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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
And then another windhar went down,
And out come a bunch of curls as brown
As a nut, and a face as fresh as a rose,
And just the smallest taste of clothes,
And the sun all dabbin' her like fire,
And looks at the Pazon as modest—“Retire,
Retire,” says the Pazon; “that'll do, that'll do,”
And not another word to Brew
Nor the daughter neither; but turns the hoss,
And home with him. It wasn' cross
He was lookin', no! but sad though, sad,
Lek sorrowful, lek a way he had.
And out come a bunch of curls as brown
As a nut, and a face as fresh as a rose,
And just the smallest taste of clothes,
And the sun all dabbin' her like fire,
And looks at the Pazon as modest—“Retire,
Retire,” says the Pazon; “that'll do, that'll do,”
And not another word to Brew
Nor the daughter neither; but turns the hoss,
And home with him. It wasn' cross
He was lookin', no! but sad though, sad,
Lek sorrowful, lek a way he had.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |