My Wife
What? You ask me if I’m happy
Up here in my mountain home?
Why, stranger, trouble’s a thing
That I have never known.
I’m happy as a chipmunk,
Or the little mountain squirrel;
For my wife in yonder cabin
Is the sweetest kind of a girl.
Our home I know ain’t handsome,
It’s a little bit out of repairs;
But, you see, we folks in the mountains
Ain’t them what put on airs.
I’m happier than them fellows
What carry a walking stick,
And live down there in the city
In a great big house of brick.
Neighbors? No, there ain’t many,
But them what we have are good.
If any of us was ever sick
I know they’d do all they could.
Why you folks down in the city
Just dread this mountain life,
While I! I’m the happiest man alive,
Up here with my little wife.
Maybe she’s not a beauty,
But she’s as good as she can be;
She ain’t so well educated,
But I tell you, she just suits me.
I can’t express my feelings;
Fine words I can’t recall,
But there’s just this much about it—
I love her—that’s all.