For tho' his wit was gone a bit, and he drank
like any fish,
His heart was kind, he was well inclined, as
even a white could wish.
Food had got low, for we didn't know the run
of the hunting-ground,
And our hunters were sick, when, jest in the
nick, the friend in need was found;
For he knew the place like his mother's face (or
better, a heap, you'd say,