Grand-Pas Whim

 While for me gapes the greedy grave
 It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
 To paint our fence.

Yet that is what I aim to do,
 Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
 Or green or white.


Jest squat serenely in the sun
 Wi' brush an' paint,
An' gay them pickets one by one,
 --A chore! It ain't.

The job is joy.
 Although I'm slow
 I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
 Smart that ol' fence.


Them pickets with my hands I made,
 When young and spry;
I coloured them a gleeful shade
 To glad the eye.

So now as chirpy as a boy,
 'Ere I go hence,
Once more let me jest bright to joy
 Our picket fence.

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