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OUTSIDE O’ THE MAIL INTO MENNEN
I
We were late, sure enough, an’ the wind coming rough,
An’ the sky of a dirtyish grey.
So we mended our pace, for ’tis always a race
To find our old bodies a sortable place
On the mail, of a marketing day.
But, well—there it stood at the Red Lion door,
With the baggage atop an’ the horses afore,
An’ so many babies an’ mothers inside
That, “Peter!” says I, “we shall have a poor ride.”
But Peter says, “Well, if it do come a pelt,
’Twon’t be the first touch o’ weather we've felt.
An’ not being sugar nor salt, we won’t melt,
Outside o’ the mail into Mennen.”
78
