A DOS'T O’ BLUES

I’ got no patience with blues at all!

And I ust to kindo’ talk

Aginst‘ em, and claim, tel along last Fall,

They wuz none in the fambly stock;

But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,

That visitud us last year,

He kindo’ convinct me differunt

Whilse he wuz a-stayin’ here.

From ev'ry-which-way that blues is from,

They'd pester him ev'ry-ways;

They'd come to him in the night, and come

On Sundys, and rainy days;

They'd tackle him in corn-plantin’ time,

And in harvest, and airly Fall,—

But a dos't o’ blues in the Wintertime,

He‘ lowed, wuz the worst of all!

Said “All diseases that ever he had —

The mumps, er the rhumatiz —

Er ev'ry-other-day-aigger — bad

As ever the blame thing is!—

Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,

Er a felon on his thumb,—

But you keep the blues away from him,

And all o’ the rest could come!”

And he'd moan, “They's nary a leaf below!

Ner a spear o’ grass in sight!

And the whole woodpile's clean under snow!

And the days is dark as night!

You can n't go out — ner you can n't stay in —

Lay down — stand up — ner set!”

And a tetch o’ regular tyfoid-blues

Would double him jest clean shet!

I writ his parunts a postal-kyard

He could stay tel Springtime come;

And Aprile — first, as I rickollect —

Wuz the day we shipped him home!

Most o’ his relatives, sence then,

Has eether give up, er quit,

Er jest died off; but I understand

He's the same old color yit!