Classic Poem

'LISH, you rickollect that-air
Dad-burn skittish old bay mare
Was no livin' with! — 'at skeerd
'T ever'thing she seed er heerd! —
Th'owed 'Ves' Anders, and th'owed Pap,
First he straddled her — k-slap! —
And Izory — well! — th'owed her
Hain't no tellin' jest how fur! —
Broke her collar-bone — and might
Jes 'a' kilt the gyrl outright!

Course I'd heerd 'em make their boast
She th'ow any feller, 'most,
Ever topped her! S' I, " I know
One man 'at she'll never th'ow! "
So I rid her in to mill,
And, jest comin' round the hill,
Met a traction-engine! — Ort
Jest 'a' heerd that old mare snort,
And lay back her yeers, and see
Her a-tryin' to th'ow me!
Course I never said a word,
But thinks I, " My ladybird,
You'll git cuored, right here and now,
Of yer dy-does anyhow! "

So I stuck her — tel she'd jest
Done her very level best;
Then I slides off — strips the lines
Over her fool-head, and finds
Me a little saplin'-gad,
'Side the road: — And there we had
Our own fun! — jest wore her out!
Mounted her, and faced about,
And jest made her nose that-air
Little traction-engine there!