NOTHIN’ TO SAY

Nothin’ to say, my daughter! Nothin’ at all to say!

Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!

Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me —

Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother — where is she?

You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;

And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:

Like her, too, about livin’ here,— because she could n't stay:

It'll‘ most seem like you was dead — like her!— But I hai n't got nothin’ to say!

She left you her little Bible — writ yer name acrost the page —

And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.

I've allus kep'em and gyuarded‘ em, but ef yer goin’ away —

Nothin’ to say, my daughter! Nothin’ at all to say!