When I writ last, I’d ben turned loose by thet blamed nigger, Pomp,
Ferlorner than a musquash, ef you’d took an’ dreened his swamp;
But I ain’t o’ the meechin’ kind, thet sets an’ thinks fer weeks
The bottom’s out o’ th’ univarse coz their own gillpot leaks. 
I hed to cross bayous an’ criks, (wal, it did beat all natur’,)
Upon a kin’ o’ corderoy, fust log, then alligator;
Luck’ly, the critters warn’t sharp-sot; I guess ’twuz overruled
They ‘d done their mornin’s marketin’ an’ gut their hunger cooled; 40
Fer missionaries to the Creeks an’ runaways are viewed
By them an’ folks ez sent express to be their reg’lar food;
Wutever ‘twuz, they laid an’ snoozed ez peacefully ez sinners,
Meek ez disgestin’ deacons be at ordination dinners;
Ef any on ’em turned an’ snapped, I let ’em kin’ o’ taste
My live-oak leg, an’ so, ye see, ther’ warn’t no gret o’ waste;
Fer they found out in quicker time than ef they’d ben to college
’Twarn’t heartier food than though ‘twuz made out o’ the tree o’
  knowledge. 
But I tell you my other leg hed larned wut pizon-nettle meant,
An’ var’ous other usefle things, afore I reached a settlement, 50
An’ all o’ me thet wuzn’t sore an’ sendin’ prickles thru me
Wuz jest the leg I parted with in lickin’ Montezumy: 
A useful limb it’s ben to me, an’ more of a support
Than wut the other hez ben,—­coz I dror my pension for ’t.

Wal, I gut in at last where folks wuz civerlized an’ white,
Ez I diskivered to my cost afore ’twarn’t hardly night;
Fer ‘z I wuz settin’ in the bar a-takin’ sunthin’ hot,
An’ feelin’ like a man agin, all over in one spot,
A feller thet sot oppersite, arter a squint at me,
Lep’ up an’ drawed his peacemaker, an’, ‘Dash it, Sir,’ suz he, 60
’I’m doubledashed ef you ain’t him thet stole my yaller chettle,
(You’re all the stranger thet’s around,) so now you’ve gut to settle;
It ain’t no use to argerfy ner try to cut up frisky,
I know ye ez I know the smell of ole chain-lightnin’ whiskey;
We’re lor-abidin’ folks down here, we’ll fix ye so’s ’t a bar
Wouldn’ tech ye with a ten-foot pole; (Jedge, you jest warm the tar;)
You’ll think you’d better ha’ gut among a tribe o’ Mongrel Tartars,
‘fore we’ve done showin’ how we raise our Southun prize tar-martyrs;
A moultin’ fallen cherubim, ef he should see ye, ’d snicker,
Thinkin’ he warn’t a suckemstance.  Come, genlemun, le’ ’s liquor; 70
An’, Gin’ral, when you’ve mixed the drinks an’ chalked ’em up, tote roun’
An’ see ef ther’ ’s a feather-bed (thet’s borryable) in town. 
We’ll try ye fair, ole Grafted-Leg, an’ ef the tar wun’t stick,
Th’ ain’t not a juror here but wut’ll ‘quit ye double-quick,’
To cut it short, I wun’t say sweet, they gi’ me a good dip,
(They ain’t perfessin’ Bahptists here,) then give the bed a rip,—­
The jury’d sot, an’ quicker ‘n a flash they hetched me out, a livin’