“I wish the devil took them—
(Although I should not cuss),—
Whene’er their goats skimp on their milk
They cry and rant and fuss.
“Nobody wants to labor,
They all but pray and drone
That god be the provider
For them, and them alone.
“Some want it to be windy,
Some want their fields manured.
Some, ill from wanton gorging,
Are praying to be cured.
Old maids for some kind husbands
Are praying night and day—
Benedicts beg the plague may take
Their nagging wives away.
“One brings me gifts,—to tip him off
When he the lottery plays—
While one insured his chattels
And wishes for a blaze.
“O rogues, did not my temper
To kindliness succumb,
I’d crush you all to jelly
Just like a rotten plum.”
He took a goodly pinch of snuff,
Which caused a roaring sneeze
And sent to earth a thunderstorm,—
His anger to appease
[30]
