"Oh, pull him in," she yell, "for even on Sorel
I am sure I never see de quicker racer,"
But it's leetle bit too late, for de horse is get hees gait
An' de worse of all, ba gosh! Guillaume's a pacer.
See hees tail upon de air, no wonder she was scare!
But she hang on lak de winter on T'ree Reever.
Cryin' out, "Please hol' me tight, or I'm comin' dead to-night,
An' ma poor old moder dear, I got to leave her."
Wit' her arm aroun' hees wais'—she was doin' it in case
She bus' her head, or keel herse'f, it's not so easy sayin'—