Dear Father, look up,
Away from the cup,
And tell me what aileth ma's forehead.
It's all black-and-blue;
O, what could she do
To cause a contusion so horrid?

" Your mother, Jane Ann,
A newspaper man
Admired, till I warn'd her she'd catch it;
Like Washington, I
Cannot tell a lie —
I did it with my little hachet. "