Classic Poem

1
The moon was shining silver bright,
The sheriff came at dead of night
High on a hill an Indian true
And on his horn a blast he blew.
CHORUS:

2

Bill thought he heard the sound of a gun
He cried in fright, " O my race is run,
Better that I'd never been born
Than come within sound of that big horn. "
CHORUS:

CHORUS:

Get out the way, Big Bill Snyder,
Get out the way, Big Bill Snyder,
Get out the way, Big Bill Snyder,
We'll tar your coat and feather your hide, sir.