Where the snakes in the forest make you feel precious queer,
And you don’t see a bar-room not twice in a year.
And if ’cross the prairie you happen to go,
You’re sure to be toss’d by some wild buffalo;
Where the lakes are like children—they’re never at rest,
’Pon my word, sirs, I soon had enough of the West.
To the West! to the West, &c.
At the West they told me there was wealth to be won,
The forest to clear, was the work to be done;
I tried it—couldn’t do it—guv it up in despair,