“Ol’ Nutmeg” In Boston

“I’ve jus’ be’n down to Boston, to th’ place they call “the Hub”,

An’ I tell ye, neighbor Hunkum, it’s a reg’lar ol’ hub-bub.

My ol’ eye balls hev rolled so much, an’ jumped an’ dodged aroun’

It reely seems es if th’ place wus spinnin’ on my crown.

An’ the things them eyes hain’t lit on sence I be’n away down there

Would stan’ no show fer gittin’ me in the big Chicargey fair.

What did I see? You want it all? Now, John, you make me la’f;

If I should start an’ talk a month I couldn’t tell ye ha’f.

But I’ll give ye jus’ a few things tho’ I s’pose I’ll ha’f forgit,

I got so all-fired jummuxed up I ain’t nigh settled yit.

I struck the common fust uv all – ‘tain’t nothin’ great for lan’,

An’ why they keep et thet ere way I fail to unnerstan’.

‘Tain’t no ways fit for pastur an’ ‘twould skeercly do for greens,

But ef they’d plough an’ futtlize ‘twould be fust rate for beans.

Then, overlookin’ all this mess is Borston’s capitol,

But ‘tain’t a sarcumstance to ourn, fer looks an’ sech, by gol!

But the durndest kin’ uv hoss keers I ever seed wus there;

They didn’t hev no kin’ uv steam or hoss or mule or mare;

A feller stood upon one end an’ twitched a sort uv crank,

An’ zip away the whole thing went without a hitch or yank.

One day I tramped to Charlestown, where they buried Bunker Hill,

An’ if they put him ‘neath them stuns I guess he’s down there still.

Waal, back I put fer Boston where I went to see ‘em show

“Th’r greatest wonders uv the age”, an’ fer ten cents, d’ye know.

The Art Musee wus solid full uv picturs fine an’ big,

An’ for’un trinkets scartered roun’ uv ev’ry size an’ rig.

Ther’ wus whole rooms ther’ solid full uv statterwary chaps,

But mos’ uv ‘em wus prominent fer skeercity uv wraps.

They’ve got two purty meetin’ houses there near Art Musee,

Th’ Ol’ New South or New Ol’ South, an’ Ol’ New Trinity.

But es fer style uv preachin’ gimme our ol’ Parson Brewer;

He may not be so elerqunt but fur more slow an’ sure.

But I mus’ be-a-goin’, John, I’ve got ter stop an’ tell

The’ boys down in th’ gruc’ry store – gosh! ain’t I kin’ er swell?

But if you think I’m Lyin’, John, you’d better journey down

An’ see yerself if Borston ain’t a reg’lar hub-bub town.

Dec. 12, ‘91

Pub. in Com. Post