No duties, nor stamps, their blest liberty cramps, A king, tho' no _tyrant_, was he; He did oft'times declare, nay, sometimes wou'd swear, The least of his subjects were free, my brave boys. 7. He, as king of the woods, of the rivers and floods, Had a right all beasts to controul; Yet, content with a few, to give nature her due: So gen'rous was Tammany's soul! my brave boys. 8. In the morn he arose, and a-hunting he goes, Bold Nimrod his second was he. For his breakfast he'd take a large venison steak, And despis'd your slip-slops and tea, my brave boys. 9. While all in a row, with squaw, dog and bow, Vermilion adorning his face, With feathery head he rang'd the woods wide: _St. George_ sure had never such grace, my brave boys? 10. His jetty black hair, such as Buckskin saints wear, Perfumed with bear's grease well smear'd, Which illum'd the saint's face, and ran down apace, Like the oil from Aaron's old beard, my brave boys. 11. The strong nervous deer, with amazing career, In swiftness he'd fairly run down; And, like Sampson, wou'd tear wolf, lion or bear. Ne'er was such a saint as our own, my brave boys. 12. When he'd run down a stag, he behind him wou'd lag; For, so noble a soul had he! He'd stop, tho' he lost it, tradition reports it, To give him fresh chance to get free, my brave boys. 13. With a mighty strong arm, and a masculine bow, His arrow he drew to the head, And as sure as he shot, it was ever his lot, His prey it fell instantly dead, my brave boys. 14. His table he spread where the venison bled, Be thankful, he used to say; He'd laugh and he'd sing, tho' a saint and a king, And sumptuously dine on his prey, my brave boys. 15. Then over the hills, o'er the mountains and rills He'd caper, such was his delight; And ne'er in his days, Indian history says, Did lack a good supper at night, my brave boys. 16. On an old stump he sat, without cap or hat. When supper was ready to eat, _Snap_, his dog, he stood by, and cast a sheep's eye For ven'son, the king of all meat, my brave boys. 17. Like Isaac of old, and both cast in one mould, Tho' a wigwam was Tamm'ny's cottage, He lov'd sav'ry meat, such that patriarchs eat, Of ven'son and squirrel made pottage, brave boys. 18. When fourscore years old, as I've oft'times been told, To doubt it, sure, would not be right, With a pipe in his jaw, he'd buss his old squaw, And get a young saint ev'ry night, my brave boys. 19. As old age came on, he grew blind, deaf and dumb, Tho' his sport, 'twere hard to keep from it, Quite tired of life, bid adieu to his wife, And blazed like the tail of a comet, brave boys. 20.