As did good priest with book and bell.
Soldier, trapper and creaking stage
Have seen Dame Quinte lashed in rage,
But seldom doth she portend ill,
Her mood is tranquil, coaxing, still.
Who hath not felt her soft caress,
Limpid, seductive as maiden’s tress,
Who hath skimmed her foaming crest
With spreading sheet at her behest,
And doth not sing throughout his days