I know ye ez I know the smell o’ ole chain-lightnin’ whiskey;
We’re lor-abidin’ folks down here, we’ll fix ye so ’s ’t a bar
Wouldn’ tech ye with a ten-foot pole; (Jedge, you jest warm the tar;)
You’ll think you’d better ha’ gut among a tribe o’ Mongrel Tartars,
’Fore we’ve done showin’ how we raise our Southun prize tar-martyrs;
A moultin’ fallen cherubim, ef he should see ye, ’d snicker,
Thinkin’ he hedn’t nary chance. Come, genlemun, le’ ’s liquor;
An’, Gin’ral, when you ‘ve mixed the drinks an’ chalked ’em up, tote roun’
An’ see ef ther’ ’s a feather-bed (thet’s borryable) in town.
We’ll try ye fair, Ole Grafted-Leg, an’ ef the tar wun’t stick,