When spring had decked the plain,
He flitted off again
As flit the swallows.
And from that western land,
When many months were spanned,
A letter came to hand,
Which read as follows:

`Dear sir, I take my pen
In hopes that all your men
And you are hearty.
You think that I've forgot
Your kindness, Mr. Scott,
Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not
That sort of party.

`You sometimes bet, I know,
Well, now you'll have a show
The `books' to frighten.
Up here at Wingadee
Young Billy Fife and me
We're training Strife, and he
Is a all right 'un.

`Just now we're running byes,
But, sir, first time he tries
I'll send you word of.
And running `on the crook'
Their measures we have took,
It is the deadest hook