"Come back, come back, O Pickaninny—
Back across the stormy water,"
Cried the old man, like a ninny.
One hand skewed her water-fall up,
While the other held her garter,
As they set off at a gallop.
Oh! she looked majestic, very,
As she answered, "Nary, nary!"
And the river so is flowing,
Though wider washed a foot or so,
For this was in the gleaming, glowing,
Gilded, golden long-ago.
Then they fled far down the river,
But the old man came upon them,
And she cried, "O Lord, deliver!"
And she blew a silver trumpet,
And she cried, "O hiac—jump it,"
Till the cayuse jumped the river-
Jumped the awful yawning chasms-
With the lovers both astride her.
Ah, enough to throw in spasms
Belles of this sweet land of cider!
But the daddy, hot and snarling
At the chief and chieftain's darling,
Hip and thigh smote with his sabre,
While the cuitan was crossing,
And her silver tail was tossing;
And her long tail, white and shaggy,
Cleft where Tam O'Shanter's carlin
Caught the tail of faithful Maggie.
And that horse-tail still is flowing
From the dark rim of the river,
Drifting, shifting, flowing, going,
Like a veil or vision flurried,
But is never combed or curried,
As a body can diskiver.
Then while dad on the piazza
Read the latest act of Andy,
And the maid on her piano
