But des todos de las’ Good gits de knee-lock,
En dey draps ter de groun’—ker flop!
Good had de inturn, en he stan’ like a rock,
En he bleedzd for ter be on top.

De dry wedder breaks wid a big thunder-clap,
For dey ain’t no drout’ w’at kin las’,
But de seasons w’at whoops up de cotton crop,
Likewise dey freshens up de grass.

De rain fall so saf’ in de long dark night,
Twel you hatter hole yo’ han’ for a sign,
But de drizzle w’at sets de tater-slips right
Is de makin’ or de May-pop vine.

In de mellerest groun’ de clay root’ll ketch
En hole ter de tongue or de plow,
En a pine-pole gate at de gyardin-patch
Never’ll keep out de ole brindle cow.

One en all on us knows who’s a pullin’ at do bits
Like de lead-mule dat g’ides by de rein,
En yit, somehow or nudder, de bestest un us gits
Mighty sick or de tuggin’ at de chain.

Hump yo’se’f ter de load en fergit de distress,
En dem w’at stan’s by ter scoff,
For de harder de pullin’, de longer de res’,
En de bigger de feed in de troff.