In The Country

How kind I sm to be a toller where
There ain’t no smoke to make your col- Ine binck-
thosh! how that son does beat down on my back
Where every prospect pinuses, an’ the air is always pure an’ bracin- declare
My tongue feels almost dry enough to crack- Git up, there, Fan, or I’ll give you a
whack- And all you have to do is laugh at euro

I pity them poor slaves that work away
Up there in town-geel how my hand does acie
While I am out here, singin’, glad an gay- An’ what they earn the selfish bowser take;
I’ve saved six dollars since the first of May-
An’ seems as though my bilstered back ‘u’d break
-S E Kiser