While for me gapes the greedy grave
 It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
 To paint our fence.
Yet that is what I aim to do,
 Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
 Or green or white.
 
Jest squat serenely in the sun
 Wi' brush an' paint,
An' gay them pickets one by one,
 --A chore! It ain't.
The job is joy. Although I'm slow
 I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
 Smart that ol' fence.

Them pickets with my hands I made,
 When young and spry;
I coloured them a gleeful shade
 To glad the eye.
So now as chirpy as a boy,
 'Ere I go hence,
Once more let me jest bright to joy
 Our picket fence.