And gaffle your peavies, you P.I. galoots.
There’s the rips at Rundy’s Corner, and the
sluice at Puzzle Gorge;
You can drive ’em and connive ’em, but the
timber’s bound to lodge.
An’ sticks will buck—with best of luck—as
offish-like as hogs,
For there ain’t no calkerlatin’ how you’ll run a
drive o’ logs.
Chase the heathen with a sword,