The current ran fast, not a stroke could he swim,
And he thought all was over in this world for him.
But, thanks to St. Francis, St. Anne, St. Ignatius,
Or some saintly personage equally gracious,
It happened that not fifty paces below,
Behind a big boulder sat Little White Crow.
He was fishing for trout, and I wish I could catch,
In these days of saw-mills another such batch!
The rock, as I’ve said, hid the priest from his view,
But he heard a great splash, and he saw a canoe