Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.
There was one old devil with a broken nose
—Ah-way O, to me O—
He was four score years, as I suppose—
But, sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.
We was wrecked last March, in a Polar storm
—Ah-way O, to me O—
And we asked the old cripple if his feet was warm—
Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.
And the old, old devil (he was ninety at the most)