Page 27 - Poetry-Country

O You Fellers in th’ City

O you fellers in th’ city,
Think you got it awful fine,
An’ you grow consummit witty
Ez you say how you repine
Fur a trip into th’ kentry
Whur everything is green,
Especially th’ gentry—
Th’ kentry folk, you mean.

I ain’t hed much experiment
With ways o’ city folk;
But atween th’ hot brick pavement
An’ th’ clouds o’ dust an’ smoke
An’ the noise o’ squawlin’ huckster,
Ez shore ‘z th’ day my birth
I think it’s jes a picter
O ‘ th’ devil’s home on earth.

I like t’ take a quiet walk,
An’ watch th’ bumble-bee
Go buzzin’ in a hollyhock,
An’ tumble ‘roun’ tel he
Gits yaller with th’ golden dus’,
An’ s’ lazy he falls down,
But gits his wings a-flyin’ jes
Afore he strikes th’ groun’.

I like t’ set down on th’ grass,
My back agin a tree,
An’ watch th’ lazy water pass
(It seems thet way t’ me)
Pass down an’ through th’ medder
In th’ crookedest o’ ways,
Tel it runs into th’ river
An’ there I guess it stays.

When work is finished fur th’ day,
An’ eatin’ ’s finished, too,
I like t’ smell th’ clover-hay

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