There was an old man that lived up on a hill
As you can plainly see,
Who said he could do more work in a day
Than his wife could do in three.
"If that be so," the old woman said,
"Then this you must allow,
That you will do my work for a day
While I go drive the plow."

"But you must milk the Tiny cow
For fear she should run dry,
And then go feed the fat little pigs
That are squealing within the sty,
And you must watch the speckled hen
Or she will run away,
And still have time to weave that yarn
That I spun yesterday."

The old woman took the stick in her hand
And went off to drive the plow,
The old man took the pail in his hand
And went to milk the cow.
But the little cow hinched and the little flinched
And wrinkled up her nose,
And Tiny gave the man such a kick
That the blood ran down to his toes.

Saying "Hey, my good cow," and "Ho, my good cow,"
And "Doggone it cow stand still.
If ever I milk this cow again,
It will be against my will."
He went to feed the little pigs
That stand in yonder sty,
He bumped his head against the post
And how the blood did fly.

He failed to watch the speckled hen
And lo, she ran away.
He forgot to weave the reel of yarn
His wife spun yesterday.
He said "I swear by all the leaves on the tree
And all the stars in heaven,
My wife can do more work in one day
Than I can do in seven.
My wife can do more work in one day
Than I can do in eleven!"