I

Fuscus, old scout, if a guy's on the level

That's all the arsenal he'll have to tote;

Up to St. Peter or down to the Devil,

No need to carry a gun in his coat.

Prowling around, as you know is my habit,

I met a wolf in the forest, and he

Beat it for Wolfville and ran like a rabbit.

( He was some wolf, too, receive it from me. )

Where I may happen to camp is no matter,—

Paris, Chicago, Ostend or St. Joe,—

Like the old dame in the nursery patter

I shall make music wherever I go.

Drop me in Dawson or chuck me in Cadiz,

Dump me in Kansas or plant me in Rome,—

I shall keep on making love to the ladies:

Where there's a skirt is my notion of home.