And they'll whine how I met the great Bertrand himself,
The miracle-worker and saint.
But those women will tell any "walkers" for pelf,
And swear I'm all black—when I ain't.
Yes! they actually say that St. Bertrand came by,
And lifted his ivory stick,
Then dealt me a terrible blow in the eye,
Which levell'd me flat as a brick.
But it's false! Just as false as that "here" I was brought
On the back of that wonderful man.
But the crones just repeat what the "priesthood" have taught,
And it's part of a regular plan.
Why, believe me, they caught me afloat on the Nile
As my dinner I just had begun;
I was chased by a host of the picked "rank and file,"
And to them my destruction
seem'd fun.