 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
That's the coortin'! Aw, lave it alone!
The Queen of England upon her throne
Might envy you then. The trees like nets
All knotted over with white rosettes,
Like white ladies standin' theer—
In the spring—of coorse: in the fall of the year
I don't know; but still, for a chice—
But bless ye! an orchard is allis nice:
It's like heaven, I think, and the angels flittin'
From tree to tree, and you to be sittin'
With . . . well, well, well! the Lord can save,
The Lord, the Lord it was that gave,
Gave her, gave her, and tuk her the same,
And blessed be His holy name!
Aisy, lads! it's a finish night—
All right, all right!
The Queen of England upon her throne
Might envy you then. The trees like nets
All knotted over with white rosettes,
Like white ladies standin' theer—
In the spring—of coorse: in the fall of the year
I don't know; but still, for a chice—
But bless ye! an orchard is allis nice:
It's like heaven, I think, and the angels flittin'
From tree to tree, and you to be sittin'
With . . . well, well, well! the Lord can save,
The Lord, the Lord it was that gave,
Gave her, gave her, and tuk her the same,
And blessed be His holy name!
Aisy, lads! it's a finish night—
All right, all right!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |