You darned old polecat, or wuss.

Where's your hoss? right there; yes, you're right, Tied up to a cottonwood tree. Well, you're going along with us on this tramp,

None of your lyin' you bully old scamp, You are. How that's said. Suppose we all damp To success to Jack Grey's company.

Why, dang it, it's more than a year since we met At the foot of old Court House Rock, And if memory don't fail, I reckon that then

Another was with us to make up ten That tall gawky cuss -- you know -- Slippery Ben, W7ho wore the long fringe on his frock.

Does anyone know what became of the boy?

You do, well let us all know. For he gave us his word on this very day,

He'd meet us all here, by the Old Mountain Way, If nothing should happen to cause his delay,

Such as lightning, or Injuns, or snow.

Dead ! died in your house ? the devil you say !

You can't shove down any such chaff. Now, tell us the truth -- let up on the lies --

Why, what the blazes got into my eyes ? It stings so darn bad ; it almost makes me cry,

When I said at that joke take a laugh.

Well, no more of this, you're blubberin', Grey,

A pretty frontiersman you are. Not a man in this crowd but has his day,

Wrapped up in his blanket and laid away Some long tried friend, and no one to say