Cobblin'

Down along to Fore Street, a'most any day,

Inside a winder peepin'on the Kay,

Ole Tom Trevinnick be workin' away,

Makin' an' mendin'.

Be 'ee a passin' he do wish 'ee well,

But 'ee abidin' he'm for a spell,

He've such a mort o' tales to tell,

An' yarns unendin'.

Sometimes he sets on a stool an' sews

Stiff say boots with copper lined toes,

Us do see him there with his nose,

Over 'em bendin'.

When he'm a hammerin' he do sing,

Hymns to make the slats to spring,

“Tis Glory to God” an' “The Heavenly King”

An' “Saints ascendin'.”

Sunday he'm on the Circuit plan;

He praiches good as a passun can;

He tells 'ee straight as man to man,

An' no pretendin'.

He sez as how our souls get thin

With racketin' round on the Stones o' Sin,

An' how God drives His sharp awl in,

To do His mendin'.

'Tisn' in a stockin' his treasure be stored,

But he be a-layin' up a heavenly hoard,

Allays for men an' men's Good Lord

Makin' an' mendin'

He sez he'm workin' till God's bell tolls,

Solin' an' heelin' an healin' souls.

An' then he'm goin' where the Big Tide rolls

To joys unendin'.