There’s some of us has this world’s goods, An’ some of us has none-- But all of us has got the woods, An’ all has got the sun. So, settin’ here upon the stoop, This patch o’ pine beside, I never care a single whoop-- Fer I am satisfied. Now, take the pine on yonder hill: It don’t belong to me; The boss he owns the timber--still, It’s there fer me to see. An’, ’twixt the ownin’ of the same An’ smellin’ of its smell, I’ve got the best of that there game, An’ so I’m feelin’ well.…
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