Page:Backblock Ballads and Later Verses (C.J. Dennis, 1918).djvu/98

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Then in the dreary winter nights He sits him down 'neath my rooftree, And in a coarse, ungentle voice He fires those stories back at me.

He hath no wit for telling tales, He laughs where ne'er a point there be; But sits and murders honest yarns, And claims them as his propertee.

And when he laughs I rock and roar, And vow he'll be the death o' me. For, mark thou, friend, my martyrdom— He is a creditor to me.

Ay, prithee, friend, if thou hast love For goodly jests or care for me, Then tell him not the merry tale That yesternight I told to thee.