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THE APPLE-DUMPLINGS AND A KING. ONCE on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping, whipping and spurring, Happy in worrying

A poor defenceless buck

(The horse and rider wet as muck), From his high consequence and wisdom


Entered through curiosity a cot,
Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.

The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old


In this same cot illumined by many a cranny,

Had finished apple-dumplings for her pot:
In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,
When lo! the monarch, in his usual way,
Like lightning spoke, "What's this?
What's this? what, what?"

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,
His eyes with admiration did expand;
And oft did majesty the dumpling grap-
ple: he cried,

""Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed! What makes it, pray, so hard?" The dame replied,

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I tell you our minister's prime, he is,
But I couldn't quite determine,
When I heard him a-givin' it right and

Just who was hit by his sermon.

Low courtesying, "Please your majesty, Of course there couldn't be no mistake

the apple."

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When he talked of long-winded prayin', For Peters and Johnson they sot and scowled

At every word he was sayin'.

And the minister he went on to say,
"There's various kinds of cheatin',
And religion's as good for every day
As it is to bring to meetin';
I don't think much of the man that gives
The loud Amen at preachin',
And spends his time the followin' week

In cheatin' and over-reachin'."

I guess that dose was bitter enough

For a man like Johnson to swallow, But I noticed that he didn't open his mouth

But once after that to holler.
Hurrah," said I, "for the minister".
Of course I said it quiet-
"Give us some more of this open` talk;
It's very refreshin' diet."

The minister hit 'em every time,

And when he spoke of fashion,

And riggin's-out in bows and things,

As women's ruling passion,

And coming to church to see the styles,

I couldn't help a-winkin',


THERE were three young men of Ware,
They were proud and debonair;

They said, "Such men as we are rare,"
These three young men of Ware.

And a-nudgin' my wife, and says I, The first he was a son of art;

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That's you,"

And I guess it sot her a-thinkin’.

Says I to myself, "That sermon's pat,

But man's a queer creation,

And I'm much afraid that most of the folks

Won't take the application." Now, if he had said a word about

My personal mode of sinnin',

I'd have gone to work to right myself,
And not sot there a-grinnin'.

Just then the minister, says he,

"And now I've come to the fellers

Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends

As a sort o' moral umbrellas;

Go home," says he, "and find your faults,
Instead of huntin' your brothers'.

Go home," says he, "and wear the coats
You tried to fit for others."

The second had a poet's heart;
The third he was a merchant bold,
Of noble name, and wealth untold.
They courted near, they courted far,
For oh, they were most particular:

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My wife she nudged, and Brown he Of mild and melancholy air,

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