Lochinvar in the South

Oh, young Lochinvar is around in the South!
He has plenty of muscle and plenty of mouth;
Through all the Tar Country his gun is the best,
And his knife is plumb ready inside of his vest.

He rides a grey courser of Messenger breed;
The turpentine forest resounds to his speed;
He minds not the painter's cantankerous squeals,
And the moccasins waggle in vain at his heels.

There's a castle of joyance on Wilmington Bay
Where lovers and ladies dance night into day;
Each gent at that shindig is valiant and tall,
And rifles by dozens stand loaded in hall.

But young Lochinvar romps up to the gate,
Unheeding of aught but of being too late;
He kicks the hounds outen, wades into the swim,
And scowls at those suitors, all scowling at him.

"I've nothing 'gainst you 'uns," says young Lochinvar;
"Just hold up your flippers and stand as you are;
There's a lady I want here, a tailor-made dame,
And Imogen Bill is her idolized name."

He pranced through the revel, he swarmed for that girl,
He gave her a cinch and he gave her a whirl.
She gurgled a gasp, but she couldn't gasp "No";
And right down the middle they waltzed for the "do'."

There was mounting in haste among Wilmington squires;
A mile in a minute they scored on their flyers;
They hummed over level and valley and hill,
But they found not a symptom of Imogen Bill.

Beside the French Broad, there's a palace of logs,
Surrounded by mashes and furnished with dogs,
Where Lochinvar sits on a catamount's hide,
And watches for rivals, and watches his bride.

With deerkiller ready and courser and whip,
He watches her constant for fear she may skip;
He watches Carliny from mountain to shore;
And Imogen needs all his watching, and more.