The gobbler would whirl in a rigadoon—or
something about the same!
While under the tin, tucked snugly in,
Was the worthless Bill, that brand of Sin;
And’twas Bill that made the turkey spin with
the tip of the lantern flame;
For, as ever and ever the tin grew hot
The turkey made haste for to leave that spot,
Till it seemed that the gobbler was keeping time
To the sweep and the swing of the fiddle’s