The Old Dinner Horn.

Observer, Volume 9, Issue 532, 2 March 1889, Page 20

The Old Dinner Horn.

When the 'taters are in blossom an' the tassel's on the corn, An' the ripenin' tomaytesses are blushin' like the morn, When the beans are young- an' tender an' the ingen an' the beet An* thecowcumbers an' cabbages are big enough to eat, Whehthe jailer-legged chioken's fried in butter, 'to a turn,' An' corn pone's hot, an' buttermilk's jest emptied from the churn — Oh, it's then I love the music o' the tootin' dinnerhorn ; When the 'taters are ii: blossom an' the tassel's on the corn. When the scoichin' sun o' summer pours down on a feller's head, "Till he thinks the b'ilin' straw stack an' the meddler's painted red, "When the dusty sweat's a pourin' down his face into his eyes, An' the thrasher keeps a buzzing like a pantry full of flies, There's a mighty feelin' question like, a gastermonic ' why.' Foolin' 'round about his buzzum nothin' else can satisfy Like the appetizin' music of the tootin' dinnerhorn ; When the 'tatei-d are in blossom an' the tassel's on the corn. Buckwheat cakes an' tree molasses are a mighty luscious sight, An' milk an honey, ham an' eggs an' biscuits, hot and light, An' roast spar-rib an' sweet potaters baked with sausage maat ; But buttermilk and garding sass is mighty hard to beat, An' when a feller's empty from his buzzum to his boots, They's a sight o'hally loover in the satisfyin' toots Of the women-folks a blowin' on the old tin dinnerhorn; When the 'taters are in blossom an' the tassel's on the corn. American Paper.