7 
 
 Class I?i_MlZ_ 
 Book,, ,t \ ^ 74 
 GojpgteN* 
 
 CSEXRIGHT D£POSm 
 
Columbia Waking Up 
 
 Tiie World 
 
 WAR AND GOLD 
 
 POEMS 
 
•\ , ■ 
 
POEMS 
 
 WAR AND GOLD 
 
 COPYRIGHT 19 20 
 
 THOMAS SCANLAN 
 
 PUBLISHED bV THE AUTHOR 
 
 QUINCY. ILLINOIS 
 JOST & KIEFER PRINTING CO. 
 
 1920 
 
 

 INDEX "^ (^\'^o 
 
 ^^ 
 
 A Backward Look 29 
 
 A Sail! Ahoy : 20 
 
 A Sigh and a Tear 27 
 
 A Smile and a Sigh ^.119 
 
 All is Over 23 
 
 Annie Wells 22 
 
 Calamity Jane ^ 112 
 
 California 73 
 
 /-'Camouflaged 44 
 
 Central City, Black Hills 116 
 
 Columbia Stand Firm 70 
 
 Come to Church 48 
 
 1,,^ Cupid 37 
 
 Custer Massacre 79 
 
 Daughter of a Mountaineer — ....Ill 
 
 Deadwood In Its Buckskin Days 84 
 
 v-Dear Mother 13 
 
 Dick and Pat 57 
 
 ...-Dion't Sell the Hide Until You Skin the Bear 98 
 
 Frank and Mike 58 
 
 VGive This Wild Broncho 74 
 
 i/t>olden Brown Hair 35 
 
 «-X>old 76 
 
 Ground Hog 43 
 
 He Knows It! 54 
 
 v--Her Sailor Boy 26 
 
 I Am Here to Get the Vote 41 
 
 I Can't Understand 64 
 
 It's Only a Spot 24 
 
 «^Jack Careless 100 
 
 John 39 
 
 i^Light is Her Foot in the Stirrup 77 
 
 ©CIA571751. 
 
 ... ^iiL k3 1920 
 
Moriarity's Boot 16 
 
 ' Move On 51 
 
 ^^My Heart is With You, Darling 12 
 
 K)h Beautiful Bud 27 
 
 ^Npa. 
 
 ddy Blake 55 
 
 Paris 7 
 
 Park Pictures 40 
 
 kC^yProspectors 90 
 
 Prospector Reporter 95 
 
 i/Prelude 4 
 
 , irRoosevelt 21 
 
 i-* Sergeant Tim 55 
 
 ^ Ships at Sea 25 
 
 Stand on the Corner 52 
 
 To Arms 5 
 
 "Tom and Joe" 65 
 
 The Devirs Tower 7S 
 
 ^/The Lost Battalion 10 
 
 The Mian That Made Trails 120 
 
 /The Maid That Gave All to Her France 11 
 
 The Missouri 71 
 
 The Morning of Life 38 
 
 The Profiteer 46 
 
 The Prospector's Return 114 
 
 The Red Bird 115 
 
 ^he Sunbeams of Sunrise 72 
 
 \/The War is All Over „ 15 
 
 •^The Warrior's Warning 82 
 
 Tige and Rover ^.... 103 
 
 Under the Hill 33 
 
 vWe Are Coming With Old Glory 6 
 
 ►'We Are On the Road to Berlin 14 
 
 We Lost a Comrade 94 
 
 We Parted in the Morning 25 
 
 When Gabriel Calls 45 
 
 '-Where the Hudson Meets the Sea 28 
 
 Wild Bill 105 
 
 Yes ! Teddy •. 20 
 
PRELUDE 
 
 I write for people not yet broke 
 
 To fashion's growls or critics' yoke. 
 
 I do not aim to please the wise 
 
 That claim the earth, the air, the skies. 
 
 I aim to please the kind that moves 
 
 In common, honest, worthy grooves, 
 
 The kind that follow common sense 
 
 Across a sea, a field, or fence ; 
 
 And gives their blood and do their share 
 
 To help their country foul or fair. 
 
 I write for those and only those 
 
 That dare to stand on falsehood's toes 
 
 Not caring for its name or breed, 
 
 Its standing, color, kind or creed ; 
 
 I write for those that give and take ; 
 
 Do deeds that keep the world awake 
 
 And sometimes through mistake reveals 
 
 The greatest things that time conceals. 
 
 I write for those that dare to feel 
 
 With hearts of flesh and not of steel. 
 
 I write for those that dare to think 
 
 With their own brains, not brains of ink 
 
 Taken from a mummy's grave 
 
 In pyramid or mountain cave. 
 
 I am only just a common clod — 
 
 I fear and worship only God. 
 
TO ARMS. 
 
 The swords of the world will answer the call 
 
 To arms — and go to the help of the Gaul, 
 
 The lion of Britain with eyes flashing flames 
 
 Will spring to the Seine from the bank of the Thames, 
 
 His cubs from New Zealand and Canada's pine 
 
 will speed to the land of gory and wine. 
 
 India, and Persia, will dart like a lance. 
 
 To the beautiful lillies and poppies of France. 
 
 Romans will roll from the Tiber like hail 
 
 To stand with the lion that lashes his tail, 
 
 Columbia will fly like an eagle at prey, 
 
 Overseas, through storms that stand in her way. 
 
 And tear through the clouds that gather to chill 
 
 The heart of the Gaul, that death cannot kill. 
 
 The blood of the Romans will dampen the sod, 
 
 With the blood of Columbia that fears only God. 
 
 From the southern cross, like condors, they'll come, 
 
 At the call of the bugle and roll of the drum, 
 
 To join with the legions that answer the call 
 
 That comes to the world from the land of the Gaul. 
 
 And the heart of the world will go with its spears, 
 
 To protect her from outrage, sorrow, and tears, 
 
 That gave to the w^orld the glory that rolls, 
 
 Bonaparte's sw^ord in its glorious folds. 
 
 The love of the world w^ill encircle the scenes 
 
 Where glor}^ kissed the maid of Orleans. 
 
WE ARE COMING WITH OLD GLORY 
 
 We are coming with Old Glory five million men or more, 
 We will show the wide, wide world what Columbia has 
 
 in store — 
 The parting kiss that burns, the lips that say farewell, 
 Is given not to cowards, our battle records tell. 
 
 We are coming with a glory that glory never gives 
 To tyrant ridden soldier that meets defeat and lives ; 
 We are coming to the rescue — for neither gold nor isjne 
 Of sunny France that broke a lance in our cause the same. 
 
 We are coming from our valleys that God has never made 
 For trembling feet of cowards or hearts of tyrants grade ; 
 We are coming from our rivers that weave rainbows in 
 
 their foam 
 That whisper love and liberty, God Bless our Happy 
 
 Home. 
 
 We are coming from our mountains, where God and gold 
 
 supreme 
 And courage, honor, virtue, is a truth and not a dream ; 
 We are coming from our mountains that touch the bluest 
 
 skies 
 That ever God created for brave and happy eyes. 
 
 We are coming; coming; coming; with a sword that's 
 
 Glory's own 
 That deceit has never darkened, that defeat has never 
 
 known ; 
 We are coming; coming; coming; with a sword of Bunker 
 
 Hill, 
 To break the blade of tyrants that is working horror's 
 
 will. 
 
PARIS. 
 
 Evening came upon the ranks, 
 
 Of British-Belgian battered Franks. 
 
 Wounded, dying, dead and gassed, 
 
 Covered the ground from which they passed. 
 
 Shattered tanks and broken guns. 
 
 Lay in the path of cheering Huns, 
 
 Wounded and dying in their way, 
 
 They crunched into the bloody clay. 
 
 Mercy they tramped down with the dead, 
 
 Hope and honor from them fled, 
 
 Glory in its grimmest form, 
 
 They followed through the battle storm. 
 
 Belted, badged, with greed and hate. 
 
 They drove the defeated foe to fate. 
 
 Paris! Paris!! The Battle Cry, 
 
 Of Hun, reached to the cloudy sky, 
 
 Paris ! Paris ! ! The Allies call, 
 
 We w^ill not give, it shall not fall, 
 
 It has been the home of Fame, 
 
 Before it knew the Teuton name. 
 
 It has been the Eagles''' nest. 
 
 That made the Teuton name a jest. 
 
 And drove them like a fleeing fear. 
 
 Before the Franks' victorious cheer, 
 
 When fraus remained and frauleins smiled, 
 
 To cheer and feed Fame's noblest child. 
 
 On German soil, where he broke 'bread. 
 
 In halls where worshipped Frederick fed. 
 
 Paris ! Paris ! ! we will hold, 
 
 In spite of Teuton guns or gold. 
 
 Paris ! , Paris ! — No ! ! It's the home 
 
 Of glory since Franks conquered Rome, 
 
 And threw their cloak upon the world. 
 
 Napoleon Bonaparte 
 
That it has never yet unfurled. 
 
 Paris ! Paris ! — the maids of France. 
 
 Will train the gun and drive the lance. 
 
 Sacrifice all they hold dear, 
 
 And never drop a sigh or tear, 
 
 To protect their home where love, 
 
 First came to earth from Heaven above. 
 
 And cast its pure magnetic power, 
 
 To southern climes bestrewed with flowers. 
 
 And warmed to the Northern pole. 
 
 Everything with heart or soul. 
 
 In mountains — valleys — East and West, 
 
 Love whispers : Paris is my nest. 
 
 No ! Teuton No ! ! Paris falls, 
 
 When there are no living Gauls, 
 
 Or Briton stands to tell you. No ! 
 
 Or Belgian lives to meet his foe. 
 
 Paris ! Paris ! ! Roared the Hun, 
 
 Its Beauties will make Teuton fun. 
 
 We crush it, in our Teuton palms, 
 
 Like Frauleins crush their fruit for jams, 
 
 We build our fame, upon its fame, 
 
 And feed our passions on its shame. 
 
 Stop ! Teuton ! ! Stop ! ! ! Columbia speaks, 
 
 A pallor covers the Teuton cheeks, 
 
 He hears a voice from over seas, 
 
 Hands quiver and His trembling knees, 
 
 Gets an unexpected shock. 
 
 That until now stood like a rock. 
 
 He sees a gray brown charging rank, 
 
 Break through the lines of British-Frank. 
 
 And hears there : Teuton ! You're a liar, ■ 
 
 Paris will not feel your fire. 
 
 We are in the game ; we take the deal, 
 
 And show you how to handle steel, 
 
 We fill your hearts with Yankee lead, 
 
 8 
 
And pile up rows and mounds of dead. 
 
 They charged; and broke the Prussian Guards, 
 
 And scattered them like paper cards, 
 
 And followed up the German boar 
 
 That fled to Rhineland with a roar. 
 
 Paris! Paris!! Paris!! Calls 
 
 Come to my heart, my home my halls, 
 
 Eagles from Columbia's shore. 
 
 Hearts and hands for evermore. 
 
 We join until time's broken wings, 
 
 Ends the fight of worldly things. 
 
 You beat the Teuton colors down, 
 
 When hope fled from us with a frown, 
 
 You saved the mother, maid and child, 
 
 From Teuton, lust and passions wild, 
 
 That only savage Teutons know, 
 
 That came to them from hell below. 
 
 In the soil of France you tread, 
 
 Lafayette lies with the dead. 
 
 That freed Columbia from the chains. 
 
 That were forged by tyrant's brains. 
 
 And every pledge we make he hears. 
 
 By our wounds you cured with cheers. 
 
 And by the tears Columbia shed, 
 
 For our wounded and our dead. 
 
 Paris holds its heart and all, 
 
 Subject to Columbia's call. 
 
 And forbids the world to stain, 
 
 Its name or cause, her grief or pain. 
 
 Austerlitz and Bunker Hill, 
 
 Their swords can rule the world's will, 
 
 Point! with Point! and Hilt! with Hilt! 
 
 They go, to punish greed and guilt. 
 
 And stop the shame the tears and blood, 
 
 That drenched the world since Noah's Flood. 
 
THE LOST BATTALION 
 
 Lost, cut off and surrounded, 
 
 Like tigers we stand in our nest. 
 
 We will make a new record for glory, 
 And pin a new badge on his breast. 
 
 All that we own in this world 
 
 Is the hole that we stand in to die. 
 
 Our only way open to freedom, 
 
 Is the way that death makes to the sky. 
 
 Surrender! ''Go-to-Hell !'' is our answer . 
 
 Go-to-Hell ; and stay there you must. 
 God won't open up Heaven, 
 
 To souls stained with murder and lust. 
 
 Surrender ! — we answer with bullets 
 From rifles that always spit death. 
 
 Surrender ! — the foul mouth that called it 
 We filled with a blood-clotted breath. 
 
 No food ! Brave hearts never hunger. 
 
 No drink ! Brave lips never dry. 
 Lost? No glory will find us; 
 
 Our names will live if we die. 
 
 No hope? Yes, up in high heaven, 
 Hope calls to Liberty's braves. 
 
 And God and our country forever 
 Will bless the grass on our graves. 
 
 No love? Father, sister and mother, 
 And sweethearts that know not deceit. 
 
 Will send us their love up to Heaven, 
 That the love of the Angels will greet. 
 
 10 
 
No love? The world will love us. 
 
 No love? The living and dead 
 Will love every sod that we stand on, 
 
 Everything that we do or we said. 
 
 Sweetheart, remember — I am dying! 
 
 The blood from my brain blurs my sight. 
 One shot more — I killed him! that killed me. 
 
 Oh beautiful world — good night. 
 
 ^ 0. 
 
 THE MAID THAT GAVE ALL TO HER 
 FRANCE 
 
 As straight and fair as a lily, 
 
 As strong as the shaft of a lance, 
 
 Tearless — fearless — defiant, 
 
 She stood in the ashes of France. 
 
 The blood of her brother and lover. 
 Stained the roots of the upturned sod. 
 
 She prayed, not for life or for honor — 
 For victory she prayed to her God. 
 
 Tthe blood of her mother and sire, 
 
 Dried on the charred wreck of her home. 
 
 She tossed into Liberty's fire. 
 
 The sorrow that made her heart foam. 
 
 The wail of the child in the cradle 
 
 That was wounded to death with a shell, 
 
 Brought her only a quiver of horror; 
 Defeat was the name of her hell. 
 
 11 
 
The cross of her God and the altar, 
 That was burned to cinders and dust, 
 
 She shook from the fringe of her memory, 
 And there virgins desecrated by lust. 
 
 Like a compass controlled by a magnet, 
 Her heart moved to victory — advance! 
 
 And God cleansed the home and the honor 
 Of the maid that gave all to her France. 
 
 ^. ^ ^: ^ 
 
 MY HEART IS WITH YOU, DARLING - 
 
 My heart is with you, darling. 
 
 On every sea and shore. 
 And your love will guide and guard me, 
 
 Through tomorrow's battle roar. 
 
 When glory sounds the trumpet. 
 
 Between the sun and sod. 
 Where God forgets His mercy 
 x\nd man forgets his God. 
 
 When heroes battle heroes — 
 
 And toss their lives to death. 
 
 Where the red ribbed smoke of battle, 
 
 Blinds their eyes and gags their breath. 
 
 Where charger leaps on charger, 
 Froth flaked with fiery eyes, 
 
 And dash through battle's terrors, 
 Like comets through the skies. 
 
 When Death rides through the battle, 
 On sword point, shot and shell, 
 
 And crowds the roads eternal. 
 
 That lead to Heaven and Hell. 
 
 12 
 
My heart is with you, Darling, 
 
 On every sea and shore, 
 Where Columbia waves Old Glory, 
 For the land that we adore. 
 
 ^: m 
 
 DEAR MOTHER 
 
 Dear Mother — Mother Darling, 
 A hand that writes for mine, 
 
 Will tell you where Fm buried, 
 On the French defensive line. 
 
 And it will tell you. Mother, 
 
 That the hand that writes no more, 
 Carried our fame-kissed banner. 
 
 Where it never waved before. 
 
 Where the battle smoke of ages, 
 
 Drops its crimson dust ; 
 Where Glory writes his record, 
 
 And frees his blade of rust. 
 
 Where a hand that shook the world. 
 Like a lion shakes his prey, 
 
 Drew a sword that flashed to Heaven, 
 And dazzles earth today. 
 
 And tumbled down the idols, 
 
 That threw shadows where he trod, 
 And made the world whisper — 
 
 Is he Devil? Is he God? 
 
 I know that Death is near me, 
 
 I know I feel his breath. 
 There is some unknown knowledge, 
 
 That couples life with death. 
 
 13 
 
The damp, red clay above me, 
 
 Will dry, and green grass grow, 
 And sparkling dew drops gather, 
 Like friends of long ago. 
 
 But not one tear murmur, 
 
 Remember, Mother Mine, 
 
 For the boy that left the Hudson, 
 To die beside the Rhine. 
 
 I will stand before my Maker, 
 Who gave my life to you, 
 
 With Columbia's seal upon me. 
 
 Marked, tested, brave and true. 
 
 '^ ^ ^ :€ 
 
 WE ARE ON THE ROAD TO BERLIN, 
 
 We are on the road to Berlin, 
 
 We will get there very soon. 
 
 We will play the Kaiser William 
 A good old happy tune. 
 
 We will play him Yankee Doodle 
 
 And Dixie good and loud, 
 We are coming Kaiser William, 
 
 And we get there with the crowd. 
 
 We are going to bring a circus. 
 And do some Yankee tricks. 
 
 You must dance to Fiddler France, 
 No use fun spieling nix. 
 
 14 
 
We are going to visit Gretchen, 
 And buy her woolen socks. 
 
 And Hons will have to stump around, 
 Bare footed on the rocks. 
 
 We are going to catch the Kaiser, 
 And bring him over seas. 
 
 And take him dowm to Arkansas, 
 And give him three degrees. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ :^ 
 
 THE WAR IS ALL OVER 
 
 The war is all over and Liberty smiles ; 
 
 The sword has dropped in its sheath, 
 Peace rules the sod, and the angels of God 
 
 Not the demons of darkness and death. 
 
 Smile and be happy, pray and pray well. 
 To the Angels and God in high heaven. 
 
 For the soldier that lives, and the soldier that fell 
 That sinned, that their sins be forgiven. 
 
 Love and love well, the mother that gave 
 
 Her fair laughing boy up to death. 
 Love and love well, the father that said 
 
 My son, draw your sword from its sheath. 
 
 Love and love well ,the sister that smiled, 
 When her heart was tortured with pain, 
 
 She gave up to glory, the brother she loves 
 Her eyes may not see him again. 
 
 Love and love well, the girl that gave 
 Her sweetheart to justice and fame. 
 
 When her quivering lips whispered farewell 
 Hope whispered, I tell you the same. 
 
 15 
 
 / 
 
Love, love, the child cast adrift on life's sea, 
 
 Its father is under the sod. 
 His death made the wrorld happy and free, 
 
 His child must be guided to God. 
 
 Stand and stand well, for the glory we won. 
 
 In France, the land of the brave, 
 Stand and stand well, for the thanks we got 
 
 That was whispered from LaFayette's grave. 
 
 Stand, stand, for a star of glorious gold 
 On our glorious Red, White and Blue. 
 
 And thank our God that gave us the power ^ 
 To do onlv what heroes can do. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ '^: 
 MORIARITY'S BOOT. 
 
 Day dawned upon a Christmas day. 
 
 In the Vosges far away. 
 
 Where old men, women, children dear, 
 
 Walked upon the feet of fear. 
 
 With weary hearts and downcast head, 
 
 And mourned for their noble dead. 
 
 Children played their childish plays, 
 
 With trembling hands and downcast gaze, 
 
 Their fathers some had never seen. 
 
 They had been told what they had been, 
 
 But with a Proud Defiant Glance, 
 
 They say that my father fights for France. 
 
 Day dawned upon a village street. 
 
 That was trod by Yankee feet. 
 
 And Yankee hands worked hard to turn, 
 
 Sorrow's clouds from those that mourn, 
 
 Through the many miles they came. 
 
 Their hearts flew back to watch the game, 
 
 In cherished homes where wife and child, 
 
 With downcast heads still bravely smiled. 
 
 16 
 
For four long years, a Christmas tree, 
 
 Saint Thiebault children did not see, 
 
 And now their hearts leap high and wild 
 
 They will have a tree and every child, 
 
 Will get a present and it will be 
 
 From soldiers that came across the sea, 
 
 Clouds flew away that sorrow brought. 
 
 Or battles made or caution caught. 
 
 The dust upon the village street. 
 
 Into clouds of cheer were beat. 
 
 Hope kissed hearts it had forsaken, 
 
 That was crushed and almost breaking, 
 
 Hands wave, fingers toss out signs. 
 
 Lips pale and pinched throw off their whines. 
 
 The man that would their joy control, 
 
 God surely made without a soul. 
 
 The woman that would frown them down, 
 
 God never made to wear a crown. 
 
