The steamboat Tishomingo traveling down the Ohio
drew near two grounded boats:
That looks like a little trouble ahead, don't it?
So I reckon, the pilot replied
and the bell tolled for soundings;
Eight feet! sang out the fellow with the lead line
and the mate on the hurricane deck
echoed eight feet to the steerman above;
six feet large was the next report
followed in a moment by five feet scant ...
Three feet! rang in the pilot's ears
— and the Tishomingo plowed into the sandbar,
rolling and thumping as if her planks were about to split
and then a black man shouted: Go it again, Massa!