An' choked the channel from end to end,
An' it fought an' screamed like a wild-cat, penned,
In the light o' the cold March moon.
Yeh see that p'int acrost the bar
With the riffle o' shoal below?
Well, that's where the widow o' old Buck Slack
Oncet had a claim an' a drift-wood shack.
Where she lived an' slaved with her young-un pack,
All which was some time ago.
Well, we on the "George" had tumbled out—