But for some reason I picked him up and carried him to my 'dobe shack, and laid him out, and washed his cut with sour wine.

That brought him to.

Sour wine is fine to put a wound in shape to heal, but it's no soothing syrup.

He sat up as though he'd been touched with a hot poker, stared around wild-eyed, and cut loose with that song you were singing.

Only it wasn't that verse.