But sit on a throne—not William,
Unless they could make it prop.

He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,
Or chum with the cherubim,
But if ever them seraph johnnies
Get a-poking it like at him—

Well! if there’s hide in heaven,
And silk for to make a lash,
He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake
In a blinded lightning flash.

If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,
As mobs most always will,
Who’ll cut ’em out like William,
Or draft on a camp like Bill?

An ’orseman would find it awkward
At first with a push that flew,
But blame my cats if I know what else
They’ll find for Bill to do.

It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,
And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,
And wake him up at the judgment
To draft those goats and sheep.

It’s playing it low on William,
But perhaps he’ll buckle to,