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From The Wit and Humor of America, edited by Marshall P. Wilder, Volume IV, New York and London: Funk and Wagnalls and Company, 1911; pp. 686-687.




Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.
And there throughout the livelong day,
Jemima plays the pi-a-na,
                           Do, re, mi,
                           Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor, there it stands,
And there Jemima plies her hands,
While her papa beneath his cloak,
Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”
And swears to himself and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass.
                           Do, re, mi,
                           Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth
She plays as if she owned the earth.
Through every swift vicissitude
She drums as if it did her good,
And still she sits from morn till night
And plunks away with main and might,
                           Do, re, mi,
                           Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted hospitality;
But that was many years before
Jemima monkeyed with the score.
When she began her daily plunk,
Into their graves the neighbors sunk.
                           Do, re, mi,
                           Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they’ve long since fled,
All thankful that they’re safely dead.
They stood the racket while alive
Until Jemima rose at five.
And then they laid their burdens down,
And one and all they skipped the town.
                           Do, re, mi,
                           Mi, re, do.

 *  By permission of Life Publishing Company.

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