 Percy Laftie's little shoe,* 
 
 Would not hold enough he knew. 
 
 He seen a gum boot three foot high. 
 
 Upon Moriarity standing by. 
 
 Moriarity was over six foot tall, 
 
 But his body wasn't all. 
 
 He had a great big Irish heart. 
 
 That never felt a stingy smart 
 
 And a foot that could compare 
 
 With a restaurant loaf at Doneybrook Fair. 
 
 Percy pointed at Moriarity's boot. 
 
 Ye want it: well ye young galoot, 
 
 Yee can't sleep in it tonight, 
 
 I will find yee a better place alright. 
 
 No Percy wants it for his present. 
 
 Holy Mother ! well that's the crescent. 
 
 *French children don't hang up stockings for Christmas 
 presents. They set their shoes on the fireplace hearth for them. 
 
 17 
 
Here it is, he kicked it off, 
 
 Don't ye burn my traveling stuff. 
 
 He nearly shook his whiskers loose, 
 
 With smothered pleasure, and feigned abuse. 
 
 The children gathered in the hall. 
 
 Here a top and there a doll. 
 
 And here a fan and there a gun, 
 
 Wild with joy for presents won. 
 
 Their song and laugh and happy cheers. 
 
 Brought clouds to Percy nearly tears, 
 
 He was not called, he set his lips, 
 
 As hard and white as ivory chips. 
 
 His father died for France, he'd die. 
 
 Before he'd drop a tear or sigh. 
 
 A call came like a voice from heaven, 
 
 Percy ! Hands that he had driven, 
 
 Into his shirt to still his heart. 
 
 Flew out he spread his feet apart 
 
 And seized the boot, pushed and dragged 
 
 It up the aisle, Moriarity wagged 
 
 His head and gave his proudest wink. 
 
 Said fill it up, foot, leg and chink. 
 
 Percy won't mind the mild perfume. 
 
 It gets in my lower room. 
 
 A pair of stilts, base ball bat, 
 
 Went in the boot and more than that, 
 
 A set of soldiers, twenty-four, 
 
 A pair of gloves was never wore, 
 
 Stockings, a cap would fit his head, 
 
 Fill up the chinks, Moriarity said. 
 
 In rolled candies, nuts and figs. 
 
 When he gets home he steps some jigs. 
 
 Like I do when a drink is right, 
 
 To make me love or make me fight, 
 
 Percy towed off Moriarity's boot, 
 
 Helped by Moriarity, he*d be a brute, 
 
 18 
 
That wouldn't give a helping hand, 
 
 To any boy of Boney'st land, 
 
 Moriarity said, and Perey smiled, 
 
 All cheered the French and Irish child. 
 
 For child he is in spite of years. 
 
 That soothes their pains and dries their tears. 
 
 The hand that lifts a fallen child, 
 
 Will save the soul that it defiled. 
 
 Child they'll be in the sight of God, 
 
 That lifts a child that sorrow trod. 
 
 As they passed through the open door, 
 
 Hearts flew out to Columbia's shore, 
 
 Where blackwinged sorrows shadows cover, 
 
 Father, mother, friend and lover. 
 
 Brothers, sisters ; fools and foes, 
 
 That are forgiven, as distance grows, 
 
 Where life's sunshine and its cloud. 
 
 Covered where they loved and vowed, 
 
 Blood in veins bound, burn and chill. 
 
 That surge from hearts that sorrows fill. 
 
 Eyes see a black, bewildering cloud, 
 
 That none see but the brave and proud, 
 
 No tears come but brave eyes are wet, 
 
 With a soldier's proud regret. 
 
 Hands knot with cramps that none can feel, 
 
 But hands that grasp a soldier's steel. 
 
 t Irish say Boney for Bonaparte. 
 
 19 
 
A SAIL! AHOY! 
 
 A Sail, Ahoy ! a raking mast 
 
 In the good old days now done. 
 
 And Jackie standing, hard and fast 
 Behind the Long Tom gun. 
 
 The sail, ahoy ! and the Long Tom rule 
 
 Is done forever more. 
 Jackie stands by the funnels now 
 
 That smoke and cinders pour. 
 
 A whale, ahoy ! a mine in sight 
 
 A wire on our bow 
 The Jackie calls from the submarine 
 
 That kings the ocean now. 
 
 And will king — stop the su'bmarine, 
 
 By law, take what it won. 
 Throw off the will of God — ^the hand 
 That rules the earth and sun. 
 
 It came, it left a trail of Bones 
 
 On every ocean bed. 
 It can't be chained, it rules, will rule, 
 
 Call out the ocean's dead. 
 
 ^: w ^ '^: 
 
 YES! TEDDY. 
 
 Yes, Teddy, we are ready with our gun and our vote, 
 On the 'back of a broncho or deck of a boat 
 To follow your lead, we don't care a cuss. 
 How far we must go or how ugly the fuss. 
 
 Yes, Teddy, we are ready, to join the advance, 
 With the Lion of Britain, or Eagles of France, 
 The Colors of Belgium, and cross of Old Rome, 
 Tq break the boar's tusks, and drive him back home. 
 
 20 
 
Yes Teddy, we are ready, to come from the peaks. 
 Where the Timberline air brings the blood to our cheeks. 
 Where the eagle and deer of the peak and the cloud. 
 And the timberline man is happy and proud. 
 
 Yes, Teddy, we are ready, your voice sounded clear, 
 Tn the home of the grizzly, cougar and deer. 
 The call that you gave from your brave, honest breast 
 Stilled the roar of the torrents that rolls in ithe west. 
 
 Yes Teddy, we are ready, call and we come , 
 To t'he red, white and blue at the roll of the drum. 
 The man and the horse, the sword and the gun, 
 Make nations their place under Liberty's sun. 
 
 '^ 'M '^ Ws 
 
 ROOSEVELT 
 
 Death wipes his pen. Another name 
 Is added to the roll of fame. 
 Heaven opened wide its gate 
 A soul passed from the hand of fate, 
 A star has darted from our eyes 
 Earth loses, heaven gains a prize. 
 
 Clasp hands o'er his grave, friend and foe; he was brave 
 
 And true to his Country and God, 
 
 He left a deep trail, not a mark like a snail ! 
 
 The horse that he rode was rough shod ! 
 
 His blood stained the vine in the Land of the Rhine, 
 Where his Eaglet dropped from a cloud; 
 He classed with the best ; he was tested — the test 
 Marked him up with the proudest of proud. 
 
 It needs not a mass of granite or brass 
 
 To tell ages what he has done. 
 
 Hide Roosevelt's name from Honor and Fame! 
 
 Hide the earth with your hand from the sun ! 
 
 2] 
 
On sea sand and sea and mountain top, he 
 Made a track that Time can't erase ; 
 Every flag- that's unrolled his name will unfold. 
 While the world is revolving in space. 
 
 ^: w. m ^: 
 
 ANNIE WELLS. 
 
 I knew a little girl once, 
 
 Her name was Annie Wells, 
 She could make the darndest noise. 
 
 And give the darndest yells. 
 
 She gave a yell one day at school, 
 
 The bell fell from the tower, 
 She yelled when she was going home. 
 
 And stopped a ten horse-power. 
 
 A Missouri mule was in her way. 
 
 And raised his foot to kick, 
 Annie gave a scream— he dropped 
 
 His hoof and turned sick. 
 
 One winter when the snow was deep 
 
 Upon a mountain side. 
 Lt broke loose from a towering cliff. 
 
 And started down a slide. 
 
 Annie saw it and she screamed. 
 
 It raised into the air, 
 And every winter ever since. 
 
 That spot is always bare. 
 
 I know that everyone will say 
 
 That this is all a lie, 
 But — it was Annie's scream that made me deaf. 
 
 And knocked out my left eye. 
 
 22 
 
ALL IS OVER. 
 
 All IS over, don't drag' the past, 
 You spoke too loud, I ^poke too fast, 
 Life's sunbeams from our paths have fled. 
 Love budded; but the buds are dead. 
 
 The sun will never rise again, 
 To me or you as it did then, 
 It smiles on others warm and clear, 
 But never on you or I, my dear. 
 
 The moon will never look as bright, 
 As when hands clasped we strolled at night. 
 The words we spoke — forget — ^forgive, 
 The way we go ; the way we live. 
 
 Tlie stars will never light our way. 
 As they did in love's happy day, 
 The grass will never look as green. 
 To yo uor I as it has been. 
 
 Clouds drift between love's light and me, 
 They chill; you see them as I see, 
 W'e go the way the world goes. 
 Lovers nev^r ; friends not foes. 
 
 23 
 
IT'S ONLY A SPOT. 
 
 It's only a spot upon my brain, 
 It will not grow or disappear, 
 Sometime I think it is a stain, 
 Sometime I think it is a tear. 
 But stain or tear it matters not, 
 While life is mine I'll see the blot. 
 
 It's only a keepsake in my heart. 
 
 It brings me joy, it brings me sorrow. 
 
 It is a honey bee today, 
 
 It has a hornet's sting tomorrow. 
 
 But while I live it has the power. 
 
 To cheer me or to make me cower. 
 
 It's only a bud, I often see 
 
 In day or night dreams any time, 
 
 It fills my eyes with pictures dear, 
 
 Of youthful pleasures, pains and crimes, 
 
 Will it go with my soul or stay, 
 
 With death, w^hen I return to clay. 
 
 Spot or keepsake, lovely bud. 
 Passions come and break and go. 
 I speed on to death and part 
 With love for friend, and hate for foe. 
 But Heaven forgive me foul or fair, 
 I still worship all you were. 
 
 24 
 
SHIPS AT SEA. 
 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! Like ships at sea, 
 
 We meet, we speak, we part, 
 We throw our colors to the breeze. 
 
 Show and fold up our chart. 
 No matter what our hearts may feel, 
 
 Or what our dreams may be, 
 The world will know this much, no more. 
 
 We met and spoke at sea. 
 
 From wave to wave ; we dance as light. 
 
 As all barks outward bound. 
 None will know our hulls are strained. 
 
 That we ever Avent aground. 
 No matter w'hat our heart may feel. 
 
 Or what our dreams may be. 
 The world will know this much, no more. 
 
 We met and spoke at sea. 
 
 ^: '^: 
 
 WE PARTED IN THE MORNING. 
 
 I met her in the evening when the dew was on the rose, 
 When the stars looked down on flowers as pure as winter 
 
 snows. 
 Where bursting buds and blossoms scented the evening 
 
 breeze, 
 And moonbeams clung like silver vines to grand old forest 
 
 trees. 
 
 I met her in the evening where the brightest rill rolled by, 
 That ever danced or sparkled beneath a cloud or sky. 
 Or ever strayed through bowers, that nature ever made. 
 Or kissed the leaves and brambles through which it 
 laughing played. 
 
 25 
 
I met her in the evening, she gave me lovers bright smile, 
 I said I know not what, my heart beat all the while, 
 And though long years have passed since that evening's 
 
 sun has set, 
 I see her eyes, I. see her smile, and feel her heart beat 
 
 yet. 
 We parted in the morning as lovers part and mourn. 
 That know love's bud is dying upon time's ragged thorn. 
 That see their life's sun stagger through a ragged cloud, 
 And know their farewell whisper, is love's eternal shroud. 
 
 'm '£ 'm 
 
 HER SAILOR BOY 
 
 She sat with a handful of flowers 
 On a cliff that hung over the sea. 
 And whispered, O Heavenly Father 
 Have mercy, have pity on me. 
 
 She sat with a handful of flowers 
 
 And looked at the froth on the wave 
 
 The wind and the water that made it 
 Swept over her sailor boy's grave. 
 
 Oh wind, oh water, she murmured, 
 
 Carry a message of love 
 To the bones of my sweetheart you cover 
 
 To my sailor boy's spirit above. 
 
 Her tears, her prayers and her flowers 
 She cast in the froth of the wave 
 
 Her sailor boy's spirit called, welcome 
 
 As she leaped to her sailor boy's grave. 
 
 26 
 
A SIGH AND A TEAR 
 
 A smile and a kiss, a sigh and a tear 
 
 Is all I could give — you leave nothing more. 
 I trusted too much, I loved you too dear, 
 
 I prayed to my God, but you did adore. 
 
 Your cold, careless kiss, your heartless farewell. 
 Tells what your false smile attempts to conceal. 
 
 The hot blood of passion that warms my heart 
 Your lukewarm love, has caused to congeal. 
 
 I loved you too well — I answered your call 
 
 You called like a tyrant and willed like a brute. 
 
 I cannot reveal the depth of my fall, 
 
 My pride is still living and bids me be mute. 
 
 But mark, from this hour— I shadow your path 
 And tangle your feet and strike till you fall, 
 
 And rob you of honor ; know woman's wrath 
 
 Drowns hope and mercy in vengeance and gall. 
 
 OH BEAUTIFUL BUD 
 
 Oh beautiful bud, just peeping at earth, 
 From florescence cover, where you bedded since birth 
 You feel the bright sunbeams, but don't see the sun. 
 Breath the balm, not the chill, of the life you have won 
 
 Oh, beautiful bud — the charms you hold. 
 Are fairer than beauties your leaves may unfold. 
 The mysteries that please the heart and the brain. 
 When broken, may bring disappointment and pain. 
 
 27 
 
Oh, beautiful bud — the sweets that you keep 
 The bee longs for more than the sweets you give cheap, 
 The kiss that he takes from your unopened store 
 He prizes far more than the honey you pour. 
 
 Oh, beautiful bud — I fear you conceal 
 A thorn that fingers that clasp you will feel 
 And feel all through life, and under the sod 
 And their spirit will feel in the presence of God. 
 
 WHERE THE HUDSON MEETS THE SEA 
 
 It is here we loved and parted, 
 My soldier boy and I. 
 Where the laughing Hudson kisses 
 The Palisades good-bye. 
 
 Will he prove false or falter? 
 If brighter eyes than mine, 
 Throw love beams on his pathway. 
 In the land of love and wine? 
 
 I can give him up to Glory, 
 
 And never drop a tear. 
 
 But his heart is mine, his country's, 
 
 His childhood home is here. 
 
 Where eagles from the highlands, 
 And sea gulls wild and free, 
 Rest on golden towers 
 Where the Hudson meets the sea. 
 
 28 
 
A BACKWARD LOOK 
 
 I take a backward look at years, 
 
 Of life that's filled with joys and fears, 
 
 Where clouds and sunshine flash and roll, 
 
 That charms my heart and thrills my soul. 
 
 Time flies and none can clip its wings, 
 
 But he that made all earthly things. 
 
 Time flies and none can stop its flight, 
 
 From Life's dawn to Eternal night. 
 
 We move upon its ceaseless force, 
 
 On, over Life's mysterious course. 
 
 No time to feel, before we see, 
 
 What it will bring — or chain — or free. 
 
 What we will find or where we go. 
 
 Or who will be our friend or foe, 
 
 Time holds until we pass the mark, 
 
 Where all was mystery and dark. 
 
 I take a backward look at things, 
 
 That cheer my heart and often stings, 
 
 Back through childhood days I'm whirled, 
 
 Through fancies unchained foolish world. 
 
 On storm king and old crows nest, 
 
 That Time can't change I stop and rest. 
 
 And every cliff and peak and knoll, 
 
 That pleased my heart and touched my soul, 
 
 I find unchanged, time's crushing feet. 
 
 Has left no mark in its retreat. 
 
 Save where a lightning bolt was driven 
 
 To tear the peaks by angry heaven, 
 
 And gashed its solid flinty breast, 
 
 Where shrubs now hide the eagle's nest. 
 
 And punctured spots where foliage clings 
 
 To peaks like animated things. 
 
 From storm king and old crow's nest, 
 
 Fancy flies to ''Putnam's Crest," 
 
 And from its ruins I look down, 
 
 29 
 
On ''West Point Plains/' that breed renown. 
 
 Where Liberty, in eagle form, 
 
 Dashed through bullets' hiss and storm. 
 
 With flashing eyes and bloody beak, 
 
 From plain to cliff, from cliff to peak — 
 
 T)arted with blood stained torn wings 
 
 Through nets of treason's cowardly stings, 
 
 Swords made by tyrants of the Thames, 
 
 And tempered by hell's hottest flames, 
 
 To bind it in eternal chains, 
 
 It broke like straws that barred its fights, 
 
 And won the battle for human rights. 
 
 There George the Great a glory won 
 That's surpassed by cnly God's own son, 
 His name is stamped on Glory's wings, 
 And hope and justice to it clings, 
 From land to land ; from sea to sea, 
 Where men still bleed that would be free. 
 There Mollie Pitcher"^ won a crown, 
 That from Heaven was handed down, 
 And lit a torch that glowed ; still glows. 
 Wherever water stands or flows. 
 Or flowers bloom, in bowers blessed. 
 Or lightning strikes a mountain crest, 
 There Arnold won a traitor's name 
 That stains the blackest page of shame. 
 And Andre won a name so foul. 
 To bear would make the devil growl. 
 
 T have looked from peaks and cliffs that hold. 
 Perpetual snow and belts of gold. 
 
 * The greatest American heroine. First woman pensioned 
 by the United States; fired the last gun from Fort Montgomery 
 when it was captured by the British. She took her husband's 
 place when he was killed at three o'clock in the afternoon at the 
 Battle of Monmouth and worked his gun until dark. 
 
 30 
 
I have seen wild torrents leap and break 
 
 Through gorges into mountain lake 
 
 Where shadows of the eagle's wings, 
 
 Darted over worldly things. 
 
 Geysers that spit the froth of hell, 
 
 That sparkled as they raised and fell 
 
 Like pearls in their slizzling pools 
 
 That puzzles sage as well as fools, 
 
 Have made me wonder, I wonder still, 
 
 Why men defy God's power and will. 
 
 Where white man's smoke had never curled, 
 
 Between the blue sky and the world, 
 
 I have set my foot on mountain sod 
 
 That eagles clawed and grizzlies trod. 
 
 But all their splendor can't surpass, 
 
 The scenes I see in fancy's glass. 
 
 From Old Bald Mountain's rugged head 
 
 Where cliff laps cliff and hides the bed 
 
 Of tides that come and rise and fall. 
 
 And make the the Hudson king of all. 
 
 Cut off by peak and cliff the tides. 
 
 That plays along the Hudson sides. 
 
 Disappears; lake after lake. 
 
 Come into view behind each break. 
 
 Sails, boats, and smoke, come, disappear. 
 
 Like fairy things on magic air. 
 
 The Palisades at the Highland's feet, 
 
 Throw back the waves that on them beat. 
 
 And now and then a rose or bud. 
 
 Floats out upon the ebb or flood, 
 
 And dances on the waves that's curled, 
 
 By tides that roll around the world. 
 
 Bars of steel or mountain chains. 
 
 Can't stop the sight of heart or brains, 
 
 Mountain arms or trees can't hide. 
 
 My heart's sigh from the rolling tide. 
 
 31 
 
Chains of gold can't block the way 
 Of hearts they hold or lead astray. 
 
 Now I throw my heart and eyes, 
 
 Down upon the highlands prize. 
 
 Where like an eagle in its nest, 
 
 Highland Falls by nature blessed. 
 
 Is cut by mountain stream that darts. 
 
 From mountain peaks in many parts. 
 
 And churns its froth in rocky holes. 
 
 To clean the bodies, please the souls, 
 
 Of man and boy, and maid and wife. 
 
 To cheer their hearts and strengthenr life. 
 
 V'irgins, tangled in foam and arms, 
 
 That conceals their lovely forms. 
 
 Slide, dive, float, laugh and play. 
 
 Where man can't come or dare not stay. 
 
 From Bathing holes I quickly pass 
 
 To lakes as bright and smooth as glass. 
 
 That ripple when some finny things, 
 
 Leap up to look at birds on wings. 
 
 Or boys afloat upon a plank. 
 
 Or standing on a mossy bank. 
 
 With fish-pole, line and hook to get. 
 
 The fish that nibbles and fools them yet. 
 
 The rising sun and setting sun. 
 
 Will come and gO' till time is done. 
 
 The moon and stars will, through their light, 
 
 Until God stops their brilliant flight. 
 
 But in their wake or in their way, 
 
 No fairer stream will ever play. 
 
 Than, the babbling brook of Highland falls, 
 
 No tide will carry yachts or yawls 
 
 As fair as those upon its breast. 
 
 From Palisades to Old Crows' nest. 
 
 No eagles wash their wings in rills, 
 
 32 
 
In greener glens or grander hills. 
 
 Wandering through moss grown rocks, 
 
 Above the tide where sea gull flocks. 
 
 Forms like spirits from the dead, 
 
 Seek pleasures that too quickly fled. 
 
 From bubbling springs and grottoes rise, 
 
 Cheers and laughter, pledge and sighs. 
 
 Words pass that living lips don't mould. 
 
 That is dearer than the clink of gold. 
 
 Hands clasp that may be long since dead, 
 
 Lips kiss endearing words have said. 
 
 And like the purr of angels' wings, 
 
 Voices arise where children sing. 
 
