 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
542
He come upon the street with a flail—
“Clear out of this!” says he, and a slash
Lek every way—“clear out, ye trash!
Clear out!” he says, “ye Skilligalee!
These wayses isn' shuitin' me—
Clear out!” and he made another quiver,
And they cleared that yard pretty quick, however.
Aw yis, I tell ye—and Nessy that white
With the mad, and standin' on her right,
And—“Nice work!” and wouldn' speak
To the father or Jack the best of a week.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |