There was a man I knew near Pigeon Creek Who kept a kennel full of hunting dogs, Young dogs and old, smart hounds and silly hounds. He’d sell the young ones every now and then, Smart as they were and slick as they could run. But the one dog he’d never sell or lend Was an old half-deaf foolish-looking hound You wouldn’t think had sense to scratch a flea Unless the flea were old and sickly too. Most days he used to lie beside the stove Or sleeping in a piece of sun outside. Folks used to plague the man about that dog And he’d agree to everything they said, “No⁠—he ain’t much on looks⁠—or much on speed⁠— A young dog can outrun him any time, Outlook him and outeat him and outleap him, But, Mister, that dog’s hell on a cold scent And, once he gets his teeth in what he’s after, He don’t let go until he knows he’s dead.”