Grand-Pa's 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.