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.