 And feed my heart, decayed by woes, 
 
 Like dewdrops feed a withered rose. 
 
 And from oak and vine and brush. 
 
 Love breathes — and smiles — and whispers ''Hush." 
 
 Fancy drops her magic glass. 
 
 Back to cold real life I pass. 
 
 Where black clouds come and hurry by, 
 
 And will until the day I die. 
 
 ^ :^ ^ :€ 
 UNDER THE HILL. 
 
 Under the hill the village grows, 
 
 And up from its red brick chimneys rise. 
 
 The lazy smoke in lazy curls, 
 
 It will never reach the blue, blue skies, 
 
 But little it cares, it weaves queer wreaths, 
 
 And rises on the gentle breeze 
 
 That wanders from the mountain sides. 
 
 And whispers through the village trees. 
 
 Under the hill the village grows. 
 
 And under the school boy's hat of straw, 
 
 33 
 
Two merry eyes with mischief glow, 
 And a merry brain that knows no law, 
 Under the school boy's ragged coat 
 A light heart beats that knows no care, 
 And under the school boy's wrinkled shirt, 
 A happy soul is living there. 
 
 Under the school boy's bare, brown feet. 
 The soft fine dust lies deep and brown. 
 And under the school boy's bare, brown feet, 
 There is many a ruby of renown. 
 And under a cloud that yet may come. 
 Upon the world to 'blind mankind. 
 This school boy may then be the prop 
 For nations and creeds to crouch behind. 
 
 Under the hill the village grows. 
 
 And under the school girl's smile and nod, 
 
 A happy home grows for mankind. 
 
 Made from the plan she got from God, 
 
 And under the mother's hand and smile, 
 
 The world's boys and girls grow. 
 
 An honor to the heaven they find. 
 
 When they leave this world of joy and woe. 
 
 In the grocery store the sages meet 
 To fight over the battles of the past. 
 They maneuver many a foundered fleet, 
 That the sea foam covers for ages past. 
 They rise from Loada's blood and dust. 
 The eagle that shadowed with his wings, 
 Kingdoms and empires, seas and floods. 
 And made their crown and king his things. 
 
 The legions of the Alps, they rise. 
 That his ambition buried there, 
 And many a battle banner flies. 
 
That is buried deep and God knows where. 
 They wheel battallions long since dead, 
 And hurl corps through fire and smoke, 
 On Jena's plain where pity fled, 
 Before fierce Murat's saber stroke. . 
 
 On Egypt's sand they trace his track, 
 That broke the tracks of Egypt's best. 
 And left a name that's higher than. 
 The pyramids where Pharaohs rest. 
 They turn the world and move the sun, 
 Then light their pipes — good hearted souls. 
 Little they know the deeds that's done. 
 On this round planet between its poles. 
 
 GOLDEN BROWN HAIR 
 
 She has golden brown hair, a face that is fair, 
 
 A heart that is happy and true. 
 
 She blooms like a rose wherever she goes , 
 
 She won't be forgotten by you. 
 
 She won't be forgotten by you, you, you. 
 
 She won't be forgotten by you. 
 
 She has golden brown hair, a face that is fair, 
 
 And lips that say kiss, if you will. 
 
 If you take a few score I will have a few more, 
 
 For the boy that I meet on the hill. 
 
 If you take a few score I will have a few more, 
 
 For the boy that I meet on the hill. 
 
 She has golden brown hair, her eyes will compare 
 
 With the bluest of blue skies above. 
 
 She cares not a thread what people have said. 
 
 She was made to love and be loved, 
 
 She don't care a thread what people have said, 
 
 She was made to love and be loved. 
 
 35 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE CALICO DRESS 
 
 Oh give me the girl with the calico dress, 
 
 Her heart is honest and free. 
 If I have a girl with a calico dress, 
 
 She will keep all her kisses for me. 
 
 She will keep all her kisses for me-me-me. 
 
 She will keep all her kisses for me. 
 
 Oh give me the girl with thes calico dress. 
 
 Her heart is honest and kind. 
 She will love me through sorrow and pain, 
 
 To my faults and my follies be blind. 
 
 And she will keep all her kisses for me-me-me, 
 
 She will keep all her kisses for me. 
 
 Oh, give me the girl with the calico dress, 
 
 She will be honest and faithful through life. 
 She won't be a goddess, a queen, or a doll. 
 
 But she will be a good, honest wife. 
 
 And she will keep all her kisses for me-me-me, 
 
 She will keep all her kisses for me. 
 
 26 
 
CUPID 
 
 With quiver filled and bended bow 
 Laughing- little cupid starts — 
 
 I follow and take in the show, 
 
 And watch him spot and puncture hearts. 
 
 The little outlaw pays no heed, 
 
 To law or order, good or bad. 
 He shoots and laughs, and laughs and shoots 
 
 At ugly, handsome, gay and sad. 
 
 A school bo}^^ stops his race and cheer 
 
 An arrow pierced his wild, young heart. 
 
 A laughing school girl standing near 
 Is struck, I see her blush and start. 
 
 Smooth Bald Pate logic they defy, 
 
 Old cackling shrews they do not heed. 
 
 Wild warning they let whistle by — 
 Of men and women run to seed. 
 
 And now Old Bald Pate gets a shot, 
 
 His old heart puctured out of shape, 
 
 Quivers with, well. Love it's not. 
 
 With heat, a better heat than Hate. 
 
 The shrew is pierced, the proper prude 
 Just bites her lip when she is hit, 
 
 •He spots the senseless simpering dude. 
 He spots the soldier, sage and wit. 
 
 Right and left and up and down. 
 
 He shoots and never makes a miss. 
 
 And punctures lawyers, judges, things, 
 That sa3% it is a sin to kiss. 
 
 37 
 
Down the road to Hell, he shoots, 
 And when he hits a soul is saved. 
 
 The devil never catches souls 
 
 That cupid's arrows pierce or shave. 
 
 Up he swings his bow, the saints 
 
 And Ang-els cheer the Laughing Boy 
 
 Heavens love that fills their hearts. 
 Welcomes darts from Cupids toy, 
 
 I guess it's time to quit the show, 
 
 For if he turns he shoots, and say. 
 
 He shoots men falling in their graves, 
 Just such as I am, every day. 
 
 THE MORNING OF LIFE. 
 
 The Morning of Life has a sun that throws beams. 
 On mountains and valleys, on torrents and streams, 
 That dances and plays on the heart and the brain, 
 They may break now amd then but return again 
 And break through the clouds no matter how black, 
 Lift the chill from our heart the fog from our track. 
 
 Whirlwinds of love, drifts love through Life's way, 
 
 That is loaded with bliss, some will go, some will stay. 
 
 Enough for to cover the rough barren spots. 
 
 Where pleasure is chilled where hope often rots. 
 
 A shower of memories will revive and restore, 
 
 The pleasure of love that is with us no more. , 
 
 The pride that is cast from life's rising sun, 
 
 May shiver and chill, its pain is soon done, 
 
 The chill and the pain will scatter and go 
 
 Like leaves in the autumn, or Spring's melting snow. 
 
 The sunrise of Life has the power to cast, 
 
 Its beams through all sorrow, present and past. 
 
 38 
 
JOHN. 
 
 John was a boy like other boys, 
 
 Not much inclined to girls' toys. 
 
 And when he set his brains to work, 
 
 He brought out something with a jerk, 
 
 That made his daddy foam and growl 
 
 And made his mammy fret and scowl. 
 
 John fixed to go and have a fish. 
 
 If water was warm to take a splash. 
 
 He'd go alone, made up his mind. 
 
 To play his game and play it blind. 
 
 No other boy for look-out, scout. 
 
 He would take to plan his fun or route. 
 
 He took his hickory fish pole down. 
 
 It puckered his brow into a frown, 
 
 It was crooked, badly shaped, 
 
 A muttered something from him escaped. 
 
 Just what it was I will not tell. 
 
 Don't say you think he muttered hell. 
 
 He straightened the pole upon his knee. 
 
 Then looked as pleased as boy could be. 
 
 But through his smiles, things looked out 
 
 That put his good intents in doubt. 
 
 Boys' brains can manufacture things. 
 
 That's cloaked with smiles but carry stings. 
 
 Bait he had in his tin box 
 
 A strong line, for a sinker rocks. 
 
 It didn't take him long to reach, 
 
 A mill pond with a sandy beach, 
 
 He fished awhile but had no luck 
 
 His clothes from off his body took 
 
 And swam and dove and floated some. 
 
 Then said, 'T guess for me it's home." 
 
 He swam ashore, got in his shirt. 
 
 But on his legs he got some dirt. 
 
 He waded out to wash them clean, 
 
 39 
 
A snapping turtle all unseen, 
 Grabbed his shirt tail — holy smoke, 
 He yelled and for the shore he broke. 
 Bill his rival, Jack, his chum. 
 Heard him yell and seen him come. 
 Fan, his sweetheart, came in sight, 
 So he tore on — with grim delight 
 Bill and Jack chased on behind. 
 Half scared to death, and half blind 
 He tore on through his open gate, 
 And yelled out daddy, help, don't wait, 
 My shirt tail is gobbled by a snapper, 
 Hurry ! Hurry ! Mama, papper. 
 Mamma, papa, rushed out and caught . 
 Johnny and gave the help he sought. 
 Papa caught the turtle tail, 
 Johnny with a yank and squeal 
 Left 'his daddy, turtle and shirt 
 Not caring if his dad got hurt. 
 If Johnny's tale or mine you scorn, 
 Forgive, the truth is naked born. 
 
 m, m 
 
 PARK PICTURES. 
 
 Say what will you do with the pictures 
 
 Of the park that you had in your mind ? 
 
 And what will you do with the people 
 
 That your boosting made silly and blind? 
 
 And what will you do with the autos 
 
 You bought to speed when it's done? 
 
 And what will you do with the girl 
 That was ready to join in the fun? 
 
And what will you do with the lawyers 
 
 Who would prove to the public and court 
 
 That speeding is innocent pleasure, 
 And murder the finest of sport. 
 
 And what will you do with the doctors, 
 
 With their bandages, pills and queer tools 
 
 That would surely get jobs from the parkway 
 If it wasn't defeated by fools? 
 
 And what will you do for the dollars 
 
 That the beautful parkway would rob? 
 
 And what will you do with the coffins 
 That the parkway would put on a job? 
 
 And what will you do for the devil. 
 
 That was waiting to enter the park, 
 
 With hell-hounds to trail up young girls 
 Who were out on an innocent lark? 
 
 And what will you do with the scorn 
 That you got for working the job. 
 
 And what will you do with the thorn 
 
 That your conscience will meet with a sob? 
 
 ^ ^ ^: :^ 
 I AM HERE TO GET THE VOTE. 
 
 I am here to get the vote. 
 
 You man and I will steer the boat. 
 
 The way I think it is the best. 
 
 To bring this country wealth and rest. 
 
 A bigger crop of oats and wheat 
 
 Will grow upon your farms, the beet 
 
 Will give more sugar, and the cane 
 
 Will surely give as much again. 
 
 41 
 
And as for spuds ; I make them grow 
 
 On top as well as in the row. 
 
 Other things that grow deep in, 
 
 Will break a derrick to lift them when 
 
 They only get just half their growth. 
 
 Vines will produce a hoath, 
 
 And bushes will be loaded down, 
 
 Like coal trucks driven through the town. 
 
 Apples will grow on rotten limbs, 
 
 And out upon the orchard's rims, 
 
 Peach trees will grow baskets too, 
 
 Pears must be poled like they do, 
 
 Pole pigs down in Arkansas, 
 
 Where people don't care much for law. 
 
 Packing houses I will fill. 
 
 The air will roll the liver pill. 
 
 Wool will grow upon the fields. 
 
 Cotton will have double yields. 
 
 Business I will boost so high. 
 
 Bonds will float up in the sky. 
 
 Not a man will have to work, 
 
 Nor woman household duty shirk. 
 
 It will rain marbles for the kids. 
 
 Fire-flies and katy-dids. 
 
 Will live all winter and keep fat. 
 
 I will make an aeroplane of the bat. 
 
 The best of chocolate Pll produce 
 
 From common old tobacco juice. 
 
 I will mine nuts, and g^ood ones too, 
 
 That people without teeth can chew. 
 
 Now boost me in and with a cheer. 
 
 To office this and every year. 
 
 And glory's wings will carry — sound, 
 
 Colum'bia's name the world around. 
 
 But when I work the rudder mind, 
 
 Some promises I leave behind. 
 
 A few of course that won't count much, 
 
 42 
 
Election pledges totes a crutch. 
 
 If I lose out, look out for squalls, 
 
 Tornados on our country falls. 
 
 The sun will turn its back on you, 
 
 The moon and stars far worse will do. 
 
 Smother we will in sulphur fumes 
 
 From hell's over-crowded rooms. 
 
 And when you get to Heaven's gate. 
 
 Saint Peter will say you are too late, 
 
 I locked the gate — when 3^ou didn't vote 
 
 For a man who could steer Columbia's boat. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ :^: 
 GROUND HOG. 
 
 The ground hog came as Reuben said, 
 
 Puckered his nose, scratched his head, 
 
 Took a squint up at the sun. 
 
 Spoke to himself as men have done. 
 
 And said, FU steal a chunk of coal 
 
 To make a fire and hunt my hole. 
 
 I know that we will have some weather. 
 
 That wont be good for ground hog leather. 
 
 Reuben has told a whooping lie 
 
 About me — Fm condemned to die. 
 
 And I may get a dose of lead. 
 
 For doing things that Reuben said. 
 
 If I could run 'the tongue plant bizz, 
 
 I'd never make a tongue like his. 
 
 He put the hunters on my tracks, 
 
 I'll have to pay a war stamp tax. 
 
 For all the weather that I sell, 
 
 I wish that Reuben was in Hell, 
 
 And all the other weather guys. 
 
 That have fat jobs for telling lies. 
 
 He says that I chase off the sun, 
 
 43 
 
But he is a lying son of a gun. 
 He says I make the ice and frost, 
 That the weather job by me is bossed. 
 Reuben's yarns takes the prize 
 For double-jointed knock-kneed lies. 
 He says I make the weather rules, 
 I know I do for cranks and fools. 
 But all the same— I hunt my hole 
 As Reuben said — but, d his soul. 
 
 '^ ^ ^ W. 
 CAMOUFLAGED 
 
 Say what will we do with the hours 
 
 That we steal from Old Father Time? 
 
 Will they bring us more spuds or more flowers, 
 Or add to our virtue or crime? 
 
 Will the preacher get more for his preaching 
 Or the loafer get more for his loaf, 
 
 Or the soldier more crosses or ribbon 
 
 From the time that we steal or cut off? 
 
 Will our tongue wag faster or slower. 
 
 Our eyes see more or see less. 
 Through the time that we steal for no purpose 
 
 But just to be stealing I guess. 
 
 Will we make or squander more dollars 
 
 With the time that we pinch from the sun. 
 
 Will we make a new mark on time's blackboard* 
 With either our prayerbook or gun? 
 
 Will Tige or the Kid get more cussing 
 
 Or more time to bark or to yell 
 From the time that we steal for no profit 
 
 That helps neither heaven nor helL 
 
 Night 
 
WHEN GABRIEL CALLS. 
 
 When Gabriel calls and we are all gathered in, 
 The short and the tall, the fleshy and thin, 
 There will be a big" change in the dude with the shape, 
 That he got from the man with scissors and tape, 
 
 There will be a big change in Fan and her blush. 
 That she got from her powder pad, lipstick and brush, 
 There will be a surprise for the woman that votes 
 God out of power; to fix sexes of goats. 
 
 There will be a surprise for rulers of earth. 
 
 That tell God, we rule here, you stick to your berth. 
 
 The world dont need you, stay at home with your saints, 
 
 And we'll run the world as our fancy paints. 
 
 There will be some changes and all kind of squeals, 
 From those that got wealth by all kinds of steals, 
 That is backed up by law to build up big wads 
 That fixes the standing of worldly Gods. 
 
 There is all kind of debts that have to be paid. 
 And not with the wealth that stealings have made. 
 How will they be paid? That, God only knows. 
 But if all debts are paid, then hell overflows. 
 
 It's a safe bet to bet, that Blackstone won't go. 
 That God knows a few things that judges don't know, 
 It's a safe bet to bet that fines won't be remitted, 
 For stealings that's done or murders committed. 
 
 45 
 
THE PROFITEER. 
 
 Hogs go up and hogs go down, 
 The cost of living grows, 
 
 And why it does the profiteer 
 And the devil only knows. 
 
 Beef goes up and beef goes down, 
 Consumers rave and bawl, 
 
 The profiteer builds up his wad 
 With overbearing gall. 
 
 Eggs go up, but seldom down. 
 The profiteers they crow, 
 
 The old hen cackles off her nest. 
 
 As she did when eggs were low. 
 
 Milk goes up, the baby cries. 
 
 The profiteers just wink, 
 Old Bossy gives her milk the same 
 
 For hungry babes to drink. 
 
 An apple costs more than a peck 
 Before the war in France, 
 
 The profiteer swells out his front, 
 And calls another advance. 
 
 The profiteers, with clothes and things, 
 That men and women wear, 
 
 Add to their dishonest rolls, 
 And call their profits fair. 
 
 The public freeze, the miners strike, 
 More pay ; and shorter hour. 
 
 How is all this going toi end. 
 
 With greed — and guilt — in power. 
 
 4,6 
 
Blizzards of human passions come, 
 And leave ruin in their track, 
 
 When wrongs unrolled, and uncontrolled, 
 Beat honor and justice back. 
 
 Look to the north where Russia waves 
 
 Her flag -of cruel red, 
 Ages! of oppression made 
 
 The brutes that Russia bred. 
 
 Oppression brings the same results, 
 
 On every land and sea, 
 The Russian blizzard comes our way, 
 
 Its frost — we feel and see. 
 
 Is there no voice, can call a halt? 
 
 No hand can stop the play? 
 Of those that profiteer on goods, 
 
 And profiteer on pay. 
 
 Must our colors fall before 
 
 The cruel hand of greed. 
 And liberty forsake the shore 
 
 Where God placed it to breed. 
 
 Hope hides behinds clouds of dispair, 
 
 Mercy drops a tear. 
 And God regrets for gifts He gave, 
 
 To mortals living here. 
 
 U 
 
COME TO CHURCH. 
 
 Deacon. 
 
 Come to church, sinner, and alter your stride, 
 
 Your bad, wilful way and cast aside 
 
 Wrong- passions, desires, and foolish neglect 
 
 And pride, that keeps shame well groomed and erect. 
 
 Come where people pray, where people are saved 
 
 Come, join the ranks that the devil has braved. 
 
 Heretic. 
 
 Well spoken, my friend, I fear it's the tongue 
 That sing the Hymns that in churches are sung. 
 It sings for good gold, and not for good God, 
 It leads with a ribbon, don't strike with a rod. 
 I am deep down in sin, can't answer your call, 
 Your tongue is well coated with honey and gall. 
 
 Deacon. 
 
 Sinner, the black clouds that darken your way 
 Bewilders your brains and leads you astray, 
 You stumble through vines that tangle your feet, 
 That is rooted in soil where poison roots meet. 
 Stumble on if you will, stumble on and you fall, 
 Listen in time to God's pleading call. 
 
 Heretic. 
 
 I feel every vine, and I know they root deep 
 In clay that don't give a good crop to reap, 
 I struggle and gasp to get better breath, 
 I know I fear God, and I know I fear death. 
 But the veil of religion is knotty and thin. 
 It is powdered with gold and shuttled by sin. 
 
 Deacon. 
 
 Only sinners can see dark sides on the shields, 
 Or the sword, that religion unsparing wields 
 
 4S 
 
Tliat strikes deep, and wounds where it must, 
 It is polished with justice ; it can never rust 
 The hilt of the sword must be made of j^ood gold. 
 That carries the blade to protect Christian fold. 
 
 Heretic. 
 
 The only thing- now that God rules is the sky, 
 
 The sun, moon and stars and the wind that sweeps by, 
 
 You read God's holy book, condemn its commands. 
 
 The way that He wills ; the work of His hands. 
 
 Our Saviour made w^ine and He liked it well, 
 
 Christ's followers you send to jail and to hell. 
 
 Deacon. 
 
 Tlie church is the tool, that God made to make, 
 
 Good men of the fool, the drunkard and rake. 
 
 It weaves them together and bleaches them well, 
 
 It makes them good Christians, saves them from hell. 
 
 Your heart is not good ! your brain is not right ! 
 
 If God done a wrong, is it wrong to do right? 
 
 Heretic. 
 
 God can't do a wTong ; the wrong that you see 
 Comes from creeds: that's decayed to a putrid degree. 
 When a fire-fly gives more light than the sun. 
 Enlighten my brain with the wrong that God done. 
 When the ends of a needle is as big as earth's poles, 
 By opposing God's w^ill, you can help and save souls. 
 
