But fretting won’t do for a darkey of this figure--
Time enough for that when he gits a little bigger;
Dancing with the yellow girls, and shucking out the corn,
Will make him forget ’Tilda Horn.
While ago I got a letter from her, thinking, as I sat,
If I met her, how she’d like me, in my stylish Kossuth hat.
’Twas the last I heard about her, and since then I’m much in dread
That’s she’s married to another man, or else she must “gone dead.”
In despair, I declare, I is crack’d, that’s a fact.
But fretting won’t do, &c.
Now I go about, down in the mouth, and stockings down at heel;
Like Massa Shakspeare’s Hamlet, too. I’m touch’d up here I feel.
His uncle gave him good advice--mine took my clothes in pawn;
And all to raise the cash to dress--deceitful ’Tilda Horn.
Oh! this wool I could pull, this poor heart is so full.
But fretting won’t do, &c.
Since the Shakspere’s coming in my head, I’m like Othello, too,
The victim of my jealous fears, I don’t know what to do;
Desdemona lost his handkerchief--that wasn’t much to lose;
But ’Tilda took my ’bacca-box, my shirts, and Sunday shoes,
Now I stray all the day, from the gay far away.
But fretting won’t do, &c.