He hardly looked like an apostle just then;
He’d been dodging all day behind rock, bush and tree,
A cunning old fox in a scrimmage was he.
But numbers will tell in the long run, and now,
With hate in his heart and revenge on his brow,
With his knife in his teeth and his gun in his hand,
As he urged on his comrades to make one last stand,
Though his bullets were spent and their arrows all gone—
He looked more like Old Nick, I’m afraid, than Saint John!
Little White Crow had poured into his gun