Oh! ’tarnel death, I’ll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your chaffing—
Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without laughing!”
His knife he raised—with fury crazed he sprang across the hall—
He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:
He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do,
But spinning sent the president, and on young Dollar flew.
They met—they closed—they sunk—they rose—in vain young Dollar strove—
For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel drove
His bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled,
And, drenched in gore, wheeled o’er and o’er, locked in each other’s hold.