The Paddywhacks

Mother says it's something fearful--way this pesky young one acts,
And she's called the Johnson children by the name of "Paddywhacks."
And she keeps a-givin' orders that I musn't have
'em round;
But she thinks that Satan's in me, for she says
I'm always bound
To go mixing with 'em somehow when she lets me out to play;
And you bet I'm going to see 'em if I have to run away.

I'll never wear them blamed dude clothes
Nor boots with patent leather toes.
I like to stomp and scoff and kick
And holler round. It makes me sick
To have that Reynolds youngster call,
He's primped up like a big wax doll.,
My mother says he's just too sweet,
He always keeps his clothes so neat,
And wishes I'd spruce up a bit;
What! Look like that? Well, I guess not,
--They've duty mugs and ragged backs,
But just give me them Paddywhacks.
They can catch ye lots of suckers--know the brook and shortest cut;
They have got a robber's dungeon and a nice browse Injun hut.
They can scrape ye lots of sly ver--juicy stuff from little pines,
They can make a willow whistle, and they're posted on the signs
Of woodchucks, coons, and squirrels; and they own a brindle houn',
And they get to going barefoot first of any boys in town.

That's the stuff--oh, that's the stuff,
Let a kid kick up and scuff!
Not go round with mouth all screwed
Goody, like that Reynolds dude.
Say, I'll push him once, if he
Comes a-making mouths at me.
Yah, yah! See them corkscrew curls!
That's right, let him play with girls.
Let him wear his ruffled shirt
--Give me one that won't show dirt.
I'm the chap, you bet, that stacks
Up 'long-side them Paddywhacks.