My Wife

What? You ask me if I’m happy Up here in my mountain home? Why, stranger, trouble’s a thing That I have never known. I’m happy as a chipmunk, Or the little mountain squirrel; For my wife in yonder cabin Is the sweetest kind of a girl. Our home I know ain’t handsome, It’s a little bit out of repairs; But, you see, we folks in the mountains Ain’t them what put on airs. I’m happier than them fellows What carry a walking stick, And live down there in the city In a great big house of brick. Neighbors? No, there ain’t many, But them what we have are good. If any of us was ever sick I know they’d do all they could. Why you folks down in the city Just dread this mountain life, While I! I’m the happiest man alive, Up here with my little wife. Maybe she’s not a beauty, But she’s as good as she can be; She ain’t so well educated, But I tell you, she just suits me. I can’t express my feelings; Fine words I can’t recall, But there’s just this much about it— I love her—that’s all.