waiting any longer, I reckon: throw off, Mr. Heady." (The Swamp Fox did not leave, I afterwards heard, till the following Saturday.)
We backed out, winded round head up, and as we began to breast the current a dozen of the negro boat-hands, standing on the freight, piled up on the low forecastle, began to sing, waving hats and handkerchiefs, and shirts lashed to poles, towards the people who stood on the sterns of the steamboats at the levee. After losing a few lines, I copied literally into my note-book:
"Ye see dem boat way dah ahead.
Chorus.—Oahoiohieu.
De San Charles is arter 'em, dey mus go behine.
Cho.—Oahoiohieu,
So stir up dah, my livelies, stir her up; (pointing to the furnaces).
Cho.—Oahoiohieu.
Dey's burnin' not'n but fat and rosum.
Cho.—Oahoiohieu.
Oh, we is gwine up de Red River, oh!
Cho.—Oahoiohieu.
Oh, we mus part from you dah asho'.
Cho.—Oahoiohieu.
Give my lub to Dinah, oh!
Cho.—Oahoiohieu.
For we is gwine up de Red River.
Cho.—Oahoiohieu.
Yes, we is gwine up de Red River.
Cho.—Oahoiohieu.
Oh, we must part from you dah, oh.
Cho.—Oahoiohieu."
The wit introduced into these songs has, I suspect, been rather over estimated
As soon as the song was ended, I went into the cabin to remind the clerk to obtain a berth for me. I found two
