Old bull moose and caribou wink and blink as I fly through,
Yelling, crying, “Chank! chank! chank!”—
Trappers call me “awful crank!”
I don’t have to hunt for foodstuffs—no! I fly right into camp,
Seize a piece of bread and butter, grab a muffin—then decamp,
Ha! the trappers try to hit me! Ho! they throw their spoons and knives,
But I dodge them by and chuckle, they can’t hit me for their lives.
So, I’m called old Whiskey Jack, nice old Whiskey,—gray and black.
I was here in Indian days, know their customs, know their ways,
I was here when Marquette came, saw Quebec when it began,