Sure it is not at reading and writing
That Terry’s of genius the spark;
The boy’s a deal better at fighting.
And that he calls making his mark.
The truth he oft sends me a letter
The strength of his passion to tell:
I can’t read myself – all the better,
I can take of the writing a spell.
There’s a might big D to begin it,
And then E, A, R, I can see;
So I guess all the rest that is in it,
For he calls me dear Norah Magee.
When I bring home the milk in the morning
I’m thinking of him all the same;
I know to deceive he’s be scorning
For love’s of his letter the crame.
I can bake, I can brew, and boil praties,
And buttermilk too I can make;
And as to accomplishments – faith ’tis
Myself that can dance at a wake.
It’s little that I care for learning,
For Terry is faithful to me
And says he’d my name soon be turning
To other than Norah Magee.