They stayed away much longer than was their first intent,
A thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight,
The tide was in, O Moses! the punt was out of sight.
Upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt,
The little Lord St. Lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt,
And reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still,
With oathings of the polis, around Ben Heder hill!
But then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark,
And to the weeping servant, he muttered, "Whist! an' hark!"
Then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose,