He gallops down the valley, to warn of pending fate,
And cries aloud, "Flee for your lives! flee, ere it be too late!
The Conemaugh dam is broken, destruction comes apace!
Leave all and to the mountains flee; leave all and win the race!"
Each creek becomes a river, each pool a little sea,
The tidal wave comes rushing on, men know not where to flee,
But on he rides, still shouting, as angels did of old,
"Flee! Flee ye to the mountain! Flee! forsake your homes and gold!"
His horse now shares his spirit, and leaps each swollen stream.
With panting flanks and nostrils wide, and breath like scalding steam,