L.

Fainter an' fainter grow'd that thar song Of Betsey Lee an' her har of gold; Fainter an' fainter grew the sound Of the unseen hoofs on the tore-up mold. The leadin' steer, that cuss of a Joe Stopp'd an' shook off the foam an' the sweat, With a stamp and a beller--the run was done, Wus glad of it, tew, yer free tew bet!