"When the Roas'in'-Ears Air Plenty."

Talk about the joys of winter! Whut's the fun of foolin' round With the posies dead en buried, en the snows upon the ground? When the wind's a-tossin' blizzards in a most distressin' way Tell you have to set a-straddle of the fire-place all the day! But I tell ye life's a-livin' when the summer grows the grass Over all the nooks en crannies whayre a feller's feet kin pass, En the whole world seems of heaven but a half-forgotten type, When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

Roas'in'-ears is best of eatin', though not very much fer style! Shuck an arm-full fer yer dinner, sot 'em on en let 'em bile; Salt 'em well, en smear some butter on the juicy cobs ez sweet Ez the lips of maple-suger thet yer sweet-heart has to eat! Talk about ole Mount Olympus en the stuff them roosters spread On theyr tables when they feasted,—nectar drink, ambrosia bread,— Why, I tell ye, fellers, never would I swop the grub I swipe When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter millons ripe!

Near the sugar camps of glory is the worter millon patch Like a great big nest of goodies thet is jest a-gone to hatch; En ye take yer thumb en finger in an ecstasy so drunk Thet ye hardly hear the music of theyr dreamy plunky-plunk! En the griefs air gone ferever, en the sorrers lose control Ez ye feed the angel in ye on the honeys of a soul, En ye smack yer lips with laughter while the birds of heaven pipe, When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

O, the darlin' days of summer when the stars of plenty shine With the apples in the orchard en the graps upon the vine! When the hedges bud en blossom, en the medders rich en rare Breathe the perfumes of the clovers like an incense everywhayre! En the world seems like yer mother, with the tender hands thet bless All the restless race of struggle with a heaped-up happiness, En her han'kerchiefs of glory from yer eyes the weepin's wipe, When the roas'in'-ears is plenty en the worter-millons ripe!