For HE wasn't the first who had come back so.
His nose was skinned and his spine was sore,
And the blisters speckled his hands so white—
He had lost his hat and had dropped an oar,
And his bosom-shirt was a sad sea sight.
And the grayling chuckled again "ha-ha,"
And the Cisco tittered a harsh "ho-ho"—
But the Thompson anchored furninst a bar
And called for a schooner to drown his woe.
