And in fancy began to upbraid him,
Who swindled us out of our very last stamp—
In the grave we could gladly have laid him!
We rose half an hour in advance of the sun,
But little refreshed for retiring!
And, feeling as stiff as a son of a gun,
Set off on a hunt for some firing.
Slowly and sadly our hard-tack went down,
Then we wrote a brief sketch of our story
And struck a bee-line for Oil City’s fair town,