As we yelled through the smother and ran.
And when in the bellow of up-ending logs it
We rode back to life from out of the strife,
Ah, these are the friends that stand by you, my
Of the fair-spoken gang of the thieves of the
town! Crowd up here and drink to my toast!
And the barkeeps they were pleasant just as
We can drink this final jorum to our stout old
Though the gang has swiped our cash, there is
He is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your
After all, we love him most! and he’s still the
--The driver’s honest helper, oh, the long ash
Have you ever heard Seboomook with her April
With the amber rushing river gorged to high-
Have you heard her boom and bellow--rocky
For the victim that she slavers never sees
The morsels for her longing, which are men--
Here’s a tale to suit the cynic--’tis a satire from
And concerns a certain hero who was hunt-
’Tis the grim and truthful story of a mighty
But, alas, he didn’t get it, for we’ve clean
Where no other West Branch driver ever saved
The Death that knelt a-clutching at the prey
When they said he couldn’t do it, why, he
--Poled across the dimpling shallows with
--He was Murphy’s top-notch driver, half a bird
The mangled mass Seboomook belched from out
Referring to the hero as a “dretful reckless
Then he told the brisk reporters all the grim and
And the deed was dressed in language in a
But alas for human glory, the galoot who brought
Remembered all the details, but forgot the
Have you ever heard Seboomook roaring at you
With her champing jaws a-frothing in a word-
’Tis a fierce vociferation to compel our admira-
For the chap who struck that rugged blow,
Seboomook gravely listened when he screamed
But she vainly dins her message in the deafened
--They have terrified the nations, and have laid
But intimidate a woodsman up in Maine? Why,
Merely misty apparitions or some sad ancestral
Serve to terrify a maiden or to warn a death-
But the P. I. scoffs their terrors, though he’ll
’Mongst the ha’nts that roam the woodlands in
--He’ll mock the fears of mystic and he’ll scorn
Of the fearsome apparitions of the past, but
In the night when he awakens, all a-shiver in
And with ear against the logging hears the
Of the hairy fists of monsters, beating there in
--Horrid things that stroll o’ night-times, never,