Classic Poem

They a' fine, them bluffs against the sky!
Like the hills neah Baath, — unly nut so high.
That smoke on the rivah theah's a bo't,
And that's a train comin' out the cut
Across the Island; you caan't see the Slough.
Take it all in all, it's nut a bad view.
Yet I miss the sho'ah and — well, the fogs,
And the rocks and the pines and the cranberry bogs.
It's ha'd to say what all I miss;
But we wouldn't set great sto'ah by this
Dyown East.

Yes, this is my ga'den. — I wish you could see
The way things grow in Maine! De'ah me!
But I fetch my Transcript out he'ah and read,
And forget I'm not home. — O, that's no weed!
That's real bone-set; it doesn't grow he'ah;
My Idar sent it to me, a ye'ah
Come next Faast-day; and that sweet-fe'n too,
Those pesky hens a' scratchin'. Shoo!
Yes, speckled Plymouth; but they wunt lay
'S they use' to up No'th Biddefo'd way,
Dyown East.

Yo'ah Ma's goin' East? I want to know!
She goin' to Port — ? Heh? Pittsburg! Oh!
That's nut East really; but then, I suppose,
They call it East he'ah; and p'raps, if she goes
So fa' t'wa'ds home, she'll go right through.
Sakes! but I wish I was goin' too!
I'd give this rivah twice ovah to see
A real salt-maa'sh, or a spruce-gum tree! —
Good-bye. My cough? O, it's nut half so bad
'S the genuine colds I always had
Dyown East.