Uncle Dan'l in Town over Sunday

I CAIN'T git used to city ways —
Ner never could, I' bet my hat!
Jevver know jes' whur I was raised? —
Raised on a farm! D' ever tell you that?
Was undoubtatly, I declare!
And now, on Sunday — fun to spare
Around a farm! Why jes' to set
Up on the top three-cornered rail
Of Pap's old place, nigh La Fayette,
I'd swap my soul off, hide and tail!
You fellers in the city here,
You don't know nothin'! — S'pose to-day,
This clatterin' Sunday, you waked up
Without no jinglin'-janglin' bells,
Ner rattlin' of the milkman's cup,
Ner any swarm of screechin' birds
Like these here English swallers — S'pose
Ut you could miss all noise like those,
And git shet o' thinkin' of 'em afterwerds,
And then, in the country, wake and hear
Nothin' but silence — wake and see
Nothin' but green woods fur and near? —
What sort o' Sunday would that be? . . .
Wisht I hed you home with me!
Now think! The laziest of all days —
To git up any time — er sleep —
Er jes' lay round and watch the haze
A-dancin' 'crost the wheat, and keep
My pipe a-goern laisurely,
And puff and whiff as pleases me —
And ef I leave a trail of smoke
Clean through the house, no one to say
" Wah! throw that nasty thing away;
Hev some regyard fer decency! "
To walk round barefoot, if you choose;
Er saw the fiddle — er dig some bait
And go a-fishin' — er pitch hoss shoes
Out in the shade somewhurs, and wait
For dinner-time, with an appetite
Ut folks in town cain't equal quite!
To laze around the barn and poke
Fer hens' nests — er git up a match
Betwixt the boys, and watch 'em scratch
And rassle round, and sweat and swear
And quarrel to their hearts' content;
And me a-jes' a-settin' there
A-hatchin' out more devilment!
What sort o' Sunday would that be? . . .
Wisht I hed you home with me!
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