!
  And man-alive! At forty-five
  The leg's av me air twinty, sure!
  I lave me cares, and hoein' too,
  Behint me, as is sinsible,
  And it's Karnteel I'm goin' to,
  To cilebrate in principle!

  For there's the town av all the land!
  And twic't the week, be-gorries!
  They're playing jigs upon the band,
  And joomping there in sacks— and— and—
  And racing, wid wheelborries!

  And whilst I feel for owld Karnteel
  That I've no phrases glorious,
  It stands above the need av love
  That boasts in voice uproarious—!
  Lave that for Cork, and Dublin too,
  And Armagh and Killarney thin—,
  And Karnteel won't be troublin' you
  Wid any jilous blarney, thin!

  For there's the town av all the land
  Where twic't the week, be-gorries!
  They're playing jigs upon the band,
  And joomping there in sacks— and— and—
  And racing, wid wheelborries!

  Sence I tuk holt o' Gibbses' Churn
  And be'n a-handlin' the concern,
  I've travelled round the grand old State
  Of Indiany, lots, o' late—!
  I've canvassed Crawferdsville and sweat
  Around the town o' Layfayette;
  I've saw a many a County-seat
  I ust to think was hard to beat:
  At constant dreenage and expense
  I've worked Greencastle and Vincennes—
  Drapped out o' Putnam into Clay,
  Owen, and on down thataway
  Plum into Knox, on the back-track
  Fer home ag'in— and glad I'm back—!
  I've saw these towns, as I say— but
  They's none 'at beats old Terry Hut!

  It's more'n likely you'll insist
  I claim this 'cause I'm prejudist,
  Bein' born'd here in ole Vygo
  In sight o' Terry Hut—; but no,
  Yer clean dead wrong—! And I maintain
  They's nary drap in ary vein
  O' mine but what's as free as air
  To jest take issue with you there—!
  'Cause, boy and man, fer forty year,
  I've argied ag'inst livin' here,
  And jawed around and traded lies
  About our lack o' enterprise,
  And tuk and turned in and agreed
  All other towns was in the lead,
  When— drat my melts—! They couldn't cut
  No shine a-tall with Terry Hut!

  Take even, statesmanship, and wit,
  And ginerel git-up-and-git,
  Old Terry Hut is sound clean through—!
  Turn old Dick Thompson loose, er Dan
  Vorehees— and where's they any man
  Kin even hold a candle to
  Their eloquence—? And where's as clean
  A fi-nan-seer as Rile' McKeen—
  Er puorer, in his daily walk,
  In railroad er in racin' stock!
  And there's 'Gene Debs— a man 'at stands
  And jest holds out in his two hands
  As warm a heart as ever beat
  Betwixt here and the Jedgement Seat—!
  All these is reasons why I putt
  Sich bulk o' faith in Terry Hut.

  So I've come back, with eyes 'at sees
  My faults, at last—, to make my peace
  With this old place, and truthful' swear—
  Like Gineral Tom Nelson does—,
  "They hain't no city anywhere
  On God's green earth lays over us!"
  Our city government is grand—
  "Ner is they better farmin'-land
  Sun-kissed—" as Tom goes on and says—
  "Er dower'd with sich advantages!"
  And I've come back, with welcome tread,
  From journeyin's vain, as I have said,
  To settle down in ca'm content,
  And cuss the towns where I have went,
  And brag on ourn, and boast and strut
  Around the streets o' Terry Hut!

  Leedle Dutch baby haff come ter town!
  Jabber und jump till der day gone down—
  Jabber und sphlutter und sphlit hees jaws—
  Vot a Dutch baby dees Londsmon vas!
  I dink dose mout' vas leedle too vide
  Ober he laugh fon dot altso-side!
  Haff got blenty off deemple und vrown—?
  Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!

  Leedle Dutch baby, I dink me proud
  Ober your fader can schquall dot loud
  Ven he vas leedle Dutch baby like you
  Und yoost don't gare, like he alvays do—!
  Guess ven dey vean him on beer, you bet
  Dot's der because dot he aind veaned yet—!
  Vot you said off he dringk you down—?
  Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!

  Leedle Dutch baby, yoost schquall avay—
  Schquall fon preakfast till gisterday!
  Better you all time gry und shout
  Dan shmile me vonce fon der coffin out!
  Vot I gare off you keek my nose
  Downside-up mit your heels und toes—
  Downside, oder der oopside-down—?
  Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!

  "Best time to kill a hog's when he's fat." —Old Saw.

  Mostly folks is law-abidin'
  Down on Wriggle Crick—,
  Seein' they's no Squire residin'
  In our bailywick;
  No grand juries, no suppeenies,
  Ner no vested rights to pick
  Out yer man, jerk up and jail ef
  He's outragin' Wriggle Crick!

  Wriggle Crick hain't got no lawin',
  Ner no suits to beat;
  Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin'
  Like a County-seat;
  Hain't no waitin' round fer verdick,
  Ner non-gittin' witness-fees;
  Ner no thiefs 'at gits "new heain's,"
  By some lawyer slick as grease!

