The shades of night were falling fast.
When on to Africa there passed
A bum-who bore a cake of ice,
On which was chalked this strange device-
Oh, say, a maiden said, don't go!
'Tis Summer, and a foot of snow
Has fallen-the bum his duster buttoned tight
And said, I'll hock my false teeth to-night
For bourbon sours.
The bum passed on-we saw no more
The sealskin pants this bummer wore;
He drank four barrels of kerosene that day,
The kerosene went off, he was blown away
By fusel oil.
The coroner an inquest held
On what this bummer's life dispelled;
They buried him in a bale of hay,
And all the jury had to say, 'twas-