Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz blazin’. 
Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram ’em,
An’ desput rivers run about a beggin’ folks to dam ’em;
Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o’ gold an’ silver 50
Thet you could take, an’ no one couldn’t hand ye in no bill fer;—­
Thet’s wut I thought afore I went, thet’s wut them fellers told us
Thet stayed to hum an’ speechified an’ to the buzzards sold us;
I thought thet gold-mines could be gut cheaper than Chiny asters,
An’ see myself acomin’ back like sixty Jacob Astors;
But sech idees soon melted down an’ didn’t leave a grease-spot;
I vow my holl sheer o’ the spiles wouldn’t come nigh a V spot;
Although, most anywares we’ve ben, you needn’t break no locks,
Nor run no kin’ o’ risks, to fill your pocket full o’ rocks. 
I ‘xpect I mentioned in my last some o’ the nateral feeturs 60
O’ this all-fiered buggy hole in th’ way o’ awfle creeturs,
But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded)
How one day you’ll most die o’ thust, an’ ’fore the next git drownded. 
The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o’ pewter
Our Preudence hed, thet wouldn’t pour (all she could du) to suit her;
Fust place the leaves ’ould choke the spout, so’s not a drop ’ould dreen
  out,
Then Prude ‘ould tip an’ tip an’ tip, till the holl kit bust clean out,
The kiver-hinge-pin bein’ lost, tea-leaves an’ tea an’ kiver
’ould all come down kerswosh! ez though the dam bust in a river. 
Jest so ‘tis here; holl months there aint a day o’ rainy weather, 70
An’ jest ez th’ officers ‘ould be a layin’ heads together
Ez t’ how they’d mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot,—­
‘Twould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin’ teapot. 
The cons’quence is, thet I shall take, wen I’m allowed to leave here,
One piece o’ propaty along, an’ thet’s the shakin’ fever;
It’s reggilar employment, though, an’ thet aint thought to harm one,
Nor ‘taint so tiresome ez it wuz with t’other leg an’ arm on;
An’ it’s a consolation, tu, although it doosn’t pay,
To hev it said you’re some gret shakes in any kin’ o’ way. 
‘Tworn’t very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o’ fortin-makin’,—­ 80
One day a reg’lar shiver-de-freeze, an’ next ez good ez bakin’,—­
One day abrilin’ in the sand, then smoth’rin’ in the mashes,—­
Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o’ hacks an’ smashes. 
But then, thinks I, at any rate there’s glory to be hed,—­
Thet’s an investment, arter all, thet mayn’t turn out so bad;
But somehow, wen we’d fit an’ licked, I ollers found the thanks
Gut kin’ o’ lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks;
The Gin’rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunnles next, an’ so on,—­
We never gat a blasted mite o’ glory ez I know on;
An’ spose we hed, I wonder how you’re goin’ to contrive its 90