"I'm _Ohio-born_--right whare People's _all_ called 'Buckeyes' _thare_-- 'Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap's Biggest in the world, perhaps!-- Ner my head don't stretch my hat Too much on account o' _that_!-- 'Cause it's Natchur's ginerus hand Sows 'em broadcast ore the land, With eye-single fer man's good And the gineral neghborhood! So _buckeyes_ jis natchurly 'Pears like _kith-and-kin_ to _me_! 'Slike the good old sayin' wuz, 'Purty _is_ as purty _does_!'-- We can't eat 'em, cookd er raw-- Yit, I mind, _tomattusuz_ Wuz considerd pizenus _Onc't_--and dasent eat 'em!--_Pshaw_-- 'Twouldn't take _me_ by supprise, Someday, ef we et _buckeyes_! That, though, 's nuther here ner thare!-- _Jis the Buckeye_ whare we air, In the present times, is what Ockuppies my lovin' care And my most perfoundest thought! ... Guess, this minute, what I got In my pocket, 'at I've packed Purt'-nigh forty year.--A dry, Slick and shiny, warped and cracked, Wilted, weazened old _buckeye_! What's it _thare_ fer? What's my hart In my _brest_ fer?--'Cause it's part Of my _life_--and 'tends to biz-- Like this _buckeye's_ bound to act-- 'Cause _it_ 'tends to _Rhumatiz_! "... Ketched more _rhumatiz_ than _fish_, Seinen', onc't--and pants froze on My blame legs!--And ust to wish I wuz well er _dead and gone_! Doc give up the case, and shod His old boss again and stayed On good roads!--_And thare I laid!_ Pap he tuck some bluegrass sod Steeped in whisky, bilin'-hot, And socked _that_ on! Then I got Sorto' holt o' him, _somehow_-- Kindo' crazy-like, they say-- And I'd _killed_ him, like as not, Ef I hadn't swooned away! _Smell my scortcht pelt purt'-nigh now!_ Well--to make a long tale short-- I hung on the blame disease Like a shavin'-hoss! and sort O' wore it out by slow degrees-- Tel my legs wuz straight enugh To poke through my pants again And kick all the doctor-stuff In the fi-er-place! Then turned in And tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore-- _Jis a buckeye_--and that's _shore_.-- Hain't no case o' rhumatiz Kin subsist whare buckeyes is!" THE HOSS The hoss he is a splendud beast; He is man's friend, as heaven desined, And, search the world from west to east, No honester you'll ever find! Some calls the hoss "a pore dumb brute," And yit, like Him who died fer you, I say, as I theyr charge refute, "'Fergive; they know not what they do!'" No wiser animal makes tracks Upon these earthly shores, and hence Arose the axium, true as facts, Extoled by all, as "Good hoss-sense!" The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,-- You hitch him up a time er two And lash him, and he'll go his len'th And kick the dashboard out fer you!