A ’possum up a ’simmon-tree; I winked at him; he winked at me; I picked up a rock and hit him on de shin; Sez he, "Ole feller, don’t do dat agin!" 
Chorus: Oh, come ’long, boys, an’ shuck dat corn; We’ll shuck and sing to de rattle ob de horn; We’ll shuck and sing till de comin’ ob de morn, An’ den we’ll hab a holiday. 
I carried ’im to Miss Polly Bell,2 Becase I knew she’d cook ’im well. She made a fry; she made a stew, A roast, a bile, an’ a barbecue. 
file from: www.traditionalmusic.co.uk 
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