(Dern yer hide, ye snoozer, keep a-pumping
Bricks for a cargo and she leaks like thundera-
And the gulls a-trailin’ after like the buzzards
And ev’ry brick a-soakin’ in her innards growls
Pounce! On her bows leap the combers like
(Lift ’er on the handle, there, you loafer,
Lurch! Reels her gait, and her sloshin’ scup-
The sight of drunken breakers fightin’ past
Oh, give her all the rotten sail her leary masts
Grub to last a week, a quadrant and an alma-
(Wag ’er there, you rascal, wag ’er lively
Rotten are her sails and her hold a-roar with
--Ain’t we up ag’inst it if a norther comes
Stagger down, ye bloated drunkard, wheel and
Black cordage tangled, dead features mangled,
Adrift in the smother of roaring lee shore.
Guess I’ve never told you, sonny, of the strandin’
Of the steamboat “Ezry Johnson” that run up
That was ’fore the time of steam-cars, and the
On the route between Augusty and the town of
With a paddle-wheel behind her, druv’ by one
Couldn’t say that she was speedy--sploshed
But she couldn’t go much faster than a man
Still, she skipped and skived tremendous, dodged
In a way the boats of these days couldn’t do to
Didn’t draw no ’mount of water, went on top
This is how there come to happen what I’m go-
--Hain’t no need to keep you guessing, for I
How that thunderin’ old “Ez. Johnson” ever
She was overdue one ev’nin’, fog come down
’Twas about like navigating round inside a
Proper caper was to anchor, but she seemed to
Things went on all right till morning, but along
Up she went and down she scuttered; sometimes
Then she’d wallopse, sideways, cross-ways, in a
Shivers down your spine. She’d teeter, fetch a
Then squat down, sir, on her haunches with a
Folks got up and run a-screaming, forced the
--Thought we’d missed Augusty landin’ and
--Fairly shot me full of questions, but I said
Still, that didn’t seem to soothe ’em, for there
Yas, sir, spite of all that churnin’, warn’t a whis-
--No excuse for all that upset and those strange
Couldn’t spy a thing around us--every way
And I couldn’t seem to comfort them poor crit-
Couldn’t give ’em information, for ’twas dark’s
--Couldn’t tell ’em nothing ’bout it--for I
So I gripped the “Johnson’s” tiller, kept the
Kept a-praying, chawed tobacker, give her steam,
Now, my friend, jest listen stiddy: when the sun