So let us be first in the throng.

Now put your scull rig'ler in,
Don't go for to make any crabs;
But feather your oar, like a nob,
And show 'em ve're nothink but dabs!

The vaterman's leering at us,
And the gals is a giggling so--
They take us for green'uns, but ve
Vill soon show 'em how ve can row.

Alas! for poor Bobby's "show off"--
He slipp'd in a trice from his seat--
While his beaver fell into the stream,
And the gals laugh'd aloud at his feat.

For his boots were alone to be seen,
As he sprawled like a crab on its back;
While the waterman cried--"Ho! my lads!
I think you'd best try t'other tack!"

Says Bobby--"You fool, it's your fault;
Look--my best Sunday castor is vet:
Pull ashore, then, as fast as you can.
I can't row no more--I'm upset.

"I think that my napper is broke,
Abumpin' agin this wile boat;
You may laugh--but I think it's no joke: