Ah, drat them nasty telegrams that keeps folks all in sitch a flurry,
Whenever there's the least to-do, with constant worry, worry, worry!
I recollect in my young days when there was no sitch expectation,
And news to travel took its time, suspense was bore with resignation.
What was to be, we used to say, would be, and couldn't be prewented,
Which 'twas consolin' for to think, and made one happy and contented.
What would be we should live to see, if we lived long enough, 'twas
certain,
And p'raps it might a mercy be the future was behind the curtain.
Misfortunes came, as come they must, in this here wale of trile and
sorrow.
But then, if bad news come to-day, no news was like to come to-morrow.
No news was good news people said, and hoped meanwhile they might be
better,
Leastways until the next day's post brought 'em a paper or a letter.
'Tis true, relief as soon may come, sometimes, by artificial
light'nin'.
When days and weeks of dark and storm you've undergone afore the
bright'nin':
All's well as ends well, thanks be praised, the croakers found
theirselves mistaken--
But by them plaguy telegrams how my poor old narves have bin shaken!
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