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 Case No Shc^J 
 
 Drawer No.. ! : ?i. 53 
 
 OT TO BE REMOVED rSOM U8R 
 WITHOUT PROPER AUTHORITY." 
 
 nfe*WTCOtf. 
 
JIM BLUDSO 
 
 OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE, 
 
 AND 
 
 LITTLE BREECHES. 
 
 BY JOHN HAY. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 
 
In 
 
 CASTILIAN DAYS. 
 
 BY JOHN HAY. 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., PUBLISHERS. 
 
I 'LL HOLD HER NOZZLE AGIN THE BANK. 
 
JIM BLUDSO 
 
 OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE, 
 
 AND 
 
 LITTLE BREECHES. 
 
 BY JOHN HAY. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY S. EYTINGE, JR. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co. 
 1871. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 
 
 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD <fe CO., 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co. 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 
 
 THE illustrations which accompany this edition of these 
 popular ballads have been made under the author's eye, 
 and have received his approval. 
 
JIM BLUDSO, 
 
 OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. 
 
 TT TALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives, 
 
 Becase he don't live, you see ; 
 Leastways, he 's got out of the habit 
 
 Of livin' like you and me. 
 Whar have you been for the last three year 
 
 That you have n't heard folks tell 
 How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
 The night of the Prairie Belle ? 
 7 
 
I CAN'T TELL WHAR HE LIVES. 
 
Jim Bhidso. 
 
 He were n't no saint, them engineers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike, 
 One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 
 
 And another one here, in Pike ; 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward hand in a row, 
 But he never flunked, and he never lied, - 
 
 I reckon he never knowed how. 
 
 And this was all the religion he had, 
 
 To treat his engine well ; 
 Never be passed on the river ; 
 
 To mind the pilot's bell ; 
 And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, 
 
 A thousand times he swore 
 He 'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 9 
 
HE WERE N'T NO SAINT. 
 
Jim Bludso. 
 
 All boats has their day on the Mississip, 
 
 And her day come at last, 
 The Movastar was a better boat, 
 
 But the Belle she would n't be passed, 
 And so she come tearin' along that night 
 
 The oldest craft on the line 
 With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 
 
 And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 
 
 The fire bust out as she clared the bar, 
 
 And burnt a hole in the night, 
 And quick as a flash she turned, and made 
 
 For that wilier-bank on the right. 
 There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, 
 
 Over all the infernal roar, 
 " I '11 hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last galoot 's ashore." 
 
A NIGGER SQUAT ON II LR SA1LTY- VALVE. 
 
Jim Bludso. 
 
 Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat 
 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard, 
 And they all had trust in his cussedness, 
 
 And knowed he would keep his word. 
 And, sure 's you 're born, they all got off 
 
 Afore the smokestacks fell, 
 And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 
 He weren't no saint, but at jedgment 
 
 I 'd run my chance with Jim, 
 'Longside of some pious gentlemen 
 
 That would n't shook hands with him. 
 He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, 
 
 And went for it thar and then, 
 And Christ ain't a going to be too hard 
 
 On a man that died for men. 
 13 
 
i NEVER AIN'T HAD NO SHOW. 
 
LITTLE BREECHES 
 
 I DON'T go much on religion, 
 
 I never ain't had no show ; 
 But I Ve got a middlin' tight grip, sir, 
 
 On the handful o* things I know. 
 I don't pan out on the prophets 
 
 And free-will, and that sort of thing, 
 But I b'lieve in God and the angels, 
 Ever sence one night last spring. 
 '7 
 
I HEARD ONE LITTLE SQUALL. 
 
Little Breeches. 
 
 I come into town with some turnips, 
 
 And my little Gabe come along, 
 No four-year-old in the county 
 
 Could beat him for pretty and strong, 
 Peart and chipper and sassy, 
 
 Always ready to swear and fight, 
 And I 'd larnt him to chaw terbacker 
 
 Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. 
 
 The snow come down like a blanket 
 
 As I passed by Taggart's store ; 
 I went in for a jug of molasses 
 
 And left the team at the door. 
 They scared at something and started, 
 
 I heard one little squall, 
 And hell-to-split over the prairie 
 
 Went team, Little Breeches and all. 
 19 
 
I JEST FLOPPED DOWN ON MY MARROW-BONES. 
 
Little Breeches. 
 
 Hell-to-split over the prairie ! 
 
 I was almost froze with skeer ; 
 But we rousted up some torches, 
 
 And sarched for 'em far and near, 
 At last we struck hosses and wagon, 
 
 Snowed under a soft white mound, 
 Upsot, dead beat, but of little Gabe 
 
 No hide nor hair was found. 
 
 And here all hope soured on me, 
 
 Of my fellow-critter's aid, 
 I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, 
 
 Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. 
 
 By this, the torches was played out, 
 
 And me and Tsrul Parr 
 Went off for some wood to a sheepfold 
 
 That he said was somewhar thar. 
 
AND THAR SOT LITTLE BREECHES AND CHIRPED. 
 
Little Breeches. 
 
 We found it at last, and a little shed 
 
 Where they shut up the lambs at night. 
 We looked in and seen them huddled thar, 
 
 So warm and sleepy and white ; 
 And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped, 
 
 As peart as ever you see, 
 "I want a chaw of terbacker, 
 
 And that 's what 's the matter of me." 
 
 How did he git thar? Angels. 
 
 He could never have walked in that storm. 
 They jest scooped down and toted him 
 
 To whar it was safe and warm. 
 And I think that saving a little child, 
 
 And bringing him to his own, 
 Is a derned sight better business 
 
 Than loafing around The Throne. 
 23 
 
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 * # * For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston, 
 
 LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co. 
 
NEARLY READY. 
 
 PIKE COUNTY BALLADS, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER IPIECES. 
 
 BY JOHN HAY. 
 
 In this volume are gathered, under the headings of PIKE COUNTY 
 BALLADS, WANDERLIEDER, and NEW AND OLD, the various poems 
 hitherto printed by the author of JIM BLUDSO, together with some 
 others which are entirely new to the public. The poems contained in 
 the first division are probably the best known, but those in the other 
 parts of the volume are fully equal in merit, and though not cast in so 
 popular a mould, yet show the touch of the same master-hand. 
 
 Price, in Cloth, bevelled boards, $1.50. 
 
 *** For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid* on receipt of price, by the Pub 
 lishers, 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 
 
J 
 

 
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