_There is a little flow-urr_ _In our yard it does grow_ _Where many a happy hou-urr_ _I watch our rooster crow;_ _While clothes hang on the clothes-line_ _And plowing has began_ --_And the name they call this lit-tul vine_ _Is just "Old Man."_
_Old Man, Old Man_ _A-growing in our yard,_ _Every spring a-coming up_ _While yet the ground is har-rrd;_ _Pottering 'round the chickens' pan,_ _Creeping low and slow,_ _And why they call it Old Man_ _I never asked to know._ _I never want to know._
_Crawling through the chick-weed,_ _Dragging through the quack,_ _Pussly, tansy, tick-weed_ _Almost break his back._ _Catnip, cockle, dock prevent_ _His travelling all they can,_ _But still he goes the ways he's went,_ _Poor Old Man!_
_Old Man, Old Man,_ _What's the use of you?_ _No one wants to see you, like_ _As if you hadn't grew._ _You ain't no good to nothing_ _So far as I can see,_ _Unless some maiden fair will sing_ _These lines I've wrote to thee._ _And sing 'em soft to me._
_Some maiden fa-hair_ _With_ { _ra-haven_ } _hair_ { _go-holden_ } _Will si-hing this so-hong_ _To me-hee-ee!_