For me that loved Maggie that never loved me till now.
Mornin’ comin’,
An’ me—a-leadin’ a column,
An’ a town in the valley
Round the bend in the road,
An’ Ginger strainin’ his neck
An’ thinkin’ o’ Picket Lines—
An’ me an’ the rest o’ them thinkin’ o’ home and eggs down there in the village,
An’ Coney startin’ to close at Home
An’ Maggie mashed in the crowd—