An’ once it’s orful stormy w’en It’s noon an’ he can’t go Back where he works for board an’ clo’es To get his lunch, an’ so I had some san’wiches an’ things ’At he thought was ’ist fine, An’ ’cuz he didn’t have no lunch I give him half of mine.
An’ once w’en we went down to fish He come along with me, An’ w’en we’re there says he ’ist wish ’At he could fish. You see He’s orful poor an’ brought a pole But didn’t have a line, An’ w’en I saw how bad he felt I give him half of mine.
An’ one time I ’ist told my Ma How he don’t have much fun ’Cuz he ain’t got no Ma or Pa Or Aunt or any one. An’ ’en I told her how I thought ’At it would be ’ist fine ’Cuz he ain’t got no mother if I’d give him half of mine.
He ain’t my brother, really true, He’s ’ist an orfant, so My Ma she took him, ’cuz she knew He had no place to go. I’m awful glad we got him an’ My Pa thinks it ’ist fine-- He didn’t have no mother, so I give him half of mine.
My Mamma says ’at once ’ere was A little girl she knew Who went an’ cried, an’ ’ist because-- Because she wanted to; An’ w’ile her face was all askew The wind changed, so they say, An’ Mamma told me ’at it’s true, Her face ’ist staid ’at way! An’ w’en she told me ’at, w’y nen I said I’ll never cry again.
My Mamma said ’at once she heard A little girl like me Tell ’ist one fib, an’ says, my word! Her Mamma looked to see W’ere was her tongue, an’ goodness me! Her mouth was ’ist all bare, An’ w’ere her tongue ’ud ought to be There wasn’t any there! An’ w’en she told me ’at, w’y nen I said I’ll never fib again!
My Mamma knew a little girl ’At used to run away W’en her dear mother ’d start to curl Her hair; an’ one fine day Some gypsies took her off, somehow, An’ stole her from her home, An’ my! Her hair is awful now, ’Cause gypsies never comb! An’ since she told me ’at, w’y nen I never runned away again!
An’ never don’t make fun, she says, Of folks ’at’s blind or lame, Or got red hair or warts, unless You want to be the same. ’Cause lots of times it happens so, An’ surely if you do, You never, never, never know What’s going to happen you. An’ since she told me ’at, w’y nen I never don’t make fun again.
He fell in a puddle and muddied his dress, He struck little Bob with a hammer, I guess; He cut sister’s curls with a big pair of shears And left ragged edges down over her ears; He muddied the floor that was just scrubbed so clean, He lighted a match near the canned gasoline, He broke all his soldiers and smashed all his toys, And yet we forgave him, for boys will be boys.