 | Reuben and Other Poems |  |
You don't believe it, sir! By the lord,
It's truth I tell ye, every word,
And none knows the truth of it better than I;
Just listen a minute and I'll tell you why.
This very ground on which we stand—
Twenty acres of arable land,
Ten of old pasture, and ten of bog,
And five of gnarly woody scrog—
Five and forty acres all told
My grandfather bought with a weasel's gold.—
It's truth I tell ye, every word,
And none knows the truth of it better than I;
Just listen a minute and I'll tell you why.
This very ground on which we stand—
Twenty acres of arable land,
Ten of old pasture, and ten of bog,
And five of gnarly woody scrog—
Five and forty acres all told
My grandfather bought with a weasel's gold.—
| Reuben and Other Poems | |