Deown from the lower hall there come
The seound of some one rappin’.
The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he—
Julian, I think his name wuz—
Uv course he feound a friend in me,
Not knowin’ what his game wuz.
And ez we visited a spell.
Our talk ranged wide an’ wider.
And ef we struck dry subjects—well,
We washed ’em deown with cider.