 Deacon. 
 
 It is easy to see, that you are not in touch, 
 
 With the welfare of churches, that is needed much 
 
 To lift up the sinner that wanders too low 
 
 And pluck out the weeds that in Heaven's path grow. 
 
 For the good of the world churches know what to do. 
 
 Don't have to heed ; God — don't have to ask vou. 
 
 49 
 
Heretic. 
 
 I don't know very much, but this much I know, 
 That gold, and not God, has churches in tow. 
 By churches' command, children gamble for God, 
 God carries the load ; the devil the rod. 
 They shoot from 'both ends, like worn-out gun, 
 Tear off their own cloaks — put fools on the run. 
 
 Deacon. 
 
 The innocent gambling that churches allow. 
 
 Don't hurt the child, and helps the church now, - 
 
 It teaches them more: (don't take them from God) 
 
 Than threading the needle or tilling the sod. 
 
 It edges them better to cut out the weeds. 
 
 That stand in the way of advancement and creeds. 
 
 Heretic. 
 
 Yes ! But spare the child, if you spare nothing more, 
 
 Don't drive it in darkness away from the shore. 
 
 There are breakers ahead, and it may not find. 
 
 Its way back to shore if it leaves it behind. 
 
 When you preach, and you reach, for God and not gold, 
 
 Open your gate and I'll enter your fold. 
 
 50 
 
MOVE ON. 
 
 Move on, and do not heed the growl, 
 Of those that say the world is foul, 
 And false and wicked, that virtue's belt 
 Is seldom found on hearts that melt. 
 But only on hearts that's hard and cold 
 To love's request or charms of gold. 
 
 Move on, keep in the world's smiles, 
 And join its pleasures and its styles. 
 Taste its glory, and drop a tear. 
 For those that lost through love or fear. 
 Their place in honor or virtue's ranks. 
 By wrongful deeds or foolish pranks. 
 
 Move on, and if the girls and boys 
 Smash laws like rejected toys. 
 And turns the proper upside down 
 And hunts the fields and runs the town. 
 You done the same — ^don't growl, regret 
 Because you can't play hookey yet. 
 
 Move on, the judge may turn his spear, 
 From helpless wrong or woman's tear, 
 From careless crime or helpless shame, 
 From those that law can never tame. 
 The judge that don't would turn to hell, 
 A soul that God made none too well. 
 
 51 
 
STAND ON THE CORNER. 
 
 Stand on the corner, see the crowds pass, 
 
 Size them up, right from the sage to the ass. 
 
 The sights that you see will pucker your eyes, 
 
 Fill them with pictures, of follies and lies, 
 
 Of hope and despair, virtue and shame 
 
 And crimes ; for which churches and courts are to blame. 
 
 The mighty man passes ; he treads on the pave,^ 
 As if he's exempt from the law and the grave. 
 He strokes down his vest with a hand hard and white, 
 From his clear eye darts, a streak of cold light, 
 That is cast from a brain that is bigger than— well ! 
 All powerful Gods; or the devils in hell. 
 
 Another strolls by, well groomed with a smile. 
 
 That all that. he passes remember awhile. 
 
 It's a sunbeam of hope, that breaks through the clouds. 
 
 That darkens the life of unfortoinate crowds, 
 
 That stand on the edge of the gutters ol life,. 
 
 Man, maiden, and child,, unfortunate, wife, 
 
 A dreamer drifts past, his clothes. like his. dreams. 
 Held loosely together by frail. puckered seams. 
 He passes through crowds that he doesn't see, 
 And whispers to idols, as foolish as„he. 
 That draw wonders out; from wonderland known. 
 Only to dreamers, with brains Uke.his own. 
 
 A coudIc swings around the corner, I know, 
 
 That she is a sweetheart and he is a beau. 
 
 They are all smiles and nods, make signs with the hand. 
 
 That all beaus and sweethearts make and understand. 
 
 Devotion nods low, and eye flashes love, 
 
 He is her eagle — and she his coo-dove. 
 
 ^2 
 
A couple plods past, contracted for life, 
 
 To be a true husband, and be a true wife, 
 
 He looks to the north, she looks to the south, 
 
 Cool, scanty words pass from each mouth, 
 
 The flash of the eye, is a flash of disdain, 
 
 The hand moves unwilling — the foot moves with pain, 
 
 Now Polly trips past: she walks on her toes. 
 And why she won't fall; God and Polly knows. 
 I am sure they won't tell a scribbler like me. 
 Or the kid that ground out. Good, Golley ! and Gee ! 
 When Polly gets buckled to some man for good, 
 He will feel her steel heels, the way that he should. 
 
 Kids dart around ; chasing life to find out. 
 
 All that it has, and clear up the doubt. 
 
 That tangles their brains, and puzzles their hearts, 
 
 They want it— all now (don't want it in parts). 
 
 That life has to give to the good, bad the wise, 
 
 They are not hunting lessons; they are after the prize. 
 
 A cop swings along, and hits the pave hard. 
 He is not hunting crooks, just hunting his pard. 
 He seldom, finds crooks : his avoirdupois, 
 Scares them away with his lumbering noise; 
 All he can see is the size of his check, 
 And all he can feel is the pride in his neck. 
 
 Old men wander past, on their way to the grave, 
 With no life to squander ; and no life to save, 
 Still on theystumble, with death at their heels, 
 And hang on their crutches to look at the reels. 
 What can this all mean? Life's tangled up rolls 
 Is reeling off life from undying souls. 
 
 53 
 
HE KNOWS IT! 
 
 He knows it all, and you should know why. 
 Just look at the shape of his head and his eye. 
 If you have good sight, you see very plain 
 His head is shaped like a cup to shed the rain. 
 
 He knows it all and he tells you so, 
 If you don't believe him, then you are his foe. 
 He turns on his gas to smother your notion, 
 And spews out his gall to put it in motion. 
 
 You will have to believe his politics right, 
 
 Or whether a man is a sage when he's tight. 
 
 Or whether a man is contented when dry, 
 
 And how he should live and how he should die. 
 
 What kind of socks it is best for to wear. 
 He can tell you the very best cut for your hair. 
 And whether a bunion and corn are twins, 
 And whether your body compares with 3mur pins. 
 
 If the papers don't print the way that he thinks. 
 Their editors are all cheap pin-headed jinks. 
 The wind that don't blov/, the sun that don't shine 
 The way that he likes, brings a growl and a whine. 
 
 Your religion is foolish, it is wicked and rough, 
 He knows just what God will do with a tough. 
 It matters not what the Bible will teach, 
 The only right way is the way he will preach. 
 
 God done very well when He made the world. 
 
 But since He His knowledge to the public unfurled, 
 
 It has drawn to its fold people that do 
 
 A great many good things that God never knew. 
 
 And when they go up to Heaven they'll bring 
 Their knowledge to God and make heaven ring 
 With reforms needed. Call God on the mat 
 And make Him do this and make Him do that. 
 
 54 
 
PADDY BLAKE 
 
 Oh, put it there, my hearty. 
 
 It's the hand of Paddy Blake, 
 
 It's a hand that won't forsake you. 
 If your heart with troubles quake. 
 
 There are no rings upon it. 
 And maybe it's not clane, 
 
 But the dirt you see upon it. 
 
 Won't give your soul a stain. 
 
 Oh, put it there, my hearty, 
 
 My heart is in my 'hand. 
 But that's a fault you'll always find. 
 
 With boys from Paddy's land. 
 
 If trouble comes upon you. 
 
 Or sorrow drags you down, 
 
 Or your nearest friend forsakes you. 
 Or your dearest growl and frown. 
 
 If black clouds rise and smother, 
 Your sun of love and joy, 
 
 A hearty hand can help you, 
 Of a dacent Irish boy. 
 
 :€ '^: w. '^ 
 
 SERGEANT TIM. 
 
 On through the mud dirty torrent 
 
 They splashed like wolves by battle shorn. 
 
 A brave, laughing, merry bunch 
 
 That has the grit to give a punch. 
 
 vSergeant Tim, a husky lad, 
 
 Said, ''hold on Fritz," you'll do by dad. 
 
 To put in a picture show, 
 
 35 
 
Maybe down in hell below, , 
 
 When the kaiser takes 'the place. 
 
 From the devil that ke'll chase, 
 
 Away from hell, when he gets in. 
 
 Hould fast, I have ye by the shinn. 
 
 And it's the hoath of my desire 
 
 To help ye — no, I'm not a liar. 
 
 But Holey Father, b ys don't laugh, 
 
 I can carry the German calf. 
 
 He is no heavier than a pup, 
 
 But, I believe he got mixed up 
 
 With boloneys, limburger, sauer-kraut, 
 
 I am afraid he'll bust my snout. 
 
 The gas that comes from Fritzies shell, 
 
 I stand all right, but this is Hell. 
 
 ''Ye want him for mascot?" No! 
 
 I think he'll be a better go, 
 
 To chase cooties from the camp. 
 
 If he don't join with them the scamp, 
 
 To drive our boys away from France, 
 
 Raking down Saint Anthony's dance. 
 
 *'Is that a prisoner? For the love of Mike," 
 
 If I were you, my gun I'd spike, 
 
 Before I'd turn it on Fritz 
 
 That can wear a tom cat's mit. 
 
 The devil a glory I claim at all, 
 
 Upon my shoulder I let him crawl, 
 
 To' keep him out of holes and slime. 
 
 Now, Fritz jump down, yee had yeer time. 
 
 Maybe I can cash yee in, 
 
 To the Colonel for some gin. 
 
 My kidneys got mixed up with mud, 
 
 That is not good for Irish blood. 
 
 God bless France, her wine is free. 
 
 And heart to, men like you and me, 
 
 That come with hearts and guns galore, 
 
 To drive away the German boar, 
 
 56 
 
That drives his tusks in heart and soul, 
 Wherever he goes from pool to pool. 
 The kids we left behind may stray, 
 And maybe no't the proper way, 
 But ready hearts will turn them right, 
 That know their fathers came to fight, 
 With men, that left their kids behind 
 To fight for kids just like our kind. 
 I carried Fritz, for yee not Fritz, 
 I will sell him to the drys or wets. 
 The highest bidder gets the krout, 
 Yer sergeant knows what he's about. 
 
 ^: ^ '0. '^ 
 
 DICK AND PAT. 
 
 Pat ; bother your blarney, you work it too strong, 
 You were always a rebel and sounding your gong 
 About your Green Island, the gem of the sea; 
 Its rights and its wrongs ; say, isnt it free 
 To do right and stay right, if it only would. 
 It has liberty enough ; for its own good. 
 
 Pat 
 
 Faith if ye spake the truth, Paddy dont know, 
 What you fought for and got a short time ago. 
 Ye kicked over the traces that makes Paddy fret — 
 Yee threw over the tay, that keeps Pat in debt, 
 And Paddy was there to give yee a lift, 
 And never complained when he worked double shift. 
 
 Dick. 
 
 Paddy, of course, you were spoiling for fight, 
 
 You helped us throw over the boxes alright. 
 
 But you were only a hand, did not boss the job. 
 
 You were only a kernel, you were not the whole cob. 
 
 Now tell me straight, come be on the level. 
 
 If Ireland were free wouldn't it go to the devil? 
 
 57 
 
Pat. 
 
 Go to the devil. It dont have to go, 
 
 Its there now alright ; the newspapers show, 
 
 Where yee were until Pat helped yee pull out. 
 
 Wherever yee struck, Pat was there with his clout. 
 
 Some Pats bossed the jobs, that served yee right well, 
 
 Montgomery bossed one, until dying he fell. 
 
 Dick. 
 
 Paddy be asey — be good — quiet down, 
 You can be an Emerald in Great Britains crown, - 
 Surrounded by jewels from all lands on earth. 
 You burn in the fires you build on your hearth, 
 Liberty is only a name — ^Paddy, shure. 
 Washington won it but gained nothing more. 
 
 Pat. 
 
 Fd agree with yee thare, but I can't, God forbid, 
 
 Me calling it wrong; whatever George did. 
 
 The ink that he spread ; for Paddies recate. 
 
 Can't be erased with the juice of a beet. 
 
 The words that he spoke was : Ireland's son 
 
 Was the kingpin in the buggy George Washington run, 
 
 ^ :^: ^: :^: 
 FRANK AND MIKE. 
 
 Frank was a man with good strong arms. 
 Not over blessed with manly charms. 
 But he had a happy face and smile, 
 That he brought from the Emerald Isle. 
 Made gardens, planted trees and flowers. 
 On holidays and days with show^ers. 
 He took a drop and something more, • 
 And got as happy as kings of yore. 
 He played with kids and never cranked. 
 Had a home and money banked. 
 But never drew a cent to buy, 
 A drop or two when he got dry. 
 
 58 
 
Mike was a miller, a good one too, 
 
 He loved a drop of brewer's brew, 
 
 And when he got upon a tear. 
 
 His temper was not over fair. 
 
 Would spend the last cent that he had. 
 
 And when he got strapped was fighting mad. 
 
 Frank and Mike, got on a spree. 
 
 And were as happy as lords could be, 
 
 But soon their money disappeared, 
 
 Frank smiled ; Michael frowned and sneered. 
 
 Frank scratched his head ; and whispered Mike ! 
 
 I have it, we can make a strike. 
 
 Old Schneider wants a wall of bricks, 
 
 I asked the job, bmt he said nix, 
 
 You vos all right mit spade un picks, 
 
 Mit trowl un mortar you vos nix. 
 
 Frank get a mason, you vos no good, 
 
 It must be made devay it should, 
 
 De vail I fix mit ; for mine vines. 
 
 No monkey work ! I make good wines, 
 
 You find sum man dat know de trowl, 
 
 You tend him ; go mit nix for growl. 
 
 Now Mike we go and take the job, 
 
 You are a mason, yes — by-gob, 
 
 ril tell you how to do it right. 
 
 And we will make it out of sight, 
 
 Old Schneider has a right good bar. 
 
 We get our drinks, if not a jarr. 
 
 We take the job, said Mike, you steer, 
 
 Fd build a wall in hell for beer! 
 
 We start now^ and go right there 
 
 He never seen me on a tear. 
 
 Or seen me any way at all. 
 
 They went to Schneider, Irish gall, 
 
 And wit made Schneider an easy fall. 
 
 They got their drinks and went to work, 
 
 Mike work fast — Frank would shirk, 
 
 59 
 
Now and then they wet their whistles, 
 
 With whiskey straight, or lager sizzles. 
 
 It v/as early when they got the job, 
 
 Schneider's head through the door would bob 
 
 To see his arbor end go up, 
 
 Call Mike and Frank to have a sup, 
 
 And tell them that their work was fine, 
 
 Whisk e}^ straight I'll take for mine. 
 
 They both would say— their voices wobbled, 
 
 Like jacks on pasture tightly hobbled. 
 
 They kept their pins without a stagger, 
 
 Frank was cautious — -Mike no bragger. 
 
 Noon come; then they went to dinner, 
 
 Came back and started, like new beginner. 
 
 And worked and loafed on Schneider's wall, 
 
 It elbow^ed some — the divel a fall, 
 
 Frank said ,when Mike said tisn't right, 
 
 A right good wall ; It's out of sight, 
 
 'Twill soon be see^it's eight foot high ! 
 
 Let's go and wet, I'm getting dry. 
 
 They wet, and wet, and raised the bricks, 
 
 Made a scaffold of some boards and sticks, 
 
 The wall commenced to take, a lean, 
 
 Nay yous (Frank blurted out Scotch) I ween, 
 
 We bether gang away fra here. 
 
 Go get a drink of cooling beer. 
 
 Tell Schneider that we worked our best. 
 
 That we go home and take a rest, 
 
 And take a bottle and some pay, 
 
 Tomorrow we come, at the break of day, 
 
 And finish it before we quit. 
 
 All right, said Michael— that's a fit. 
 
 With handkerchiefs already wet. 
 
 They brushed away their whiskey sweat, 
 
 And walked into the bar, Frank said, 
 
 I have a bad pain in my head, 
 
 Tomorrow we come before the sun, 
 
 60 
 
Tomorrow noon the jo'b is done, 
 
 A bottle a piece and half our pay, 
 
 Schneider ! Is all we ask today, 
 
 Schneider said, well, boys, dot's all right, 
 
 Go on home un rest mit good tonight. 
 
 Two dollars apiece slapped on the bar, 
 
 Two bottles filled from his best jar. 
 
 Brought thanks and smiles, from Mike and Frank, 
 
 That whispered Schneider! you're no crank. 
 
 They moved off, opened and closed the door, 
 
 Frank whispered, Schneider will soon be sore. 
 
 Schneider wiped the bar und smiled. 
 
 And said dem men vos Irish styled, 
 
 Irish — ben alright; now un den, 
 
 Un do good yobs like ditchermen, 
 
 He said I think I gon un seen, 
 
 Vot mine vail looks mit, vot it been. 
 
 He opened the door, said — dam for hell ! 
 
 Dot vail was flat ; dot vail vos fell ! 
 
 He shot out like a hornet teased, 
 
 Or like a bullet, patched and greased, 
 
 Clinched his fist and shook it like, 
 
 He'd like to land on Frank and Mike. 
 
 rU broke dere nose dey vos tooi gay! 
 
 I gifes dem whiskey, beer un pay ! 
 
 Day gifes me vail flat on de ground ! 
 
 No Irisher's more comes my vay round, 
 
 Mit any time : dey vos nix for nix. 
 
 So sure as hell, I make dem fix ! 
 
 Rightaway ; go mit to de squire, 
 
 Un tell him dey vos thieves un liars. 
 
 And straight he went, and made his charge, 
 The squire was lazy, fat and large. 
 He listened tO' Schneider, sent a note. 
 To town marshal — put on your coat. 
 The note read: Bring in Mike and Frank, 
 
 61 
 
Bring them in — and with a yank. 
 The marshal clutch, said I got busy ! 
 Dem Irisher's find, I vos nO' Lizzy. 
 (Dutch will stick to dutch as shure, 
 A.S a dog will guard his master's door.) 
 Mike and Frank, were easy found, 
 About half cocked, wandering around, 
 Frank winked at Mike — said don't get gay, 
 The law 3^ou know must have its way. 
 The marshal brought them to the squire 
 V/ho said the charge is thieves and liars. 
 How do you plead — guilty never, 
 Frank said without a sigh or shiver. 
 (The town was small, no lawyer lied, 
 Before the squire, when a case was tried.) 
 The squire said, Schneider, state your case, 
 Frank and Mike, your charge must face. 
 Schneider said. Squire, I buy some bricks, 
 Un sand , un lime, a vail to fix, 
 Mit for mine vines, un at mine house, 
 Day make the vail un it go souse, 
 I pay two dollars a piece un beer, 
 Un whiskey good day got some here, 
 Dey beat me dem Irish tricks. 
 Dot's, all Squire, make dem fix. 
 
 Answer the charge, the squire said, 
 
 Frank or Mike, that Schneider made. 
 
 This way I answer the charge, said Frank, 
 
 It v/as not us, but the whisky drank. 
 
 That threw^ the wall — ^then with a yank, 
 
 He pulled his bottle from his pocket, 
 
 And there's the proof — now Schneider knocket. 
 
 The wall we'd make, and make it right, 
 
 But Schneider whiskey made us tite, 
 
 Schneider whiskey threw the wall, 
 
 I have nothing more to say at all. 
 
 62 
 
Frank answer, and do just as I say, 
 Give me no blarney, don't get gay, 
 Your bottle is empty? Yes, your honor, 
 Mike has some — but mine's a goner, 
 Mike have you whiskey? I don't know, 
 Maybe I have a drink or so, 
 Here it is — a drink for me. 
 And Frank — that will end our spree. 
 
 Schneider, is that whiskey yours, 
 Yah, un betterish, good and pures. 
 Frank did Schneider call you to drink, 
 Faith he did, with a nod and wink. 
 Whenever his head bo'bbed through the door, 
 Mike whispered, we are good for another shure. 
 
 The squire nodded his wise head. 
 
 Studied awhile and then he said, 
 
 Schneider, you have the closing plea ! 
 
 Be fair with Frank and Mike and me. 
 
 Yah ! Yah ! said Schneider, you been alright. 
 
 Day sleeps mit prison walls tonight. 
 
 Dem Irisher's drink mine whiskey, beer, 
 
 Un souse mine vail un lie me here, 
 
 Dey take mine money, break mine bricks, 
 
 Un make mine lime so good for nix. 
 
 Squire, I knowed you good plain see. 
 
 How dey make monkey work mit me. 
 
 I wish, all Irish man's gone dead! 
 
 Nothing more I gon to said. 
 
 I decide the case for the defense — 
 Schneider, you pay the court's expense. 
 Pay Frank and Mike their full day's pay, 
 It was you're whiskey made them gay. 
 Frank and Mike, each get two dollars, 
 To figure their due, don't need good scholars. 
 
