And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,—
And Bludso’s ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He warn’t no saint,—but at jedgement
I’d run my chance with Jim,
’Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn’t shook hands with him.