  Wriggle Cricks's leadin' spirit
  Is old Johnts Culwell—,
  Keeps post-office, and right near it
  Owns what's called "The Grand Hotel—"
  (Warehouse now—) buys wheat and ships it;
  Gits out ties, and trades in stock,
  And knows all the high-toned drummers
  'Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk'

  Last year comes along a feller—
  Sharper 'an a lance—
  Stovepipe-hat and silk umbreller,
  And a boughten all-wool pants—,
  Tinkerin of clocks and watches:
  Says a trial's all he wants—
  And rents out the tavern-office
  Next to Uncle Johnts.

  Well—. He tacked up his k'dentials,
  And got down to biz—.
  Captured Johnts by cuttin' stenchils
  Fer them old wheat-sacks o' his—.

  Fixed his clock, in the post-office—
  Painted fer him, clean and slick,
  'Crost his safe, in gold-leaf letters,
  "J. Culwells's Wriggle Crick."

  Any kindo' job you keered to
  Resk him with, and bring,
  He'd fix fer you— jest appeared to
  Turn his hand to anything—!
  Rings, er earbobs, er umbrellers—
  Glue a cheer er chany doll—,
  W'y, of all the beatin' fellers,
  He Jest beat 'em all!

  Made his friends, but wouldn't stop there—,
  One mistake he learnt,
  That was, sleepin' in his shop there—.
  And one Sund'y night it burnt!
  Come in one o' jest a-sweepin'
  All the whole town high and dry—
  And that feller, when they waked him,
  Suffocatin', mighty nigh!

  Johnts he drug him from the buildin',
  He'pless— 'peared to be—,
  And the women and the childern
  Drenchin' him with sympathy!
  But I noticed Johnts helt on him
  With a' extry lovin' grip,
  And the men-folks gethered round him
  In most warmest pardership!

  That's the whole mess, grease-and-dopin'!
  Johnt's safe was saved—,
  But the lock was found sprung open,
  And the inside caved.
  Was no trial— ner no jury—
  Ner no jedge ner court-house-click—.
  Circumstances alters cases
  Down on Wriggle Crick!

  What dat scratchin' at de kitchin do'?
  Done heah'n dat foh an hour er mo'!
  Tell you Mr. Niggah, das sho's yo' bo'n,
  Hit's mighty lonesome waitin' when de folks is gone!

  Blame my trap! How de wind do blow!
  An' dis is das de night foh de witches, sho'!
  Dey's trouble gon' to waste when de old slut whine,
  An' you heah de cat a-spittin' when de moon don't shine!

  Chune my fiddle, an' de bridge go "bang!"
  An' I lef' 'er right back whah she allus hang,
  An' de tribble snap short an' de apern split
  When dey no mortal man wah a-tetchin' hit!

  Dah! Now, what? How de ole j'ice cracks!
  'Spec' dis house, ef hit tell plain fac's,
  'Ud talk about de ha'nts wid dey long tails on
  What das'n't on'y come when de folks is gone!

  What I tuk an' done ef a sho'-nuff ghos'
  Pop right up by de ole bed-pos'?
  What dat shinin' fru de front do' crack...?
  God bress de Lo'd! Hit's de folks got back!

  You kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy growth and size,
  And brag about yer County-seats, and business enterprise,
  And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery—
  But the little Town o' Tailholt is big enough fer me!

  You kin harp about yer churches, with their steeples in the clouds,
  And gas about yer graded streets, and blow about yer crowds;
  You kin talk about yer "theaters," and all you've got to see—
  But the little Town o' Tailholt is show enough fer me!

  They hain't no style in our town— hit's little-like and small—
  They hain't no "churches," nuther—, jes' the meetin' house is all;
  They's no sidewalks, to speak of— but the highway's allus free,
  And the little Town o' Tailholt is wide enough fer me!

  Some find it discommodin'-like, I'm willin' to admit,
  To hev but one post-office, and a womern keepin' hit,
  And the drug-store, and shoe-shop, and grocery, all three—
  But the little Town o' Tailholt is handy 'nough fer me!

  You kin smile and turn yer nose up, and joke and hev yer fun,
  And laugh and holler "Tail-holts is better holts'n none!
  Ef the city suits you better w'y, hit's where you'd ort'o be—
  But the little Town o' Tailholt's good enough fer me!

  Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
  An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
  An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
  An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
  An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done,
  We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
  A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
  An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
            Ef you
                 Don't
                     Watch
                         Out!

  Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers—,
  An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
  His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
  An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
  An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
  An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;
  But all they found was thist his pants an' roundabout—:
  An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
            Ef you
                 Don't
                     Watch
                         Out!

  An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin,
  An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin;
  An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,
  She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
  An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
  They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
  An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
  An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
            Ef you
                 Don't
                     Watch
                         Out!

  An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
  An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
  An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
  An' the lightn'-bugs in dew is all squenched away—,
  You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear,
  An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
  An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about
  Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
            Ef you
                 Don't
                     Watch
                         Out!