'tause I'm Tross

Mamma, 'tause I'm tross don't whip me;

I tan't help it, not a bit!

'Tis the tandy hurts my stomat,

And that mates me whine and fret.

Sometimes, too, I'm whipped for trossness

When the trossness tomes from meat;

Thint how tiders drowl and drumble,

And then dive me food to eat

That will mate me well and happy,--

Wheat and oat-meal, rice and truit,

These will mate me dood and gentle,

'Stead of mating me a brute.