 63 
 
What is it Frank? Four dollars all. 
 (May Heaven's blessings on you fall!) 
 T?he cost of court is thirty-three, 
 Ten to the marshal, the rest to me. 
 Time and costs is thirt3-seven, 
 Plaintiff pays, defense forgiven. 
 Schnieder, you pay the money quick, 
 Or ; I will add enough to make you sick. 
 Schneider paid the money down, 
 Frank and Mike took in the town, 
 Blessed the squire for deciding right, 
 And when they went to bed that night, 
 I know they prayed for the honest squire ! 
 If 1 misstate — Frank you're a liar ! 
 
 I CAN^T UNDERSTAND/ 
 
 I can't understand, what they teach us at schools, 
 If the teacher makes wisdom, then God made us fools, 
 I can't understand, I will when I grow, 
 What makes the tide come, flood, fall arid go. 
 
 I can't understand why grass grows to die, 
 Why flowers bud, bloom- and wither, or why 
 The leaves and the bark drops from the trees, 
 Or hornets and wasps' wasn't made honey bees. 
 
 I can't understand, why the beautifulsnow, 
 Isn't made warm, to make berries grow, 
 I can't understand, why thorns' are made 
 To tear off our clothes and make us afraid. 
 
 I can't understand, why the witid ifotn the south, 
 Is made warm and nice, to entei* otir mouth. 
 Or why the north wind just freezes our lips. 
 Makes blizzards on prairies and storms for ships. 
 
 64 • 
 
I can't understand why Bossy gives milk, 
 For babies that's bundled in laces and silk. 
 And don't give her milk for babies that's dressed, 
 In dresses and things that's none of the best. 
 
 And the one thing that gets me, a thing I detest, 
 Why roosters boss hens that lay eggs of the best 
 And he only just crowds, and has feathers fine, 
 And eats all the good things vv^herever they dine. 
 
 I can't understand, w^hat a sweetheart or beaux. 
 
 Can think of each other with glory in tow. 
 
 That is dressed up in badges and bloomers and things, 
 
 Their tongues are too big, their kisses have stings. 
 
 I can't understand, I'm only just ten, 
 
 Why women are fighting to vote with the men. 
 
 If I was a man, I wouldn't marry, 
 
 A girl with brains that a man couldn't carry. 
 
 '^ '0. :^: :^ 
 "TOM AND JOE." 
 
 Tom and Joe were always one. 
 
 In all they said and all they done, 
 
 They parted only to sleep and eat. 
 
 Joined brains and hearts, and hands and feet, 
 
 And eyes and arms in all their strolls. 
 
 That always didn't help their souls. 
 
 Peaches, apples and cherries, well, 
 
 Just how they got them, I won't tell. 
 
 But when they didn't get their share, 
 
 That year the fruit trees didn't bear. 
 
 The melons, berries and grapes they got. 
 
 Made many a deacon swearing hot. 
 
 Bad, well yes? but none could prove, 
 
 65 
 
That Tom amd Joe ran from tfie groove. 
 
 That carries boys to Soodaj school, 
 
 That makes them either saint or fooL 
 
 The old red school house where they went. 
 
 To learn how to make a dent. 
 
 Upon the age that gave them life. 
 
 Win glory — ^and a scolding wife. 
 
 Showed many deep cut wobbling scenes. 
 
 Of Jack-knives carried in their jeans. 
 
 And when the class was called to show. 
 
 What they had learned or didn't know ; 
 
 Joe was the captain, Tom the tail ; 
 
 Joe was the eag-le, Tom the quaail. ^ 
 
 Joe got the riblbons, Tom the male, 
 
 Joe was a Cato, Tom a iool. 
 
 Buat when the sch-oolhoiase rickety d(Oor, 
 
 Slammed open and children throngh it tore, 
 
 Tom and Joe shot onjut together, 
 
 Throngh field and forest, mountain heather. 
 
 They went Eke bees that gather honey. 
 
 Or hornets that don'^t worik so fanny. 
 
 In mill pond, river, babbling brook, 
 
 Thej threw their bodies, line and hook. 
 
 Or hooked a boat and had a row. 
 
 Where bad or good boys shouald not go. 
 
 Upon the river, on the tide. 
 
 When breakers stronger arms deGed, 
 
 Tom woiiked the €^^irs^ and Joe the brains. 
 
 That brought them tromMe, frowns and stains. 
 
 Joe cast the line, Tona pnllced it ont, 
 
 Joe set the time and plamned the romte, 
 
 Joe led the dhase, To-m alw^ays lagged. 
 
 Worn ont, coimpletel j Sagged, 
 
 When chased' for deeds they shonld mot ^i^Oy, 
 
 WMch God forgave them, wsls not few, 
 
 Joe forged ahead,, Tom chaniged his (DOtDURse, 
 
 Had lost his Ibreatth, Ms legs their force. 
 
But when he drew the chase from Joe, 
 He shoAved them just liow Tom could go. 
 To carry things all boys get when 
 They don't wear didies, are not men. 
 But only boys just on the tramp, 
 To pass the lines of manhood camp. 
 
 A canny Scott, well fixed with berries, 
 
 And great big, luscious oxheart cherries. 
 
 Thought Tom and Joe were in his trees, 
 
 And said, Fm fra the land o' Tees, 
 
 I'll gang and if I find them there. 
 
 Their w^orthless puckering hides 111 tear, 
 
 Tom and Joe seen Scotty come. 
 
 It didn't make them sick or dumb, 
 
 La3^ low! Tom whispered, don't stir a leaf. 
 
 The canny Scott Fll bring to griel 
 
 Tom flattened out upon a limb. 
 
 As big as Tom, for Tom was slim. 
 
 The Scott, to get a better look 
 
 Came to the tree with crouch and crook, 
 
 Tom dropped an unexpected hit, 
 
 Where Scottie's coat tail swelled and split, 
 
 Scottie's nose went to the tree, 
 
 And barked them both, Tom shook free, 
 
 Scottie grabbed but did not catch, 
 
 Tom tore through a melon patch. 
 
 Thus Scottie opened up his vent. 
 
 Fray hell he''s made, fur hell he's bent, 
 
 Tam the be and impish Dele 
 
 And slippery as a wiggling eel. 
 
 He tripped upon a water melon. 
 
 Got up foaming, staggering, yelling, 
 
 Dropped dune, me coat tail's ruffling rags. 
 
 He bruised my lips and shook my snags. 
 
 Dropped dune, behind and drove me fore 
 
 Mon ; mon ; my nose wor cruel sore. 
 
 With thickening breath and passions blind, 
 
 6F 
 
He said in hell you can na find, 
 
 An imp sa wicked, the Dele hisself, 
 
 Is no so bad as that wild elf.. 
 
 Stones and clods joined in the race, 
 
 With words a grammar would disgrace. 
 
 All fell short except the words, 
 
 That awoke the squirrels and the birds. 
 
 Stones tore through vines, Tom didn't care, 
 
 For Scottie's overheated air, 
 
 Tom darted through a thick tall bush, 
 
 Where Scottie couldn't even push, 
 
 Soon Scottie murdering English past, 
 
 Breathing hard and sputtering fast, ' . 
 
 Tom laid low when all was still, 
 
 Got up and whistled whip-poor-will. 
 
 Whip-poor-will, came short and clear. 
 
 From Scottie's cherry trees so dear, 
 
 Tom climbed to Joe, up in the limbs. 
 
 He left to please good Scottie's whims. 
 
 They filled themselves with cherries, fun, 
 
 The same old way they often done. 
 
 Went home and slept, like boys that win, 
 
 Better reward than lumps of sin. 
 
 I'm not the Tom, my Joe the Joe, 
 
 That treated honest Scottie so. 
 
 Toms and Joes grow up like weeds, 
 
 And Toms and Joes grow from their seeds. 
 
 Weeds plucked out will soften earth. 
 
 For better things that is more worth. 
 
 Water that turns the wheels in mills. 
 
 Comes from rough and rugged hills. 
 
 And if there were no awful sinners, 
 
 No church we'd need, to teach good manners, 
 
 I don't think God will turn down. 
 
 As deacons do in their home town, 
 
 Wild 'boys that pleasure leads astray, 
 
 That's half-way good and half-way gay. 
 
 68 
 
I and my Joe, was bad enouo-h, 
 Reckless, roving, wild and, tough. 
 But Sundays ; we attended mass, 
 Joined with the communion class. 
 And never kicked across a trace, 
 When hitched up to a proper place. 
 But when unhitched, and done our stunt, 
 Joe was not always at the front. 
 When deacons called for volunteers. 
 For presidents, or Christian peers, 
 Tom always ready follow^ed Joe, 
 Joe followed Tom and so and so. 
 
 Full fifty years have passed since I, 
 
 Bid Joe a broken last good-by. 
 
 I joined the army that hunted gold, 
 
 Where mountain torrents hissed and rolled, 
 
 I mustered in the ranks that broke. 
 
 The hostile Indians' bloody yoke, 
 
 That came from the Pacific shore. 
 
 To where Missouri's waters pour. 
 
 When civilization's foremost ranks. 
 
 Stood trembling on Missouri's banks. 
 
 With paper bullets and spy glass. 
 
 Big scientific bags of gas. 
 
 Compass, chart and cowboy men. 
 
 That tell of Sioux they slaughtered when, 
 
 They drove up beeves for mountain man, 
 
 That won the wxst wMth pick and pan. 
 
 Joe, many a stronger hand I've grasped, 
 And many a fairer hand I've clasped. 
 And many a firmer hand I've found. 
 And woman's smile I've followed around. 
 And many a brave and timely deed. 
 Brought hope and help in time of need. 
 Trails I have followed, crossed and made, 
 Where white pappoose had never played. 
 
Some were broke by peak and flood. 
 
 And some were stained with human blood. 
 
 But when I cross the great Divide, 
 
 I will find your trail on the other side. 
 
 Or you find mine, if I go first. 
 
 You were not bad, I, not the worse. 
 
 For in that spirit land unknown, 
 
 Tom or Joe can't go alone. 
 
 COLUMBIA STAND FIRM. 
 
 Columbia stand firm, there is sand on your claws. 
 That has drifted from where the devil makes la\vs. 
 It is stained with the rust of slavery's chains 
 That was forged in the flames af tyranny'^s brains. 
 Stand firm ; on liberty's hard, firm rock. 
 And tnot on the sand of the incoming flock, 
 (Outcast from countries that never give homes. 
 Where content is a stranger, where peace never roams.) 
 If you raise on the sand that covers your feet. 
 It will drift; and you fall in its sickening deceit^ 
 That has leveled empires, as low as the crew. 
 That feasted on them and will feast on you. 
 And gorge their greed, and make you a name. 
 Well fitted to place on the records of shame. 
 Reptiles breed reptiles and poison fumes meet, 
 In holes in the rock that is under your feet. 
 Serpents surround you that crawl from the holes. 
 And drive their fangs deep in poor helpless souls. 
 Throw off the sand that covers your toes. 
 Drag from their holes your own native foes. 
 That shame cannot bh'ster, that honor can't tame. 
 That greed or deceit can't torment or pain. 
 That cares not for country, that doesn't fear God, 
 That works the devil's rules, and handles his rod. 
 Your feathers are scorched — Fate dips its pen. 
 To write on Time's records — a failure again, 
 
 70 
 
THE MISSOURI. 
 
 You spring^ from the mountains like a g:iant and fall. 
 
 In the Father of Waters that harks to the call. 
 
 Of the peaks where the eagle nests over the clouds. 
 
 And the sea, where the sea gull rests in the shrouds. 
 
 You spring- from the rivers that mountain springs feed. 
 And wash the roots of the sea grass and reed, 
 That grow where the Father of Waters sweeps past, 
 The mountain's pine roots and the sea's leaning mast. 
 
 You spring from the mountains that give the deer breath. 
 Where mountain sheep leaps from cliffs to their death. 
 When chased by the cougar to death and dispair. 
 You are kissed by the lips of the wolf and the bear. 
 
 You roll from the torrents that wash granite hills, 
 And toss their white foam through gold belted hills. 
 The hot beds that grow the arms that rules 
 Glory and greed, sag*e, soldier and fools. 
 
 You dash from the clouds that man can't control. 
 That waters the ridges, reefs, valleys, and roll 
 High over the world, low under the sun, 
 Your race never ends, 3 our task's never done. 
 
 71 
 
THE SUNBEAMS OF SUNRISE 
 
 The sunbeams of sunrise that smother, 
 
 The retiring shadows of night, 
 Light up the tops of the mountains, 
 
 Before the low lowlands get light. 
 
 The grizzly and wolf leave their cover. 
 The deer and the elk leave their beds, 
 
 The skylark and eagle fly over, 
 
 The beautiful snow on their heads. 
 
 Pure crystal streams from the snowcaps. 
 
 Leap down into torrents below, 
 That throw out a jumble of rainbows 
 
 To crown the wild waters below. 
 
 The wild mountain flower that blossoms. 
 
 And the lillies that are drenched with the spray 
 
 Of the brightest and purest of waters. 
 
 Kiss the first glorious sunbeams of day 
 
 n 
 
CALIFORNIA, 
 
 The waves that wash your golden shores, 
 Like bridal veil joins sea and sand 
 
 And covers precious golden stores 
 
 That's not yet touched by human hand. 
 
 Mount Whitney wears the mountain crown, 
 Tamalpias ; shadows fall across, 
 
 The Golden Gate when the sun goes down 
 Its rolling waves and eddie's moss. 
 
 And with the tide that bears them here, 
 To wash the sand upon your shore. 
 
 They wander off and disappear, 
 
 Like dreams, to play at China's door. 
 
 The eye can rest on fruit and vines. 
 That only grow on golden sod , 
 
 Your eagles rest on peaks and pines. 
 The fairest ever made by God. 
 
 Your grizzly, deer, and lion beds, 
 
 On richer beds than queens and kings. 
 
 And from your red woods, song birds' heads, 
 Dart out , and raise their beaks and sings. 
 
 n 
 
GIVE THIS WILD BRONCHO. 
 
 Oh give this wild broncho a place at the show^ 
 
 I don't ask for a stall or a ribbon, you know. 
 
 Give me an old place inside of the fence, 
 
 I will be little trouble and little expense. 
 
 I will pick np my feed as I do on the plains, 
 
 Where a horse gets his feed with his mnscle and brains. 
 
 I get you, yotir beef, the windy cow punch, 
 
 Jtxst sit on tny back and give me a hunch ; 
 
 Before the punch came with his cows and his calves, 
 
 I run with a bunch that did nothing by halves. 
 
 The warrior's dart and the warrior's spear. 
 
 Went straight from mj back through the grizzly and deer. 
 
 Through the buffalo and wolf, mountain lion and all. 
 
 That the warrior killed when I answered his call. 
 
 The warrior's spear and the warrior's dart. 
 
 Went straight from my back through his enemy's heart. 
 
 The war cry that echoed from the sod to the cloud, 
 
 Made the broncho and warrior fearless and proud. 
 
 The death cry that quivered along our trail. 
 
 Made neither the broncho nor warrior quail. 
 
 As bright as a sunbeam, as h'ght as a cloud. 
 The Indian maid rode me, happy and proud. 
 Her moccasined foot that patted my flanks, 
 I answered before she had time to say, ''Thanks.'' 
 My mane brushed her face and the beads on her breast. 
 When she crouched low and whispered, now Pungo* 
 your best 
 
 The white hunter came, brave, fearless and bold. 
 And took from the warrior his country and gold. 
 The white hunter came — cool, careless and proud. 
 The sun of the warrior set in a cloud. 
 The warrior passed, the Indian lives 
 
 Indian Name for Broncho. 
 
 74 
 
On food from the hand that he never forg^ives. 
 
 The warrior went, the gold hunter came, 
 
 I carried him on to riches and fame. 
 
 Mountains and valleys and canyons we trod. 
 
 That none ever seen but ourselves and our God. 
 
 And the game that God made, for the man that He made. 
 
 To mark out a trail for the man with the spade. 
 
 To mark out a trail for the man with the cow. 
 
 For the man with the ewe, and the man with the sow. 
 
 The Death Valley lizard has heard the death groan 
 
 Of the broncho that marked out his trail with his bones. 
 
 The Death Valley serpent has heard the death wail. 
 
 Of the man that found gold, but died on the trail. 
 
 Alas, times have changed, the low of the cow. 
 
 And the call of the puncher is all I hear now. 
 
 That roped me to drive up cattle to feed 
 
 Over trails that were made by a different breed.t 
 
 I came from old Spain my pedigree told, 
 
 Marks me high on the records of glory and gold, 
 
 I came with Cortez'^ ; Cortez without me 
 
 Would never again have looked on the sea, 
 
 We came from Castile, that bred game cocks that flew. 
 
 To countries unknown when the world was new. 
 
 We came from Toledo, that made swords that unrolled 
 
 The map of the world, and marked out its gold. 
 
 Blood tells in the miles and the deeds that we do. 
 
 And not in the size or the shape of the shoe. 
 
 Farewell, I know Til gtt nothing from you, 
 
 I get more from the blizzard I meet on the plain 
 
 That for you I plow through with muscle and brain. 
 
 t Prospectors from the Pacific coast opened up the West as 
 far as the Black Hills, South Dakota. The army followed up to 
 protect mining camps and settled the Indian question. Then the 
 cowboy came in with his cows which would have been killed 
 if they were driven into their country before the Indians 
 were subdued by prospectors and soldiers. The picture show 
 history of the West is all wrong. 
 
 * Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, brought the first horses 
 to the American continent. 
 
 75 
 
GOLD 
 
 Fancy calls me to the court 
 
 Where mortals come for drink and feed. 
 Where gold is got to wear and sport, 
 
 And gold is craved for every need. 
 
 Angels watch and guard the doors, 
 
 And whisper — 'Mo not take too much,'' 
 
 And saints call out, ''Mortals mind. 
 
 The more you crave, the more you touch." 
 
 They come with fingers nerved to clasp. 
 They come with eyes aflame with greed, 
 
 They come with hearts prepared to grasp — 
 More than all the world needs. 
 
 They come — they rush — the weak go down, 
 The more that fall — the higher goes 
 
 The crowd on top, that leaps and raves, 
 That neither love nor pity knows. 
 
 They claim, and grasp each other's share. 
 
 And trip, and gouge, and rise, and fall. 
 Their object never is obtained. 
 
 Because they cannot get it all. 
 • 
 The woeful moan of starving babes. 
 
 And sobs of dying mothers crushed 
 Calls no halt, on — on — they go, 
 
 Fighting, raving, pushing, pushed. 
 
 Nations build and break their thrones, 
 
 With golden hammers, dipped in blood. 
 
 And fight like greedy dogs with bones. 
 For gold to make their glory good. 
 
 76 V 
 
The cross of Christ is raised above, 
 
 The trails that lead to virgin gold,t 
 
 And over many crimes it breeds, 
 Heaven's banner is unrolled. 
 
 Virgin gold — the hearts you win 
 
 Will love you till they beat their last, 
 Blood stained goldt — the hearts you chain 
 
 Will hug their chains till life is passed. 
 
 LIGHT IS HER FOOT IN THE STIRRUP 
 
 Light is her foot on the stirrup 
 
 Light is her hand on the rein 
 And light is the heart of the girl 
 
 That rides over the mountain and plain. 
 
 The steed is proud of his rider. 
 
 The rider is proud of her steed, 
 The mountains and valleys that breed them 
 
 Are proud of the breed that they breed. 
 
 The steed is as fleet and light footed 
 
 As the deer that leaps through the hills. 
 
 The girl is as kind and light hearted 
 As the faw^n that leaps over their rills. 
 
 The breath from the nostrils commingle, 
 Their hearts keep time as they speed, 
 
 The broncho springs light v^ith his rider, 
 The rider sits light on her steed. 
 
 tGold Dust. 
 
 JGold in Circulation. 
 
 11 
 
They dart through the deepest of canyons 
 
 Like sunbeams darting through gloom. 
 They cross the highest of mountains 
 
 Where thunder clouds part and make room- 
 Through the froth and the roar of the torrent 
 
 That springs from mountains of snow 
 They dash and leave rainbows behind them 
 
 To drift to the valleys below- 
 
 The wolf and the grizzly find cover 
 
 Where the hoof of the broncho strikes sod 
 
 The eagle flies higher above her ^ 
 
 And nearer the foot-prints of God. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S TOWER* 
 
 When the devil was cast from Heaven and fell. 
 
 He did not go straight down to hell, 
 
 He dropped down crippled, badly beat. 
 
 But made a safe and good retreat. 
 
 Determined to make another stand. 
 
 He picked his ground and well he planned. 
 
 Where ^^Beare Lodge"! grips its granite toes. 
 
 In water dashed from mountain snows. 
 
 Between the mountain and plateau. 
 
 That only God and the devil knew. 
 
 The devil placed his crime stained ranks. 
 
 From Plateau Edge to ''Belle Fourch Banks/' 
 
 On the plateau he raised a tower. 
 
