THE SCOW RACE.
There were twenty scows in the fleet,
Waiting at Detroit for a breeze,
They were bound to have a fine meet,
Under the rule—go as you please.
They were all bound for Anchor Bay
At the north end of Lake St. Clair,
About thirty-five miles away,
And quickly reached when winds are fair.
“A sail ahoy,” a sailor cried,
I see her coming round the bend,
The wind is from the starboard side,
And seems to give her a fair send.
“All hands on deck, unlash dem sails,
Jus see de Foam she’s caught the breeze,
Heave dat anchor, come on, you gales,
We’ll beat de Foam wid greatest ease.
“Hoist de foresail, shake out dem reefs,
We need all de breeze dat’s comin,
Mind your Cap’in we’re not all chiefs,
We’ll soon have de ole scow hummin.
“Joe, take de helm, Jack, go for’ard,
Hoist de stanin jib, fly aroun,
Up with the flying jib, Dorard,
Hoist de main sail, now off we’re boun.
“Keep out de current, Joe, look out,
Keep close shore American side.
See dem trying to beat us out,
And Dolphin on Canada side.
“Never mine rushes, don’t be fraid,
Wine that center board clear up tight,
Now we will lead de whole parade,
We can beat em all goin light.