Der Farmer Man’s Eight Hours


Braat Wurst

I’m yenerally alvays de cofe dot vos had,
I don’d can told vhy—I reckon id’s bad,
But I oxbose dot I’m soft und easily led,
Und silly und all sorts, or wrong- in der head.

Howefer, I told you vot habbened von day,
Ven somevon a liddle game on me vos b!ay.
Und uf I could cotch him, I g’if him a scharge
Dot vould send him sky high—id vouldn’t be large.

An old friend of mine who knew I vos schveet
On goot braat wurst dot don’d ccuid be beat,
Somedimes used to send me a parcel along,
Addressed to mineseluf so dey couldn’t go wrong.

I used to vos take dem horne to mine frau,
To be cooked as so besser no von knew how,
Und veekly ve looked for dis liddle treat,
Till somevon, by Shimminey, I likes to him meet.

He took fon de parcel dose sausaqes oud,
Und filled id again so peautiful stoud
Mit some fon a butcher at tuppence a pound,
Until I got home I don’d nefer dis found.

I say to mine missus, “Villemena, mine tear,
Ve haf some goot sausage each weeck in de year.”
But yen she vos oben de parcel I’d prought,
She didn’t say much—I know vot she tought;.

Mine friend de next day, I habbened to meet
Shoost ven he vos going oop down by der street.

I told him apoud id und he hit on a plan,
By vich I could find dot vicked bad man.

But de next dime he nefer vos schange dem no more,
I forgot dot goot plan, till so after before :
For mine missus und me vos so sick und so sad,
Instead of de cofe who vos vicked und bad.