 Where he kept lookouts every hour. 
 
 *Iii the Little Missouri Ibiittcs at the north end of the Bear 
 'hodge Moiuntains 131 Wyomin^g; stands 22B feet high; is over 
 300 feet wide at the top. 
 $Beaire Lodge Mountains in Wyoming. 
 
 7S 
 
Prepared to meet the hosts of God, 
 
 On *'Belle Fourch Banks," and plateau sod. 
 
 On came the king- of earth and heaven. 
 
 Attacked the ranks of the unforgiven. 
 
 Lightning- tore the plateau asunder, 
 
 Encircled the devils' rank with thunder. 
 
 Burning comets, poison gas, 
 
 Dropped from the sky, from peak and pass, 
 
 Of Beare Lodge, rocks fell on the ranks, 
 
 That saints rolled down in Heaven's tanks. 
 
 Deep gashes broke the world's crust, 
 
 Down rolled hell's torn ranks in dusL 
 
 In fire, smoke and sulphur fume 
 
 With the devil, into eternal doom. 
 
 The tower stood the battle well. 
 
 Land slides closed the gaps to hell, 
 
 God's hands brushed them full of clay. 
 
 Pine trees grow in them today. 
 
 And flowers bloom where the deviFs host. 
 
 Dropped to hell to boil and roasL 
 
 And from that time until this hour, 
 
 A world wonder is the ''Devirs Tower." 
 
 m m m m 
 CUSTER MASSACRE. 
 
 Ah ! there's the village, the tirail is fresh. 
 To it, through it, around it dash. 
 Spare pappoose, old man and squaw. 
 Cut the warriors down like straw. 
 Reno comes up from the west. 
 We have them in their bloody nest, 
 The Seventh"'s swords and Custer's luck. 
 Forward! Forward! run amuck. 
 They dashed across the Little Horn, 
 Through underbrush and bottom thom, 
 
 79 
 
Only Indians ; yelping dogs 
 
 Showed fight from underbrush and logs, 
 
 Lodge forsaken, Indians fled, 
 
 Lodge fires quenched ; the ashes dead. 
 
 They run ! we camp upon their trail, 
 
 Custer's luck, will never fail, 
 
 There they are upon that ridge. 
 
 That looks like a battered wedge. 
 
 The ragged cliffs and brakes above, 
 
 Buzzard like: I don't much love, 
 
 Have resting holes where they can die, 
 
 Seventh charge, and they will fly. 
 
 We have the ridge, steady men, 
 
 And kill the devils in their den. 
 
 Bullets hiss and rifle smoke, 
 
 Answered the threat that Custer spoke. 
 
 War cries — death cries — groans and cheers, 
 
 Rifle fire — sabres — spears, 
 
 Indian taunts — soldiers' jeers, 
 
 Eyes moist with burning passion tears, 
 
 Blood stained warriors, bitter leers. 
 
 Soldiers defiant, laugh and sneers, 
 
 Tangle, roll, clutch and break. 
 
 Bodies fall ; and souls forsake. 
 
 The bravest breasts that ever beat, 
 
 Steady Seventh ! we can't retreat. 
 
 But we can die as soldiers should. 
 
 Stained with hostile Indian blood. 
 
 The smoke from Reno's rifles rise. 
 
 But the treacherous coward lies. 
 
 Concealed by underbrush and logs. 
 
 That he befouls like Indian's dogs. 
 
 His name will blister the page of fame. 
 
 That records the Seventh's glorious name. 
 
 Close up ! Stand firm ! Die giving death , 
 
 Clinch your teeth, grip you're breath. 
 
 Bite life back — ^hold it well, 
 
 80 
 
Roll more hostiles into hell. 
 Dra^ one with you when you die, 
 Meet death with a laup-hing eye. 
 
 Rain-in-the-Face ! You come with death, 
 I feel you^re burning, hissing- breath, 
 Fair haired chief ! I told you when. 
 You put me in you're prison den, 
 Rain-in-the-Face your life would take, 
 Mercy crave not ; hope forsake. 
 Mercy Custer never craved! 
 Death a thousand times I've braved, 
 I pay the debt, I made when pride, 
 Tore mercy trembling from my side, 
 And you stood helpless in my power. 
 That was my day, this is you're hour. 
 The Seventh was' my hope it's dead, 
 A bullet grazed the warrior's head. 
 Pierced Custer's fearless heart, he fell, 
 An angry shrill commanding yell ! 
 Darted from the warrior's tongue. 
 Stopped the hand of old and young, 
 That raised to mutilate the dead, 
 Rain-in-the-Face ! the warrior said 
 Makes a circle with his spear. 
 Around this White Chief lying here, 
 Cross it and Fll stop you^re breath, 
 Cross it and you step to death, 
 He was my foe; he fell a brave 
 He will fill a warrior's grave, 
 As fair as he is on this sod, 
 The Great Spirit and the white man's God 
 Wills it ; and I -speak their will, 
 When I strike! I strike to kill ! 
 The whirlwind of passion born, 
 Of Indian wrongs and Indian scorn, 
 Nerved the Indian: arm and heart, 
 
 '-81 
 
To deeds not on the devirs chart. 
 
 Choked by smoke and chased by fear, 
 
 Birds speed away like wolf and deer, 
 
 Through rifle smoke and powder fumes, 
 
 That blisters mountain buds and blooms, 
 
 The cougar springs out of his lair, 
 
 And speeds away with elk and bear, 
 
 In their tracks and in their flight, 
 
 Real horror eyed, then speed from sight, 
 
 Indians chant their weird songs. 
 
 Of Indian rights ; and Indian wrongs. 
 
 Of Indian battles won and lost, 
 
 Boast their gains ; bewail their cost, 
 
 But never a leer or scowl was cast. 
 
 On Custer ; the warrior glided past 
 
 With drooping plume and noiseless tread, 
 
 With faces averted from the dead. 
 
 His death brought victory to their race. 
 
 But sorrow chilled each warrior's face. 
 
 m m 
 
 THE WARRIOR'S WARNING 
 
 Warrior — 
 Death shadows your trail — the warrior wills 
 That gold hunter stop — I own the Black Hills ! 
 The Great Spirit gave it to me and my breed. 
 When the world was made. He planted my seed 
 In the hills and the canyons where wild flowers bloom, 
 With the graves of my kindred the Gold Hunter's tomb 
 Can never find place — only Indian fills 
 Graves in the beautiful Mystic Black Hills. 
 
 82 
 
Prospector — 
 
 Warrior, I do the will of my kind, 
 
 Their call is for gold — I answer it blind. 
 
 Death sharpens the knife that gold hunters hold, 
 
 To blaze out the trails to silver and gold. 
 
 Your war cries, and death cries, and warnings I hear, 
 
 But the}^ pass, like an eagle flies over a deer. 
 
 Warrior — 
 
 I know not 3^our gold, and I love not your kind. 
 Stop ! or a grave is all you will find. 
 The first sun that daw^ned on the mystic Black Hills, 
 Seen my camp fire smoke — seen me drink from its rills 
 The Great Spirit gave me a heart free from fear, 
 And an arm and hand to hurl the spean 
 
 Prospector — 
 Warrior! I pass — my work must be done. 
 Your camp fire smoke must not darken the sun 
 In the mystic Black Hills — your lodge must come down, 
 I fear not your spear — and I heed not your frown. 
 The warrior's lodge poles are standing on gold. 
 That white men have worshipped for ages untold. 
 
 Warrior — 
 Gold Hunter! I worship the Spirit that sleeps 
 Where no foot ever treads, where no eye ever peeps. 
 In the w^hispering cavet — breath its whisper — its death, 
 Breathe it! you breathe the great Spirit's breath. 
 Gold Hunter ! I pray to the Spirit that speaks, 
 From the Black Canyon shadows, from the cliffs and the 
 
 peaks. 
 That breaks the black clouds that lightnings unfold, 
 In the mystic Black Hills, I pray not to gold! 
 The Papoose and Indian Mother w^ll play 
 
 $ The Wind Cave in the Black Hills; ninety miles of subter- 
 ranean ways have been explored and the end is not yet found. 
 
 S3 
 
On the trails that mark the warrior's way. 
 
 And the Indian Maid will play in the rills, 
 
 On the sod and the peaks of the mystic Black Hills. 
 
 You die— ^and I die, on our blood-clotted trails, 
 
 Comes the cow and the sheep, and the men at their tails. 
 
 The gambler will come with his chips and his game. 
 
 Bad women will come, with their smiles and their shame. 
 
 Gold hunter, they kill off the buffalo and deer — 
 
 That follows the soldiers that follow you here. 
 
 The gold that you get they will take from your purse, 
 
 And the papoose I leave they will brand with a curse, 
 
 The warrior owns the peaks and the rills— 
 
 Every rnountain and river in the Mystic Black Hills ! 
 
 PrOsjpector Warrior— 
 
 ''Warrior— I pass r "Gold Hunter— you die !" 
 
 The gold hunter falls! The warrior's death cry, 
 
 Peals forth! another gold hunter goes by. 
 Pass, soldier and miner, and maid with a hood, 
 But your shoes will be stained with prospector's blood 
 Pass man with the cow, and the sheep they will stray 
 Over prospectors' graves that had no time to pray. 
 Pass man with the pen, pass man with the chart, 
 The prospector's brain, and the prospector's heart. 
 Made the first map of the Mystic Black Hills, 
 That pour but gold in bright yellow rills. 
 
 DEACWdOD IN ITS BUCKSKIN DAYS, 
 
 Come with me, and take a gaze 
 
 At Deadwood in its buckskin days. 
 
 The streets are lined with all the breeds 
 
 Of men and beasts, that make stampedes. 
 
 The patieAt bull, the mule jack. 
 
 All that can speed, or drag, or. pack. 
 
 Bawl and bray, bronchos buck, 
 
 Rear, and kick, and strike for luck. 
 
 84 
 
There she comes! Wild, brave and fair, 
 
 In beaded buckskin, and streaming hair, 
 
 Astride her sinewy bro'nchp proud, 
 
 That burns the earth, and dusts the crowd. 
 
 The bad is good, the best is bad, 
 
 Where men go gold and beauty mad. 
 
 Pet names, cheers and laughter rings 
 
 From lips of every human things. 
 
 For well they know her very worst 
 
 Is only love and pleasure thirst. 
 
 And well they know that Hell's hot fires 
 
 Is made for hypocrites and liars, 
 
 That squeeze the nations life and gold 
 
 In their slimy, sickening fold, 
 
 And not for people touched with sin, 
 
 That stains the clothes, but don't go in. 
 
 What i^ her name? It matters not 
 Where is her home? Vv(hy, that's forgot. 
 Where does she live? Where'er she wills. 
 She is loved by all, she loyes the hills 
 And all the noble- works O'f God 
 That ever grew or winged or trod. 
 The man that love has brought to life, 
 The woman that love has made a wife. 
 The happy mother who loyes her child 
 That God gave to her life and smiled. 
 The girl that s.^eks not heaven above, 
 That's lost in wild defiant love. 
 Wild? Why, yes, a little wild. 
 She is only just a gold camp child, 
 Such as God makes now^ and then, 
 To cheer the lives of mountain men. 
 What does she (Jo, when fever burns. 
 The souls from flesh — It stops, returns, 
 To lips she parts, that feels l),er breath, 
 Slie brings ba,ck soijls to life from, dearth. 
 
 85 
 
What is she called? That's easily told, 
 
 Sweetheart in the home of gold, 
 
 I don't know what she would be called, 
 
 Where grammar makes men slick and bald. 
 
 But Deadwood's grammar crop is short, 
 
 It always is where guns make sport. 
 
 But as your questions give me pain, 
 
 I say — good people call her Jane. 
 
 Good people here? You bet your dust, 
 
 Fat and happy, though somewhat mussed. 
 
 They get the scads, and keep them too. 
 
 Much better than common sinners do. 
 
 Pilgrims, from away down East, 
 
 Mix in and join the golden feast. 
 
 And slops around in smiles and shoes 
 
 That mountain men but seldom use, 
 
 And make so many guesses when 
 
 They guess they're right, they guess again. 
 
 And wobble around the gospel truth 
 
 Like flies around a naked youth. 
 
 And when a puff of sin or sport. 
 
 Slap their eyes, they laugh and snort. 
 
 And when they find a colorman, 
 
 They wink, and smile, and pan and pan. 
 
 And build their castles in the air. 
 
 On fancy's stilts, and stare and stare, 
 
 Until the color swells so big, 
 
 They think it's pay, and dig and digf. 
 
 And when their manly brows get wet. 
 
 With burning honest dirty sweat. 
 
 They wet their lips, and dry their face. 
 
 In Jack, or Tom, or Harry's place. 
 
 But soon they learn all the rules. 
 
 That make w^ell tempered mountain tools. 
 
 To get the gold that nations need. 
 
 To grow the flower and the weed. 
 
 86 
 
To make the ship, and pen, and fort, 
 For fighters that need such resort. 
 To get the diamonds, glory, love, 
 That smooths the road to heaven a'bove, 
 For nations' magnates, that ride like 
 Henven's annointed ; on the pike. 
 To bu}^ the booze, that makes the yell, 
 Joy riders give, that speed to hell. 
 
 Now we turn our eyes, and words, 
 
 To mountain men, and mountain birds, 
 
 That get the value for their dust , 
 
 In ribbons, diamonds, love and lust. 
 
 In powder, guns, and drinks, and smiles, 
 
 From many colors, kinds and styles. 
 
 Tall, tanned, sinewy mountaineers. 
 
 Seldom puff, or grin, or fears. 
 
 The road to Heaven, and to Hell, 
 
 They travel and they know them well. 
 
 They look ahead, not at the past, 
 
 And move along, and feast and fast. 
 
 When through mountains unexplored. 
 
 They look for gold that's in them stored. 
 
 When game is scarce, and water scant, 
 
 And thirsting horses droop and pant. 
 
 Feast, when they strike good pay that brings, 
 
 All but Heaven's required things. 
 
 They work and love, and fight and play. 
 
 No gloomy night, no cloudy day, 
 
 Can sap contentment from their life. 
 
 No child to worry for, no wife. 
 
 To fill their lives with joy or sorrow, 
 
 Or kiss today, or frown tomorrow. 
 
 They love the deer they kill and eat. 
 
 The bear they must kill when they meet, 
 
 They dance wnth reckless swing and twist, 
 
 Play faro wheel and sometimes whist. 
 
 87 
 
They waltz their partners to the bar 
 
 And seldom take a mild cigar, 
 
 Buckskin, jeans, canvass, cloth, 
 
 Mix with ribbons and lace, the froth 
 
 That covert the forms of female kind, 
 
 That deceive themselves and make men blind. 
 
 They love the hurdy girFs eyes. 
 
 That tips their glass, and laughs their lies. 
 
 And whispers Heaven knows just what. 
 
 To get the dust they haven't got. 
 
 They stand for all they take and give. 
 
 They know, the hurdy girl must live. 
 
 They know 'twas man that brought her here. 
 
 A father's sob, a mother's tear. 
 
 Is burning in her heart and brain, 
 
 They know her sorrow, feel her pain. 
 
 Birds of a feather, mountain birds, 
 
 Can tell their tales and not in words, 
 
 Brain speaks to brain, and heart to heart. 
 
 When tongues conceal the sorrow smart, 
 
 Of men that live on mountain air. 
 
 And girls that find their heaven there., 
 
 Their heaven is music, love and gold. 
 
 And all. pleasures fed in folly's fold. 
 
 The gold they get brings joy and tears. 
 
 And will, while time gives days and years. 
 
 It points the sin,, and prods the prayer. 
 
 And keeps virtue in its gilded chair. 
 
 Games run in every barroom, hall. 
 
 The devil wins, but don't take all, 
 
 Just when they're ripe, he slides them down. 
 
 But takes his time to cook them brow^n. 
 
 There is a wicked few he knows. 
 
 That in his hell, might pinch his toes, 
 
 Will plan to copper"^ every law, 
 
 *Break, 
 
He ever made to grind and thaw 
 
 The fat from souls that come his way. 
 
 He gives them rope and lets them stay, 
 
 Until compelled to take them in, 
 
 And then he puts them in a pen 
 
 Well guarded by another kind, 
 
 That he can trust aind always find. 
 
 That works his will ; that's sure to squeal 
 
 If his power they try to steal. 
 
 He finds soft jobs for all such suckers. 
 
 And makes them trusties, spies, not muckers. 
 
 They are the kind that bless their chips 
 
 And pray to God for gambling itips. 
 
 Like those that make starved babies' graves, 
 
 That daily, hourly and nightly raves. 
 
 In churches they build with blocks of stones, 
 
 Stained by some victim's dying moans. 
 
 Good church cured Christians keep away 
 
 From gambling halls, but make their play 
 
 At good church fairs; they always win 
 
 The bets they make a'tid do no sin, 
 
 Gold hunters all, the preacher, priest, 
 
 Come here to have a golden feast. 
 
 And get it with the self same tools 
 
 The devil makes for thieves and fools. 
 
 None are too good, too old or young. 
 
 To hear the call when gold gives tongue, 
 
 Hell turns loose its very worst, 
 
 Christians race on with the first. 
 
 Mingled in a raving mass, 
 
 Through canyons, over mountain pass, 
 
 They step upon the heels of death. 
 
 Mix their breathing with his breath. 
 
 Reach for and take the devil's hand, 
 
 To help them to the Promised Land. 
 
 89 
 
Deadwood, in 3^our buckskin day, 
 
 When gold dust came and went your way, 
 
 Before you dressed in bank bill duds, 
 
 Or toed the scratch with fashion's bloods. 
 
 Before the day that made you dry, 
 
 Yicu made a name that will mot die. 
 
 While the world revolves upon its poles. 
 
 Or hell, or Heaven, gathers souls. 
 
 Your briliant, luring, dazzling eyes 
 
 Made you the world's golden prize. 
 
 You gathered people from all climes. 
 
 And you were crowned the queen of crimes. 
 
 You bought your crown with good gold dust, 
 
 Wear it forever — ^you will — and must. 
 
 '^ ^ ^: w. 
 
 PROSPECTORS. 
 
 They polished their guns by the camp fire, 
 Pounded out some quartz for a test. 
 
 Watered and hobbled their bronchos, 
 
 Then lolled back on their elbows to rest. 
 
 They are prospectors, trappers and hunters, 
 And gamblers when out on a lark. 
 
 They spend their gold dust as they make it, 
 It goes to a gold fish,'*" or sharkt 
 
 Their tent is their home, and their horses 
 
 Their servants, companions and friends. 
 
 At the Rio Grande and the Selkirks,t 
 Their prospecting trails always ends. 
 
 ^Dancing Girls. 
 
 t Gamblers. 
 
 JB. C. Mountains. 
 
 90 
 
Their eye is their compass, their rifles 
 Protect them from hunger and Reds. 
 
 Their hearts are as light as the sunbeams 
 That cover their tents and their heads. 
 
 Their Master is up in high Heaven, 
 
 The only Master they know. 
 And if they shirk prospecting, praying, 
 
 He is so high up above He won't know. 
 
 Trouble may come, but don't tarry. 
 
 Ventilate it with bullets, it goes ; 
 They won't run for office, won't marry, 
 
 Won't run from their friends or their foes. 
 
 Before the call of the mountains 
 
 And the call of the gold shaped their lives, 
 They had enemies — friends never mentioned, 
 
 They may have had sweethearts and wives. 
 
 But when they reach into their memories. 
 
 And pull out threads slow or fast. 
 They break; where the threads from the gold belts. 
 
 Are spliced with the threads of the past. 
 
 Their names are short, plain, unpolished, 
 
 Just simply Harry and Dick. 
 But names don't count on the gold belt 
 
 That is worked with a rifle and pick. 
 
 They laughed, spoke low, often whispered, 
 
 About the friends of the trails ; 
 The notches they had on their rifles. 
 
 The fork tongues, they used in their tales. 
 
 The passions where wild people frolicked, 
 
 On the floor of the dance house or stage, . 
 
 They smoothed out with happy excuses, 
 Or cut out with half smothered rage. 
 
 91 
 
They loved little case keeper Kitty, 
 
 She marked up wrong cards now and then, 
 But she called for the drinks, when discovered^ 
 
 And, fixed the cards to. do it again. 
 
 The pet of the dance house that whistled, 
 A tune that the Devil could dance, 
 
 They praised for her youth and her beauty, 
 And her dare devil frolic and glance. 
 
 But the queen of the hills and the valleys, 
 That kept devils and saints, in hqr train, 
 
 They cursed — they worshipped — defended, ^ 
 They called, her Galarriity Jane ! 
 
 Black Lue, that would play with the d^vil, 
 And:stQal.the best cards if he could, 
 
 He only just loved to play poker. 
 
 And was a true friend, if not good. 
 
 Pale Hank, that held up the coaches. 
 Was broke and needed the dust, 
 
 If he didn't shoot, something up — surely, 
 His guns wQuld g^t useless, with rust. 
 
