But now we're running a decent trade—howitzer-shell and hand-grenade,

Or best Alberta corn.

We used to sneak an' smouch along

Wi' rusty side an' rails,

Hoot an' bellow of liners proud—"Give us the room that we're allowed;

Get out o' the track—the Mails!"

We sometimes met—an' took their wash—

The 'aughty ships o' war,

An' we dips to them—an' they to us—an' on they went in a tearin' fuss,

But now they count us more.