Uncle Benjy and Old Crane

Once there was a country lawyer and his name was Hiram Crane,

And he had a reputation as the worst old file in Maine.

And as soon’s he got a client, why, the first thing that he’d do

Was to feel the critter’s pocket and then soak him ’cordin’ to.

Well, sir, one day Benjy Butters bought a hoss, and oh, ’twas raw

Way old Benjy he got roasted, and he said he’d have the law.

So he gave the case to Hiram, and then Hiram brought a suit

And got back the hoss and harness and what

Benjy gave to boot.

When he met him at the gros’ry Benjy asked him for the bill,

And when Hiram named the figger, it was steeper’n Hobson’s hill.

Poor old Benjy hammed and swallered—bill jest sort of took his breath,

And the crowd that stood a-listenin’ thought perhaps he’d choke to death.

But it happened that the squire felt like jokin’

some that day,

And he says, “Now, Uncle Benjy, there won’t be a cent to pay

If you’ll right here on the instant make me up a nice pat rhyme;

Hear you’re pretty good at them things—give you jest three minutes’ time.”

And the squire grinned like fury, tipped the crowd a knowing wink,

While old Benjy started in, sir, almost ’fore you’d time to think:

“Here you see the petty lawyer leanin’ on his corkscrew cane.

Sartin parties call him Gander, other people call him Crane.

Though he’s faowl, it’s someways daoubtful what he is, my friends, but still

You can tell there’s hawk about him by the gaul-durned qritter’s bill.”

Crane got mad, he wanted money, but the crowd let on to roar,

And they laughed the blamed old skinflint right square out the gros’ry store.