 All men ! whispered Har^ry, ypu know it. 
 That ever set; foot qn earth's sod. 
 
 Have buried bones in some puddle, 
 
 That is close to the trails that they trod. 
 
 All women! You know it, I know it. 
 No matter how honored their narne. 
 
 Have buried in the ashes, of passion, 
 
 Sprne fault that would darken their fapie. 
 
 No man was ever intended. 
 
 To be a saint on earth's sod,^ 
 No woman was ever intended. 
 
 To be as good as her God. 
 
 92 
 
The rose that blooms on the hillside, 
 Is rooted in the commonest earth, 
 
 The flower that is bred in the hothouse, 
 
 From the barnyard's sweepings takes birth. 
 
 We live by a power we know^ not, 
 
 We are moved by that power through life, 
 God fashions the man f6r his labor. 
 
 The woman for spinster or wife. 
 
 The herb^springs up from the gutter, 
 
 The s<!)h of the hero goes down 
 To the shambles and bottoms of nothing. 
 
 Where he herds with the get of a clown. 
 
 We stand on the hand of our Maker, 
 Revolve on His will as earth swings, 
 
 Women don't get saints when they marry, 
 And men don't get angels with wings. 
 
 The moon looks over the mountain, 
 
 I think we had better roll in. 
 For we must strike for new diggings. 
 
 That have a record of sin. 
 
 Tomorrow we saddle our bronchos, 
 And strike for the hole in the wall,* 
 
 Where saints don't sing hymns in the eveniiig, 
 And Angels don't visit at all. 
 
 *A Wyoming outlaw rendezvous. 
 
 93 
 
V7E LOST A COMRADE. 
 
 We losi a comrade that was good and kind, 
 
 That never left a crooked trail behind, 
 
 His campfire burned no brighter than his heart. 
 
 To cheer the weary, and to ease their smart. 
 
 A happy word was always at his will. 
 
 And a happy laugh that sorrow could not kill. 
 
 I have heard him speak his happy words of cheer, 
 
 When others whispered, Indians lurking near. 
 
 Have seen his fingers grip his ready gun. 
 
 And watched his eye along the ridges run, ^ 
 
 And well I knew the luckless feathered head 
 
 That caught his eye would surely catch his lead. 
 
 His rifle pit was deepest, wildest, best, 
 
 And every sod he broke contained a jest. 
 
 When clouds of anger came that would bring worse, 
 
 (A bullet follows close a frown or curse. 
 
 Where rifles blaze the trails on gold stampedes. 
 
 That brings together many kinds and breeds.) 
 
 He switched off anger with a happy laugh. 
 
 And switched in humor with some happy chaff. 
 
 He brushed the thorns from the trail of fate. 
 
 That all hearts find ; that pant with love or hate. 
 
 His horse was ready for a dangerous ride. 
 
 Could stay the longest, would stand untied, 
 
 Would carry doubled ; or stand like a rock, 
 
 Under a rifle's glare or shock. 
 
 A slip or stumble, he never knevv^. 
 
 Hair trigger nerved ; touched away he flew, 
 
 His master spoke, he knew his will. 
 
 His master's comrades, loves his master still. 
 
 Will follow his trail across the Great Divide, 
 
 And will follow it still, on the other side. 
 
 For well they know it enters Heaven's gate. 
 
 Where kings have often been compelled to wait. 
 
 94 
 
PROSPECTOR REPORTER 
 
 Howdy do, reporter, you stand to your word, 
 
 You always do that, at least so I've heard. 
 
 My little log cabin is nome of the best, 
 
 A very poor place for a newspaper guest, 
 
 It's the best that I have ; or ever may own. 
 
 No, I'm not tired of living alone? 
 
 My horses come up for a feed every day. 
 
 Don't like it a bit when I drive them away. 
 
 A horse is all right — can size up a man, 
 
 Always will do the best that he can, 
 
 They talk with their eyes, let you know quick. 
 
 With wild open eyes, or a well planted kick. 
 
 If you curry them dowm with the end of a rope, 
 
 Or the end of ycur tongue with bad ugly dope. 
 
 Sometimes, of course, I take in the towns 
 
 And give up my dust for jollies and frbwns. 
 
 I am good for the jollies, until I go busted. 
 
 And good for the frowns, when I ask to be trusted. 
 
 The quicker a prospector blows in his dust. 
 
 The less time he spends with gambling and lust. 
 
 We are mot always good, not always bad, 
 
 Not always gay, not always sad. 
 
 Don't run rapid races with wintry reforms, 
 
 That destroy common sense in their bitter storms, 
 
 We jolly the devil ; won't give him our vote, 
 
 We fish in his river, won't take his boat. 
 
 We drop off our roost and hunt a new nest, 
 
 When winter slips halter, gives us a rest 
 
 From blizzard and snow, that stand in our way. 
 
 Why certainly not, we don't all strike pay 
 
 But we blaze out the trails for others that will. 
 
 The world's wealth comes from the ranks that we fill. 
 
 We leave our bones on Death's Valley sand, 
 
 The home of tarantulas, where hungry wolves band, 
 
 We die at the passes; that none ever crossed 
 
But the eagle and buzzard, that trail us when lost. 
 
 We sleep on glaciers where the caribou's toe 
 
 Often slips ; and he falls into torrents below 
 
 From the cliffs of the Ganyoms that mountain sheep tread. 
 
 We creep to the wild canyon's rough, rocky bed. 
 
 We cross through the foam that polish the walls 
 
 Where mountain trout rest after climbing the falls. 
 
 We climb by the vines up the breast and the brakes, 
 
 Through loose hanging rock to the tops of the peaks. 
 
 Our camp fires burn in the trails of the braves.t 
 
 That often gives lead, but never gives graves, 
 
 Sometimes forsaken by reaso^n we stray, 
 
 Never rescued uiitil God takes us away, ' 
 
 Why do you do this? Don't ask me why, 
 
 Search the records, you find where you go when you die, 
 
 You may find the cause, I haven't the knowledge. 
 
 I don't think you will find it in pulpit or college. 
 
 No, I won't get spliced! I go it alone, 
 
 It isn't just safe for a Christia:n half done 
 
 To hitch to a woman I don't like their wa}^ 
 
 They are sometimes too pious, sometimes too gay, 
 
 Trot men around to church fairs and things. 
 
 Where gambling is done to buy angels wings. 
 
 Good people of course, but I can't understand 
 
 How Go'd and the devil can walk hand in hand. 
 
 Some women are funny, pafade in fine'feathefs. 
 
 Throw off common sense and break marriage tethefs. 
 
 Good women there are, and plenty, but say. 
 
 It's as hard to find them as it is to strike pay. 
 
 There are good Women, plenty, biit I don't know how 
 
 I would pan out in a family row. 
 
 I'll stick to my horse and rifle I know, 
 
 Just what Fm in for, when I have them in tow, 
 
 Prospectors differ, and preachers will to. 
 
 Some drive in tunnels, work hard and true, 
 
 Stick to' the belts, other prospectors firtd. 
 
 That leave their claims^and cabins behind, 
 
 96 
 
In the Spring every year, strike out for a chase 
 
 Over mountain ; through canyon, any old place, 
 
 To find a lost mine ; that always stays lost, 
 
 Or find a new vein that has never been crossed. 
 
 And camp with the wolves, Indians, coyotes, 
 
 And sleep on a bed of bunch grass and roots, 
 
 Don't care for themselves and mobody cares. 
 
 For an out of luck prospector, all whiskers and tares. 
 
 But, when he strikes it rich, his rags look like lace. 
 
 Silk thread can't compare with the hair on his face. 
 
 He is feasted and follow^ed, made drunk if he drinks. 
 
 The ladies all give him their best smiles and winks. 
 
 Only the dogs that he kicks around growls 
 
 And make it unpleasant with their ugly howls. 
 
 Here is some of my quartz,t it looks very raw, 
 
 If it don't improve it's not worth a straw. 
 
 Here is more, from a pocket that's surely all right. 
 
 Struck it before noon, worked it out before night. 
 
 Good for nothing, but just to brace a man up 
 
 Like a heel in a bottle or drop in a cup. 
 
 Doin't prospectors work in the mines aind the mills 
 
 A little, of course, to pay up grub bills 
 
 And fill up the holes, he makes when he joys 
 
 With the girls he meets, and wild happy boys. 
 
 We find the gold for miners to mine. 
 
 They dig the gold for mints to refine, 
 
 Then it passes on to the men with the brains. 
 
 And logic ; they make it the whip and the reins 
 
 That drive nations on to failures; success 
 
 That the world condemns ; or the world will bless. 
 
 Gold we must have to buy costly jewels, 
 
 For woman that make men magnets or tools. 
 
 Prospectors get pay in the quartz or the sod 
 
 Where it was planted for them by their God, 
 
 Miners work in the mines for their pay. 
 
 tGold bearing rock. 
 
 97 
 
And lead happy lives contented and gay. 
 
 Work some, sport some, get spliced, settle down, 
 
 Raise kids that will do as their daddies done, 
 
 Go to- churches, of course, on Sundays at times 
 
 T'hat are not given up to follies and crimes. 
 
 They are not always good, not always bad, 
 
 Not always jolly, not always sad. 
 
 Do as Romans do when they visit Rome, 
 
 Shake hands with the devil but don't take him home. 
 
 You must go. Be sure to call in again, 
 
 If I am not in just walk in my dein. 
 
 Rest, eat and drink ; here is something that's good, 
 
 It braces the brain and warms the blood, 
 
 Another won't hurt, it's the best can be got, 
 
 It reaches deep in and touches the spot. 
 
 I talked you some dry, but talked to you straight, 
 
 You must hit the trail a lively old gait, 
 
 To pass' the bad spot where it passes the reef. 
 
 A single misstep will bring you to grief. 
 
 Good luck, call again, as I said before. 
 
 You are a good friend to a prospector sure. 
 
 ^ :^ 
 
 DONT SELL THE HIDE UNTIL YOU SKIN 
 
 THE BEAR 
 
 Pat and Mike, by the way, were happy and gay, 
 
 Two gossoons, from Erin's green sod. 
 Their blood swelled their veins, and heart beat their 
 brains, 
 
 Away sometime from their God. 
 
 They bet their chips high in the good days gone by, 
 
 In a certain gold camp I won't name, 
 And they filled their glass full of stuff that would pull 
 
 A fight out of gossoons less game. 
 
 98 
 
They went to a man that sold grub by the can, 
 
 And wanted his money right there, 
 And sold him a hide that one day they spied 
 
 Gn the back of a grizzly bear. 
 
 They said it was drying and they weren't lying, 
 
 It was on the grizzly's back, 
 They would bring it next day — they wanted their pay- 
 
 They needed some things for their shack. 
 
 A bargain was made, though not a cent paid, 
 Pat and Mike struck out for the hair, 
 
 That grizzly owned yet — we will have it you bet, 
 Said Pat, and we'll go on a tear. 
 
 They had guns, knives and powder ; talked 
 loud, loud and louder, 
 
 When around a 'big ragged rock 
 The grizzly jumped, grabbed Mike; Paddy humped 
 
 And left his friend Michael in hock. 
 
 Mike bawled so loud, the bear thought a cloud 
 
 Had bursted just over his head. 
 He let go of Mike, who started a hike 
 
 When he caught up to Pat, Paddy said: 
 
 ''What did the bear say?" 'Taith, Pat, by the way," 
 Mike answered, ''He talked to me fair. 
 
 He said it'a a sin to sell a bear skin 
 
 Till you take it away from the bean" 
 
 "'I talked to him loud, and I believe he is cowed, 
 Stay and talk to him, Pat, if you will. 
 
 But I am off for town, where Til get and I'll down 
 A pint of good stuff from a still." 
 
 99 
 
JACK CARELESS 
 Soliloquy 
 
 There are mountains and mountains and mountains, 
 
 And rivers, and rivers, and lakes- — 
 There are high peaks, and snow caps, and glaciers, 
 
 But the Wind River'^ is none of your fakes. 
 
 It waters the sun in the morning, 
 When it starts on its job for the day. 
 
 And it gets its night cap from Freemontt 
 
 That you stand on, Jack Careless, today. ' 
 
 One hand of our Wind river giant, 
 
 Pats Atlantic on our eastern shores. 
 The other grasps the mighty Pacific, 
 
 That roars at the Orient doors. 
 
 All the beautiful, wonderful scenery, 
 
 That globe trotters run to and prize. 
 Could be tossed in their Yellowstone wondert 
 
 And disappear from the sight of our eyes. 
 
 Hell has its storehouse and kitchen, 
 
 Just under its evergreen sod. 
 And its geysers go ripping and pitching. 
 
 From. Hell to the realms of God. 
 
 There are rainbows painted and punctured. 
 On its granites, its porphry, and lime. 
 
 That was made by the great Master Painter, 
 That paints rainbows since beginning of time. 
 
 * Wind River Mountains. 
 
 ^Highest Peak on the Wind Hiver Mountains. 
 
 t Yellowstone Park. 
 
 100 
 
Alone, with your God and your conscience, 
 Jack Careless, don't wade out too deep, 
 
 Into problems not solved by the sages, 
 Where the gods of diplomas can't creep. 
 
 Alone, no, I am stalked by a grizzly; 
 
 A wolf marks my stand from his lair, 
 His nose twitching nervously, all ready 
 
 For a feed if I am killed by the bear. 
 
 The cougar growls low in his crevice, 
 
 That is stained with the blood of his prey, 
 
 But he knows Jack Careless is ready — 
 Holds four aces, if he makes a play. 
 
 The sun and the eagles above me. 
 The bright mountain torrents below 
 
 Are no wilder, no freer, nor careless, 
 
 Than Jack, that Jack Careless don't know. 
 
 Jack Careless, an hour slipped by you. 
 And you slept it through like a fool, 
 
 That would make you a magnet of power, 
 But you slept — w^ake up — nothing's tool. 
 
 You sle])t, but fate drugged that hour, 
 
 As sure as that hour went by. 
 As sure as Hell has its Devil 
 
 And God rules Heaven on high. 
 
 Don't grieve for the power you bartered, 
 Or the velvet that slipped from your feet, 
 
 The life, and the love that you chartered 
 Is happy, contented, and sweet. 
 
 Your mountain ro'se wears brilliant diamonds. 
 They are set in her beautiful e3^es. 
 
 Her heart is a precious red ruby, 
 And her love is a Heavenly prize. 
 
 101 
 
We met in the froth of youth's rapids. 
 
 Where souls are drowned in love, 
 We were whirled and twisted together, 
 
 I fear — not by Heaven above. 
 
 We leaped in the lap of desire, 
 
 Desire, the monarch of youth — 
 Conscience, and justice took fire, 
 
 And burned up caution and truth. 
 
 It is true — she was chained to another, 
 And the chains were broken with blood 
 
 It is true that I answered her husband / 
 
 In a gun play that did him no good. 
 
 It is true that the law stands between us 
 Cold, heartless, and ready to strike. 
 
 It is true that we tunneled under 
 And do just about as we like. 
 
 It is true a leech on your record 
 
 Is sucking its life's blood away. 
 And will suck when your grave is closed over, 
 
 And will suck on the great judgment day. 
 
 Alone, like a fool wonder hunter, 
 
 I stand here spinning out words, 
 That scares off the elk and the black tail,"^ 
 
 Bees, butterflies, beautiful birds. 
 
 Well, I stop — drop down from Fremont, 
 
 And drop in my nest lower down. 
 Where my mountain rose sweeps away memories. 
 
 That might bring a chill or a frown. 
 
 Black Tail Deer. 
 
 102 
 
TIGE AND ROVER. 
 
 Rover tomorrow a bear hunt for me, 
 You are my puppie I talk to you free, 
 I am some dog my master thinks so, 
 When there is a grizzly or lion to toe, 
 I may not come back to tell you just how 
 I followed the bear or joined in the row. 
 
 Rover. 
 
 How long before I can go on a hunt 
 
 I can worry a cat or pull off a stunt, 
 
 On a pig or a tramp that's after the slops, 
 
 I ring in a bluff sometime on the cops. 
 
 The men with letters, groceries and things. 
 
 That dodge through the alleys on foot or on wings. 
 
 Tige. 
 
 Well pup. you are mine, I tell you the truth 
 
 I follow^ed bear hunting since I was a youth. 
 
 So far I've managed to dodge grizzlie's paws, 
 
 I never have felt his big boney jaws. 
 
 I believe he will get me some time with a slap, 
 
 And then you will lose your bear hunting pap. 
 
 Now listen ; I tell you what bear dogs must do. 
 
 Choose your own chewing, that's up to you. 
 
 A bear dog is not supposed to run pigs, 
 
 Go chasing rats, or running with nigs, 
 
 Or rounders, or dudes, or any dead beat. 
 
 He must keep away from the alleys and street, 
 
 He can bark now and then, but not keep it up, 
 
 Like a full grown fool, a half grown pup, 
 
 When master comes with his gun, and looks wise. 
 
 Calls him some pet names, looks up at the skies. 
 
 As proud as if he made all things up there. 
 
 He is going to start on a hunt for a bear. 
 
 He whistles, dog follows, he climbs on his horse, 
 
 103 
 
Starts off on a lope, dog follows of course, 
 
 Gets to the mountains pretty well fagged. 
 
 Others are there well dogged, and well nagged. 
 
 They laugh and they talk, drink out of a bottle, 
 
 I have tasted the stuff, it burned my throttle, 
 
 Dogs shake their tails when men praise their dogs, 
 
 But when they quit lieing, they point to the logs, 
 
 That bears have turned over hunting for feed. 
 
 They start for the bear ; dogs take the lead. 
 
 Men come behind with guns in their hand. 
 
 When they see the bear they come to a stand 
 
 And call on their dogs to hold him until, 
 
 They get a good shot, they shoot then and kill, 
 
 Bears are not funny with dogs not a bit. 
 
 He dont' like a dog or a bear hunters wit. 
 
 He strikes right and left with his hairy paws. 
 
 And bites up and down with his ugly jaws, 
 
 A bite of his jaws will stop a dog's breath, 
 
 A slap of his paws always means death, 
 
 To a man or a dog, anything that breathes air, 
 
 What do hunters do? Shoot, but take care. 
 
 To be ready to climb on their horses or trees. 
 
 Bears often throw dogs from them like flees, 
 
 Then men get the glory and dogs do the fighting? 
 
 Hush, puppy, don't growl, dogs live by their biting. 
 
 That way we fight ; men fight with a gun. 
 
 When the dogs quit, why men have to run. 
 
 Of course there are men that don't hunt with dogs, 
 
 They don't carry watches or wear fancy togs. 
 
 They wear common jeans, or just buckskin jackets, 
 
 They won't let a dog mix up in their rackets. 
 
 They live in log cabins covered with dirt, 
 
 Mix up with women, just only to flirt, 
 
 Dig holes in the ground, get bright yellow dust. 
 
 That everyone loves, the crooked and just. 
 
 It's a queer kind of stuff, it don't seem to figure 
 
 Any higher for kings than it does for a nigger. 
 
 104 
 
Like dog-s? yes they do! but a kind of stuck up. 
 Won't wear glory medals that's won by a pup. 
 There are other ways that a dog can live right. 
 But while a dog lives he must live by his bite. 
 
 The women's pet dogs have very soft snaps, 
 
 They can sleep on the beds, the lounge or laps, 
 
 They make dogs some tired brushing their teeth. 
 
 Cleaning their ears or scenting their breath, 
 
 Giving them baths and trimming their nails. 
 
 Tying silk ribbons on their necks and their tails. 
 
 But dogs have the right, to cut up as they will 
 
 If a man ever snores 'his wife gets a chill 
 
 When men come about and don't toe the mark, 
 
 For things women need, gives a growl or a bark. 
 
 They show them the door, and they moves their togs, 
 
 And leave the whole house to the women and dogs. 
 
 Well, Rover, be good, tomorrow I go. 
 
 Out on a bear hunt, my boss told me so. 
 
 I may not come back, take my advice 
 
 Be a woman's pet dog, it's awfully nice. 
 
 To eat, sleep and play, where you are the whole push^ 
 
 And you get your T-bone, not corn meal mush. 
 
 W. '0. '0. Ws 
 
 WILD BILL. 
 
 Six foot one in his moccasins, compactly built with 
 quiet, gray eyes, clear, calm as a woman's, an almost wo- 
 manish gentleness of expression ; bright chestnut hair 
 floating over his shoulders. 
 
 James Butler Hickok, better known as wild Bill, was 
 born in May, 1837, in LaSalle county, Illinois. The name 
 of Wild Bill was a terror to evil-doers. 
 
 I will give a part of his record (his full record is 
 unobtainable) which shows beyond dispute that he was 
 the gun king of the West. 
 
