This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin':
A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like rainin';
An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners,
An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners
(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted); an' a feller could cry quarter
Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water.
Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n' I an' Ezry Hollis,
Up there to Waltham plain last fall, along o' the Cornwallis?
This sort o' thing aint jest like thet-I wish thet I wuz furder-
Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder