Through the great frosty dawn, Every cold winter's moan,
Was this lad full of life and joy.
Every day just the same, Down the roadway he came,
He was known as their own sad old boy.
In his youth, free from strife, He was called from the slight,
From the sorrows of life's highway.
He was needed above, At the holstead of love,
For the last final round of Sunday.
Now the sad willows wait, On a cold silent day,
In the grave, Where the tall grass is bent and bowed.
And the jackass's laugh, Is the only epitaph,
For the grave of this brave sad old boy.
Tweedle-o-twill, Tossin' on corn silk,
Tweedle-o-twill, Wendlin' wool.
Sittin' there wishin', He could go fishin',
Over the hill, Tweedle-o-twill.
Tweedle-o-twill, And don't he look drowsy,
Tweedle-o-twill, And not in his day,
I bet he feels lazy, To clock in that daisy,
Sittin' there thrill, Tweedle-o-twill.
Tweedle-o-twill, A-bottlin' and wheezin',
Tweedle-o-twill, A-waitin' in call,
Takin' it easy, Out where it's breezy,
Better be still, Tweedle-o-twill,
Tweedle-o-twill.