NOTHIN' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, giner'ly has their way!
Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me -
Yit here I am and here you air! and yer mother - where is she?
You look lots like yer mother; purty much same in size;
And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:
Like her, too, about livin' here, because she couldn't stay;
It'll `most seem like you was dead like her! - but I hain't got nothin' to say!
She left you her little Bible -writ yer name acrost the page -
And left her ear-bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age;
I've alluz kep' `em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away -
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
You don't rickollect her, I reckon? No: you wasn't a year old then!
And now yer - how old air you? W'y child, not "twenty"! When?
And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?
I wisht yer mother was livin'! - but I hain't got nothin' to say!
Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!
There's a straw ketched on to yer dress there - I'll bresh it off - turn round.
(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away.)
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!