THAT’S a question I don’t like ter speak of:
How these pesky thistles come here;
But, boys, if ye will listen attentervely,
I will breathe a strenge tale in yer ear.
But afore I bergin I would warn ye,
Ye may fix yer faces ter blush;
So jist let thar be silence all around
And I’ll spin the yarn with a rush.
Ha! ha! ha! I larf when I think of it—
The days when a youngster I sat
On a rough pine bench in the lorg school house,
And din’d orf the rim of my hat!
The other boys war bigger than I war,
And studied thar lesson right well,
While I ermus’d myself as I wish’d ter
In quar tricks on which I’ll not dwell.
I war ter young ter learn my letters,—
They let me ’tend school for all that;
And then when I run short of ermusement
I jerk’d at the tail of the cat!
As I increas’d in years and mischief,
Sich as hazin’ our neighbor’s pig,
Pourin’ ink on the floor, or applyin’
Powder’d chalk ter the master’s wig—
Richard Scott—that war the pedergogue’s name—
Declar’d in wrath he’d be killin’
Me, if I did not be quiet and sit
Bertween ter gals—I war willin’!
Young as I war I lik’d that ye may swar
On the hilts of yer bowie knives;
And though but eight years I bergun ter sigh
For a plurality of wives!
Now, Tip Tracey, ye may smile over thar
At the picter I’ve painted you;
But that gal-punershment of Richard Scott
War a pleasure ter them gals, too!
By-an’-by I had master’d my letters,
And bergun on my b i bi’s;
From that I prergress’d to somethin’ better—
Admirin’ my companions’ eyes.
Nearly every day I got the ferule
Jist for winkin’ at Sue Minals;
But very soon I had so far prergress’d
I war plighted ter sev’ral gals!
I had not been ter school quite a twelvemonth
When I’d whal’d each boy in the class,
Kiss’d and hugg’d every gal, eaten Scott’s lunch,
And ten rivals had sent ter grass!
I put toads in Scott’s pockets, and dead mice
Scatter’d everywhar in his desk,
Till he froth’d at the mouth in his madness,
And cuss’d me for a little pest.
All this tuk place over in Canada,
Whar my gov’ner had gone ter preach
The Gospel of Jesus ter them sinners,
As successor ter Elder Beech.
But don’t tire at th’ length of my story:
I’m drawin’ erlong ter the close,
Whar I gather’d the seeds that have blarsted,
And fill’d a whole nation with woes.