While we stood on the "George" an' swore.
The boy was loony with raw-corn gin,
But he reckoned his course to the width of a pin,
Ran straight to the eddy an' clawed her in,
An' staggered himself ashore.
Now, stranger, I want to ask you, flat,
If a man with his head-piece right,
Would 'a' piled eight folks in that skiff's inside
Fer a half-mile pull through that mill-race tide
An' think to land safe at the end o' the ride?