 105 
 
At the age of eighteen he joined the anti-slavery 
 forces of Jime Lane at Leavenworth, Kansas ; served as 
 a soldier for two years ; engaged himself as a stage driver 
 for the Overland Stage Company ; victor in over twenty 
 fights. He was the hero of all that knew him. 
 
 At the head of fift}^ men, soldiers, scouts' and hu'inters, 
 he annihilated four hundred hostile Indians at Clear 
 Creek, Wyoming; killed a cinnamon bear with his hunt- 
 ing knife when w^agon master of freight teams. 
 
 Whan hostler for the Overland Stage Company, he 
 fought ten bad gunmen that came to steal his horses, 
 killed six and wounded two who made their escape with 
 two others unwounded. 
 
 When wagon master for Gen. Fremont his wagons 
 and men were captured by rebels. He escaped and killed 
 four men who followed him. 
 
 As a volunteer sharp shooter at the battle of Pea 
 Ridge he killed thirty-five rebels. Gen. McCulloch being 
 one of them. 
 
 As a spy he entered Gen. Price's lines three times, 
 killing four men making his escapes. 
 
 While attached to Gen Davis' command, he killed three 
 rebels while scouting. 
 
 Killed Sioux chief, Conquering Bear in a knife duel. 
 
 Killed Bent Tut, gunman at Springfield, Mo. 
 
 Fought a gun duel with fo'ur cowboys in northern Ne- 
 braska, killed three and badly wounded one. 
 
 While marshal of Hay City, killed two gunmen and 
 three soldier bullies. 
 
 While marshal of Abilene, Kans., killed two cowboys 
 and established law and order. 
 
 Made eight gunmen, who came from Texas to kill him, 
 at the muzzles of his gums, jump from the Topeka ex- 
 press running at a high rate of speed. One was killed 
 and three badly hurt. 
 
 Was guide for Vice-President Wilson, on his trip to 
 the West. 
 
 106 
 
Was killed by Jack McCall, stage driver, in Deadwood 
 Black Hills. 
 
 Wild Bill was as brave a man as ever lived, and the 
 best shot that ever pulled a trigger. He killed at least 
 sixty-three men, all excepting those killed at the battle 
 of Pea Ridge, being bad gunmen, and outlaws. He killed 
 only in self defense or to- enforce the law. His record is 
 no show picture — but has show picture material enough 
 in it to run a first clas^ picture show for a month and 
 never repeat an act. 
 
 Wild Bill 
 
 I was the gun king of the West, 
 My records shows I stood the test, 
 And not o-ne mark upon it shows 
 Forsaken friends or dreaded foes, 
 The common, happy brawling kind, 
 Halfway bad that passions blind. 
 I listened to and let them bawl, 
 And joy and fight and foam and fall. 
 Cuffs from them or crooked names 
 Never bothered Hickok James, 
 I killed no buffalo for gold or fame, 
 I needed meat when I killed game. 
 I did not make a name with print, 
 I mixed with men that feed the mint, 
 And never cast an angry look 
 On anyone but gun play crook. 
 Bad men hunting fame and trouble 
 I snuffed out like a clay pipe bubble. 
 The play was fair; I played my game, 
 I made them stepping stones to fame. 
 No mam I killed but should have died. 
 Before my will he faced, defied, 
 
 107 
 
Here is my record ; read it through. 
 Wherever I set boot or shoe 
 You find no side steps from the truth. 
 I was not a grammar youth. 
 
 I loved ithe woods, the grass, the flowers, 
 
 Thunder, lightning, sunshine, showers, 
 
 Lakes and rivers, the dew drops cast, 
 
 Upon the vines through which I passed. 
 
 I loved my gun, its flash, its bark 
 
 Was music, cheer, daylight or dark. 
 
 We got the game, it served me well. 
 
 That it was true, I need not tell, 
 
 With it I lived, and with it died. 
 
 I was its master, it my pride. 
 
 When yet a boy, I had desire 
 
 For w^ider fields and mountains higher 
 
 Than I had ever seen or done 
 
 That was nearer to the setting sun, 
 
 Than any place I hunted game. 
 
 Or followed fancies none too tame, 
 
 I turned my footsteps to the West, 
 
 To give myself and gun a test. 
 
 I joined the ranks of latne that broke. 
 
 On Kansas soil the rebel yoke. 
 
 My active army service won 
 
 Name for me I need not shun. 
 
 Read from the first page to the last, 
 
 Our country's history, present, past. 
 
 A better record you cannot find, 
 
 Than that wild William left behind. 
 
 In many battles I put to rest, 
 Some of Price's boasted best, 
 From general to the lowest grade. 
 Fell where my rifle bullets played. 
 Appointed to be a hated spy 
 
 108 
 
That no one scorns more than I. 
 
 My country called, I answered well, 
 
 If it had ordered into Hell, 
 
 I would go and try to get the drop 
 
 Upon the devil or his cop, 
 
 And get the goods to help our cause, 
 
 Bring victory and enforce our laws, 
 
 I got the goods and lives to boot, 
 
 Bad men that would court or shoot, 
 
 I tricked to help me to our line. 
 
 Killed them ; it was their lives or mine. 
 
 Called to give the Sioux a lesson, 
 I gave it not a preacher's blessing. 
 Backed by pioneers, tried and true, 
 That do, and know just what to do. 
 I sent the hostiles on a trip 
 All people take that lose their grip. 
 Upon the tree of life that drops 
 Unexpected hourly crops, 
 That rolls into the Great Unknown, 
 Is sorted out at Heaven's throne, 
 Where rots and spots are turned down 
 To Hell to sizzle and cook brown. 
 
 I mixed with bad men of the West, 
 
 That priest or parson never blessed. 
 
 From every plain and mountain top 
 
 To find me and to get the drop, 
 
 A string of bad men guns and boasts, 
 
 Came, found me, and I made them ghosts. 
 
 Go read the records o'f Abilene, 
 
 Where cowboys came to air their spleen. 
 
 Hankered to get themselves marked down, 
 
 The worst man ever struck the town. 
 
 Day and night, from hour to hour. 
 
 Their lead rained a death dealing shower, 
 
 1.9 
 
But whan I came and called a halt, 
 The bad man's claim went by default, 
 When I raised my voice, called taps. 
 They mo'ved from town to take their naps, 
 Or went to bed and slept like men, 
 Knew death's eye was on their den, 
 In front, behind, on every side. 
 Men fell that had my power defied. 
 
 From Arizona and Texas came 
 Bed men with others of worse fame, 
 They came, but every one that came, 
 Save those my voice made kind and tame, 
 Took a coroner's ride to glory, 
 That was not fit for song or story. 
 Brave, why yes, they were all brave, 
 but did not hanker for a grave. 
 Brave, why yes, they laughed at death 
 With defiant overbearing breath. 
 Good, why yes, they blazed the trails 
 For men with Bibles, courts and jails, 
 plug hats, bald heads aind grammar schools, 
 To learn dudes' and dollies' rules 
 To* steer them clear of fools and knaves, 
 Prison bars and pauper's graves. 
 I won my crowjn not with hot air, 
 or killing strawstuffed grizzly bear, 
 Or roping things that's easy roped. 
 Or doping things that's easy doped. 
 Where pretty girls in tights and smiles. 
 Ruin off on reels for many miles. 
 And get in jails in picture shows. 
 To be released by gallant beaux. 
 
 A stage coach whip snapped out my life, 
 Ended my stormy days of strife. 
 Bribed by gamblers that could not play, 
 
 110 
 
Their crooked games or get too gay, 
 With honest men that got their dust, 
 By labor hard and methods just. 
 While I was camping on the claim, 
 Where Deadwood gots its wicked name, 
 He got me and although I fell, 
 I won my crown and won it well. 
 Vv'hile earth revolves the crown is mine. 
 Bad men may bluff — and bleat — and whine, 
 But blood and ink will prove my claim. 
 The gun crown bears wild William's name, 
 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
 DAUGHTER OF A MOUNTAINEER. 
 
 Daughter of a mountaineer, 
 
 The blood that fills your veins is brave, 
 It is not stained by shame or fear. 
 
 Or ithinned by drops of fool or knave. 
 
 Daughter of a mountaineer, 
 
 With brilliant eyes and bounding heart, 
 As tireless as the nimble deer, 
 
 Over mountain trails you dart. 
 
 Daughter of a mountaineer. 
 
 Your tireless broncho bears you on, 
 He needs no spur, his willing ear 
 
 aind heart is craving for your call. 
 
 Daughter of a mountaineer, 
 
 The snow caps and the torrents foam, 
 You dash through without pause or fear, 
 
 And dare the grizzly in his home. 
 
 Ill . 
 
Daughter of a mountaineer, 
 
 Ybu chase the eagle from its nest, . 
 Where peaks are cloaked, and disappear 
 
 In clouds that drop on them to rest. 
 
 Daughter of a mountaineer, 
 
 You drive away the clouds and stings. 
 From weary eyes, and dry the tear 
 
 That tottering age and childhood brings. 
 
 Daughter of a mountaineer. 
 
 The ink you send cures many a sore 
 That hurt my heart for many a year, / 
 
 That nothing ever cured before. 
 
 Daughter of a mountaineer, 
 
 The drops of pleasure that you cast, 
 Upon my path brings hope and cheer. 
 
 And will thrill my soul when life is past 
 
 CALAMITY JANE. 
 
 Calamity Jane is all I am called. 
 
 Good people do not be appalled, 
 
 I just grew up on mountain air, 
 
 That filled the lungs of deer and bear, 
 
 And played on bunch grass where they fed, 
 
 On mountain peaks, o'er which they sped. 
 
 And cast my lot with men that go 
 
 For gold sometimes to Hell below. 
 
 Men true as steel ; that would not flinch 
 
 From toil or friends when in a pinch. 
 
 Rough? Yes, rough, but God's best work. 
 
 Religious duties they might shirk, 
 
 But when called on for work or help 
 
 112 
 
Would aid the lowest worthless whelp. 
 
 They drank their whiskey straight, and played 
 
 All kinds of games, their debts they paid 
 
 And friends' debts out of luck and down, 
 
 And when they joyed around a town, 
 
 They paid their debts for all their fun, 
 
 And paid without a frow:n or dun. 
 
 Come when they would, go when they choose, 
 
 Their doors were open to Christian, Jews. 
 
 The man that called hold up your hands, 
 
 The sheriff with his iron bands 
 
 Came and went, and neither knew 
 
 That sheriff or outlaw had passed through. 
 
 I ate their bread, and led their life. 
 
 They loved me as they'd love a wife. 
 
 V'hen fever burned their blistered lips. 
 
 Through which life unexpected slips, 
 
 Their last message to their friend I took, 
 
 Was it a nugget, ring or book. 
 
 It went as their last words had told, 
 
 I added he died as pure as gold. 
 
 I know I am a little wild. 
 
 Perhaps much worse I am often styled. 
 
 But I do that for which I'm planned. 
 
 And nothing else I understand. 
 
 If there is sliame upon my path. 
 
 Why let it stain; Christian wrath, 
 
 Can never change my life, or make 
 
 Calamity Jane her friends forsake. 
 
 We met as mountain torrents meet, 
 
 That crush flowers cm the shore they beat, 
 
 That will flood level sunny spots 
 
 Where lilies grow, forget-me-nots. 
 
 And other tender things that grow 
 
 Av/ay from gold, and mountain snow. 
 
 T will take my way from God above 
 
 To those that love me and I love. 
 
 113 
 
THE PRb^pfictbR*s Return:: 
 
 My last stake gofie; I flew sofne high 
 And bid 'my scadsf a Sqtiick good-bye. 
 Pleasure's btid'c6nceals a thorn 
 That pricks the heart of pleasures borii 
 Of passion's rise arid roll and foam 
 Where outlaw pleasure fihd^ a homei' 
 
 I have bo'ii'ght the lowland smiles and dtids 
 And sinned the siris of lowland 'bloods. 
 I have slept sdriie sleep upon their 'beds^ 
 Where angels' dofi'^t gttard sleeping heads. 
 I have done the deeds that mountain fools 
 Will do when learning lowland rules. 
 
 Fve seen the gaudy glint of things 
 That lowlands prize and felt their stings. 
 Their purse-proud pride and velvet shams, 
 I've listened to their prayers and damns, 
 And all they have to charm the eye 
 Or cheer the heart or make it sigh. 
 
 I have seen and felt the mountain cheer. 
 Where foes were bad and friends were tlean 
 I toyed with clods of pleasure's best 
 Where mountain sand on lowlands rest. 
 The sand that left the eagle's claw, 
 Was stained by worm and muskrat paw, 
 
 I've talked and dallied witli the fools 
 That chisel out their gods with tools 
 Taken from diploma's mines, 
 And tempered in their expert shrines. 
 They lack the knowledge and the prpd 
 Of men that work the mines of God. 
 
 tGold Nug-gets 
 
 11- 
 
Tve seen their bo^$ted beauties clad 
 With. rainbow shoes shaped like ^ shad. 
 Trip along the, polished pave 
 I've followed; them like fool and knave. 
 That curse people that they pursue 
 A;nd, do the v^ry. things they do. 
 
 The mountain made pa mountain sod, 
 
 Colored with the^paint of God. 
 
 And dressed with common sense and things 
 
 That fit their forms like angels' wings, 
 
 I kneel to, if I kneel at all, 
 
 And I fall to, if I t^yer.falh 
 
 I have toed the scratch that pleasure makes, 
 For mountain bucksand lo\Yland rakes, 
 On mountain peaks, and lowland dips. 
 But when I must pass in my chips, 
 I will p^ss them .in I hope and pray, 
 Where my bones will rest in mountain clay. 
 
 '^s - :^- -:€-:€ 
 
 THE RED BIRD. 
 
 A wild little red bird danced in my way. 
 Twittered and frolicked and fluttered about. 
 
 I followed it, it led me astray, 
 
 Through brambles and flowers, where folly peeped 
 out. 
 
 The chase was so pleasant, I followed on through, 
 The twists and the kinks, the vines and the dust 
 
 Until I can't tell just what I did do, 
 
 Or how its red feathers were rufflejd .or.. mussed. 
 
 115 
 
It didn't care, and I didn't mind 
 
 The way that it looked, the folly I done 
 
 It fluttered and fluttered, I happily blind, 
 It dazzled with the pleasure it won, 
 
 We parted and parted, returned and returned. 
 To toy with the pleasure that burns the heart 
 
 I was delighted and it never mourned 
 
 Until Time made the second that drove us apart. 
 
 w. :€ ¥. '^ 
 
 CENTRAL CITY,* BLACK HILLS 
 
 With more time to spare than money 
 
 A fact more troublesome than funny. 
 
 In Central City this wild town. 
 
 That has few saints, but much renown, 
 
 And rotten flour, twelve per sack, 
 
 Spuds the same, and applejack. 
 
 Two bits a drink but let them go, 
 
 I tell some things you may not know, 
 
 About this gold begotten town 
 
 That never makes the devil frown. 
 
 From every land on God's green earth, 
 
 That ever gave a human birth. 
 
 Men are here to strike it rich, 
 
 Or poor, it matters not now which. 
 
 That back their souls against a lode,t 
 
 And don't care if the race is throwed. 
 
 Central pleasure is buttered with sin, 
 
 Its glasses filled with rye or gin 
 
 Castles float in Central air, 
 
 If smashed the devil a hair we care. 
 
 * The author of this book was one of the founders of Cen- 
 tral City. 
 
 fA vein of ore. 
 
 '116 
 
Nelly deals the laro-ganie, 
 
 And steals chips and hearts the same, 
 
 He sure would be a stingy soul, 
 
 That would object to Nelly's Tole. 
 
 Clouds may float in Central's sky, 
 
 Gold hunters never look so high. 
 
 Snow and frost may come and go 
 
 They do not care for things so low. 
 
 All touch the high spots young and old. 
 
 In towns that lives on games and gold, 
 
 Good people from away down East, 
 
 On hot hell seasoned pleasures feast 
 
 And chase around ; forbidden bliss, 
 
 Like boys chase mammy for a kiss, 
 
 Central will have her laugh and song. 
 
 And to hell with those that say it's wrong, 
 
 The smooth faced pilgrim changes here, 
 
 Like a circus born deer. 
 
 That leaps the bars and gains the wood, 
 
 Afraid at first of cliff and flood, 
 
 But when a band of bucks speed past 
 
 He joins and will not be the last, 
 
 And often he leaves trails behind, 
 
 He turns back on, and tries to blind. 
 
 For well he knows his reckless feet. 
 
 Carried him through chaff not wheat 
 
 He speeds with bucks and goes their way, 
 
 And he is in the race to stay. 
 
 Here women — now my pen is cramped 
 Better if it stopped and camped, 
 Than creep along a steep side hill, 
 It has the strength but not the will, 
 To top the mighty hill of truth, 
 But for virtue's sake and youth 
 I make a dob, a shapeless thing. 
 Without a limb, without a wing, 
 
 117 
 
Without a soul, without a heart, 
 I veil it ^me land gild a part. 
 Here many, women speed pell-mell, 
 On the road that leads, tQ, iiell, 
 The stqaes of. caution in their. way, 
 They kick aside like tiifts of, hay. 
 Take side steps often from the road, 
 To r^st a while l;)ut not. with Gpd 
 And if a trem.b.ling fc>ot or ^hand, 
 Cause. some to stop, the. speeding b^nd 
 Shoulders, them into, the ditch, 
 And beats.. them with QbliyiQns switch. 
 Buds of virtue, in th^ir W3.y 
 They . cnush or try to lead astray. 
 The .l^appy hpnies Adhere pleasure blooms, 
 They .sweep witl;! gossip's thorny brooms, 
 AngelsV vy;ings they dqud and, stain, 
 With fetid breath and. enyious; brain. 
 But Central has good womeri as pure 
 As man.gan wish or earth, et^dure, 
 Pure, brilliant stars that's; far.^bove, 
 The price that hell lias Jfixed. for. Iqve, 
 That rpake men pause.and think before. 
 They turn back from Hyman's^ door. 
 
 Central ; you're gold dust days ;are;.done, 
 You f ^ed ^nd Joy on bs^nk bili fun. 
 Now railroads run ajong the trails, 
 Where I carried gold dust scales. 
 I often threw the diamond hitcht 
 'On packs that didn't; make me rich. 
 Made up from tantalizing goods, 
 That Central sold to mountain; bloods, 
 I often, chipped my only scad,t 
 Won bets that often mi^de me sad. 
 
 t A rope hitch to tie packs on horses, 
 $ Small :galdtjnu^get. 
 
 118 
 
But youth will drive the spurs to deep, 
 In hearts and brain's' thit do not sle^p. 
 Throw a veil of mercy o'er,' 
 Memories of men you see no m(!yre. 
 I dipped my pen into you're past. 
 When you 'and I Were youn^ and fast;' 
 Take your medieiti^ as I took mine,- 
 Without a frown, without a whiiie, 
 I believe the world will forgive, 
 Me when Tm dead — you while you live. 
 
 A SMILE AND A SIGH. 
 
 A smile and'a^sigh, and a last goodby, 
 To friends^ ^nd^ mountains liere, 
 
 The world went well, -when pioneers^ yell^ 
 Chased buffalo, elk and deer. 
 
 The sun was btight and the stirs at night 
 Danced lik^ diamonds in the skys, 
 
 When I walked the trails and chased the tales 
 To where hidden treasure lies. 
 
 The ^brilli^nt Wbon l:Hat^ leads' 16 ruiii,- 
 
 All thaf'ms^Re^it^heir siiti; 
 Gave far nidre <:h^er, ths^n th^^sutl^how hkt^, - 
 
 On Life's TkiPh6ariy d6m. 
 
 The air that gave the peak and cave, 
 
 The charms that they hold. 
 Was lighter 'when I camped with men. 
 
 That followed the trail to gold. 
 
 That told of finds, they left behind, 
 
 And finds that others made. 
 Where trails were crossed, and trails were lost, 
 
 Where red pappooses played. 
 
 119' 
 
The camp fire light on hills in sight, 
 Where the last excitement stalled. 
 
 Cheered me, more than the world's store 
 Of gfold can if it called. 
 
 fe 
 
 I climb the side of the Great Divide, 
 On the trails of those I've lost. 
 
 Their camp-fire light, will guide me right, 
 When the Great Divide is crossed. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ '^: 
 THE MAN THAT MADE TRAILS. 
 
 The man that made trails through the mountains, 
 When trails were bloody and blind, 
 
 Has a right to a grave near the fountains, 
 That God gave him power to find. 
 
 The man that swapped lead for the gold, 
 
 That feathers Columbia's wings. 
 Has a right to a grave near the peaks. 
 
 That is fanned by mountain birds wings, 
 
 The man that made trails through the mountains, 
 When the warriors spear barred the way, 
 
 Has a right to the purr of its fountains 
 When eternal light darkens his day. 
 
 The man that played luck to the limit, 
 
 Where the limit was death or a claim, 
 
 Has a right to a grave where he gambled 
 When his last chip is lost in life's game. 
 
 120 
 
^