She's a ridin' in a shinin' kerridge, 'stid of a spring wagon.

She goes abroad dressed so's you men all stand starin' like cabbage heads.

All hern go to church, an' Sunday-school, an' college, an' come out on the top of the heap.

She does jest what I'd like to if I knowed how.

An' she ain't come-uppety one morsel.' If I was to strike acrost fields to them stuck-up Pryors, I'd get the door slammed in my face if 'twas the missus, a sneer if 'twas the man, an' at best a nod cold as an iceberg if 'twas the girl.