The Paddywhacks

Mother says it’s something fearful--way this

pesky young one acts,

And she’s called the Johnson children by the

name of “Paddywhacks.”

And she keeps a-givin’ orders that I musn’t have

’em round;

But she thinks that Satan’s in me, for she says

I’m always bound

To go mixing with ’em somehow when she lets

me out to play;

And you bet I’m going to see ’em if I have to

run away.

I’ll never wear them blamed dude clothes

Nor boots with patent leather toes.

I like to stomp and scoff and kick

And holler round. It makes me sick

To have that Reynolds youngster call,

He’s primped up like a big wax doll.,

My mother says he’s just too sweet,

He always keeps his clothes so neat,

And wishes I’d spruce up a bit;

What! Look like that? Well, I guess not,

--They’ve duty mugs and ragged backs,

But just give me them Paddywhacks.

They can catch ye lots of suckers--know the

brook and shortest cut;

They have got a robber’s dungeon and a nice

browse Injun hut.

They can scrape ye lots of sly ver--juicy stuff

from little pines,

They can make a willow whistle, and they’re

posted on the signs

Of woodchucks, coons, and squirrels; and they

own a brindle houn’,

And they get to going barefoot first of any boys

in town.

That’s the stuff--oh, that’s the stuff,

Let a kid kick up and scuff!

Not go round with mouth all screwed

Goody, like that Reynolds dude.

Say, I’ll push him once, if he

Comes a-making mouths at me.

Yah, yah! See them corkscrew curls!

That’s right, let him play with girls.

Let him wear his ruffled shirt

--Give me one that won’t show dirt.

I’m the chap, you bet, that stacks

Up ’long-side them Paddywhacks.