The parson, my bud-he's a preacher, you know,
But he can't git nowhere to preach-

Looks on wi' 's thumbs in 'is gallus-straps,
Smilin' sweet as a peach.

The kef is a fool, don't mean no harm,

Only wantin' to suck;

But sometimes I git so awful mad

'At I twistes 'is yur like a shuck.

They-all say I'm lazy, no 'count in the worl',
Only to raise a row;

But I wouldn't mind workin' all times o' day
'Cep' the time fur mulkin' the cow.
Whenever the fellers go off to swim,
Or take the'r dogs an' gun,

That pore white kef, a-wantin' his share,
Heads off both ends o' my fun.
But some sweet day I'll be a man,
An' when I'm boss myse'f

I'll ketch ev'ry boy 'at stays on the place
An' put him to holdin' a kef!

ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK