WHAT do the old men say,
Sitting out of the sun?
Many strange and common things,
And so would any one.
Locust trees are sorry shade,
They are good enough;
Locust trees are sweet in spring
For trees so old and tough.
Dick's a sturdy little lad
Yonder throwing stones;
Agues and rheumatic pains
Will fiddle on his bones.
Grinny Bob is out again
Begging for a dime;
Niggers haven't any souls,
Grinning all the time.
Jenny and Will go arm in arm.
He's a lucky fellow;
Jenny's checks are pink as rose,
Her mother's cheeks are yellow.
War is on, the paper says,
Wounds and enemies;
Now young gallivanting bucks
Will know what trouble is.
Parson's coming up the hill,
Meaning mighty well;
Thinks he's preached the doubters down.
And old men never tell.
