For many tam he's been dat way already.

     But de girl she fin' it slow, so she ax de boy to go

     Somet'ing better dan a mile on fifteen minute,

     An' he's touch heem up, Guillaume; so dat horse he lay for home,

     An' de nex' t'ing Victorine she know she's in it.

     "Oh, pull him in," she yell, "for even on Sorel

     I am sure I never see de quicker racer,"

     But it's leetle bit too late, for de horse is get hees gait

     An' de worse of all, ba gosh! Guillaume's a pacer.

     See hees tail upon de air, no wonder she was scare!

     But she hang on lak de winter on T'ree Reever.

     Cryin' out, "Please hol' me tight, or I'm comin' dead to-night,

     An' ma poor old moder dear, I got to leave her."

     Wit' her arm aroun' hees wais'—she was doin' it in case

     She bus' her head, or keel herse'f, it's not so easy sayin'—

     Dey was comin' on de jomp t'roo dat dam old beaver swamp

     An' meet de crowd is lookin' for dem cow was go a-strayin'.

     Den she' cryin', Victorine, for she's knowin' w'at it mean—

     De parish dey was talkin' firse chances dey be gettin'.

     \But no sooner dat young man stop de horse, he tak' her han'

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