The Old Hay-Mow

A poem by James Whitcomb Riley

The Old Hay-mow's the place to play
Fer boys, when it's a rainy day!
I good-'eal ruther be up there
Than down in town, er anywhere!

When I play in our stable-loft,
The good old hay's so dry an' soft,
An' feels so fine, an' smells so sweet,
I 'most ferget to go an' eat.

An' one time wunst I did ferget
To go 'tel dinner was all et, -
An' they had short-cake - an' - Bud he
Hogged up the piece Ma saved fer me!

Nen I won't let him play no more
In our hay-mow where I keep store
An' got hen-eggs to sell, - an' shoo
The cackle-un old hen out, too!

An' nen, when Aunty she was here
A-visitun from Rensselaer,
An' bringed my little cousin, - he
Can come up there an' play with me.

But, after while - when Bud he bets
'At I can't turn no summersetts, -
I let him come up, ef he can
Ac' ha'f-way like a gentleman!

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