You
kin talk about yer Borston with her bustle an’ her noise,
Where
the streets are slim an’ muddy an’ alive with sassy boys;
An’
where yer hev ter scoot across ter keep from getting’ killed
By
herdics, cabs an’ hoss-keers with which the streets are filled.
An’
now they’ve gone frum bad ter wuss an’ built a kin by swan!
Thet
go thirsel’s, like all persest, without ‘ny hosses on.
But
as fur me who’s allus lived whar quiet reigned supreme,
An’
never seed the ‘lectric light or heerd the whistles scream,
The
“Holy Boston”, hes no hol’ upon my rustic heart,
Tho’
to be sure I like ter go an’ see the “Boston Art”.
But
ellervatators, theerters an’ ‘lectric keers are traps,
An’
gotten up, I sometimes think ter ketch us country chaps.
But
men will sing ol’ Boston’s praise spite
uv the nuisance there,
Which
song will float high o’er the dome through her consumptive air.
Feb.
21, ‘91
Pub.
in Cam. Press
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