That seemed like a beller in ev’ry man’s boot,
An’ ’twarn’t none surprisin’ the witch didn’t
scoot.
So there did we set in a stew an’ a cloud,
A grumpy old, lumpy old dob of a crowd.
But oh, landsy sake a-Peter, when the fiddle come
to camp,
W’y you wouldn’t know the place:
—Wuz a grin on ev’ry face
W’en we know’d the critter’d got it. An’ it