Page:Poems by Cushag.djvu/29

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HAT was there doin' on her?
 * Aw dade, its hard to say.

She wasn' for complainin'
 * But goin'—night an' day.

Aw, well; there's no wan at me now To make the bed or milk the cow!

The cough was subjec' to her,
 * Aw teerin', teerin' still;

She wore it out upon her feet
 * Yon time that I was ill.

Aw, well; I'm sick enough for all; But she's not hearin' when I call.

The times I'd not be sleepin'
 * She'd up an' have a light,

An' do a bit of readin'—
 * But failin' in her sight.

Aw, well; I'm lyin' lonely now, An' who's to go an' milk the cow?

Ay! Goin' goin' still,
 * Nor never warmed a cheer,

Its like she'll tire of sittin' quite,
 * The way she'll be up theer,

Like wearin' out her Sunday gown An' longin' still for us that's down.

They're tellin' me to rise,
 * Me clo'es is on the chiss,

Aw, well, I havn' got no heart,
 * An' that's the way it iss!

What use of me above the groun'! The gable of the house is down!