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 UC-NRLF 
 

Yours, 
 
 In clouds or sunshine, 
 
WHAR' THE HAND 
 GOD Is SEEN 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
 By 
 
 CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD 
 
 (Late Chief of Scouts, U. S. Army) 
 
 Roped for relief of the author, the divertisement of 
 
 tenderfeet, and the joy of all those who love 
 
 God's Great Out-of -Doors 
 
 1910 
 NEW YORK LYCEUM PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 45 BROADWAY, NEW YORK, ROOM 168 
 
 All rights reserved 
 Copyrighted by Capt. John Wallace Crawford, 1910 
 
'..': 
 
JOHN A. HILL 
 
 Best all 'round friend I ever knew, 
 Unselfish, unafraid to do, 
 Clean cut and unassuming, too, 
 
 All manly traits possessing 
 To you, my friend of Auld Lang Syne, 
 I dedicate this book d 1 mine, 
 And may you find in ev'ry line 
 
 A broncho's love and blessing. 
 
 Yours in clouds or sunshine, 
 JOHN WALLACE CRAWFORD. 
 
A COMRADE'S FOREWORD 
 
 It is as natural for Captain Jack Crawford to weave his 
 inspired thoughts into a fabric of song as it is for the birds 
 of the Western wilds to warble their glad greetings to the 
 golden dawn of a summer day. I was his companion his 
 "pard," as we Westerners describe close friendship for many 
 years, and it may not be a very great exaggeration to declare 
 that I never knew a day to pass in which he did not, with 
 rapidly moving pencil, give outflow to his poetic imaginings 
 in running rhyme. In the rude cabin in the wilds of the San 
 Andreas mountains in New Mexico which sheltered us for 
 many months, in the saddle while on the trail, by the light 
 of the campfire after a day's hard ride, and sometimes when 
 apprehended dangers cautioned against the use of a fire which 
 might attract undesirable attention from native Americans 
 in gaudy headdress and hideous war paint, with saddle for seat 
 and buckskin-covered knee for table he would sit in the 
 bright light of the Southwestern moon and write, and write, 
 and write until I sometimes thought that versification was in 
 his case an uncontrollable mania. The pad of paper and the 
 pencil were regarded by him as being as necessary in the saddle 
 pocket as the hardtack and jerked meat which usually con- 
 stituted the scouting menu when on the trail. 
 
 While in the West, his songs were all of the West. He 
 saw poetry in everything from the awe-inspiring grandeur of 
 the mountains to the sneaking coyotes which sang us to 
 sleep at night from their perch on a distant sandhill, but since 
 he drifted Eastward and came into touch with civilization 
 
 [3] 
 
he has tuned his poetic lyre in a different key and writes of 
 more commonplace things. 
 
 His first book of verse was printed many years ago and was 
 wholly made up of Western song. Such copies as are yet 
 in existence are preserved as valued mementoes by many of 
 his friends and companions who knew him in border life. 
 The present volume embodies a few of his earlier wildland 
 efforts interspersed among poems of varied character. 
 
 The literary polish which characterizes the work of the 
 great poets will not be found in the productions of this pictur- 
 esque son of the Borderland, but tender, soulful touches of 
 human nature crop out in every verse. He never sat as a boy 
 beneath the watchful eye of the old-time schoolmaster in 
 vogue in the days of his boyhood who stood as a tyrant be- 
 fore his tousle-headed flock with a dog-eared book in one 
 hand and a corrective hickory rod in the other. What edu- 
 cation he possesses was picked up in the wild school of 
 Nature and through association with army officers and their 
 wives at the several frontier military posts at which he was 
 stationed while in the government scouting service. Before 
 learning to read after returning from active service at the 
 front in the great Civil War, the page of a printed book was 
 to him but a jumble of unmeaning black characters massed upon 
 white paper. To use a homely colloquialism, he did not 
 "know B from a bull's foot" until taught the alphabet by a 
 Sister of Charity when, near the close of the War, he lay 
 upon a hospital cot suffering from a gunshot wound received in 
 battle. Considering all of this, the work between the covers 
 of this volume must appeal to the educated reader as being 
 truly remarkable. 
 
 With these simple words of introduction the drippings from 
 his poetic pen are passed up to the" reader. 
 
 Denver, Colorado. JAMES BARTON ADAMS. 
 
 [4] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 . . PAGE 
 
 A Bit of Doggerel 15 
 
 A Broncho's Philosophy . 
 
 A Comrade's Foreword 3 
 
 A Cure for Insomnia 90 
 
 A Happy Hit .... .... 142 
 
 A Memory 36 
 
 A Message from the Dead . . . 32 
 
 An Old Trapper's Religion . 122 
 
 A Plea to the Boys 22 
 
 A Tribute to Old Glory 15 
 
 A Tribute to My Old Pard, "Tom" Walsh 52 
 
 A Tribute to Father Judge 48 
 
 At the Mission Door 28 
 
 A Sunshine Boomerang 29 
 
 A Sermon to Myself 38 
 
 A Scout's Greeting . 62 
 
 A Yuletide Bouquet 42 
 
 Bet Your Last Dollar on It 44 
 
 Broncho vs. Bicycle 104 
 
 Burns' Anniversary 73 
 
 Camp Fire Sparks 64 
 
 Come Back, Papa 89 
 
 Dedication 2 
 
 Decoration Day 146 
 
 Does it Pay? 39 
 
 Dot Little Crippled Boy Vot Died 98 
 
 Emblematic 72 
 
 Faith 82 
 
 God's Anteroom 18 
 
 Greeting 31 
 
 Heard in the Cane Brake 93 
 
 Howdy, Teddy? Howdy Do? 60 
 
 Hymn of Nature's Creed 13 
 
 If I But Could 57 
 
 If You Should Die Tonight 30 
 
 In Donegal 92 
 
 Inspiration 11 
 
 It Doesn't Pay 14 
 
 I've Got the Brand 49 
 
 Jim's Letter 136 
 
 Kit Carson 27 
 
 Lines to L. L 33 
 
 Memorial Day 144 
 
 Mother's Prayers 26 
 
 Mother's Way 16 
 
 My Little New Log Cabin in the Hills 86 
 
 Nora Lee 80 
 
 Not a Sin to Lie That Way . 134 
 
 " Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep " 79 
 
PAGE 
 
 Ol' Bill Reynolds's 'Dopted Boy . 112 
 
 Our Roosevelt 66 
 
 Our Martyred Dead 145 
 
 Rattlin' Toe's Prayer 118 
 
 Resigned 83 
 
 Sanctimon'yus Ike 116 
 
 Saviour of My Soul 75 
 
 Serenade in the Hills .78 
 
 Sleep, Soldier, Sleep 139 
 
 Some Bronco Philosophy 25 
 
 Sunshine 34 
 
 Thanksgiving 17 
 
 Thar' Was Jim 108 
 
 The Broncho 10 
 
 The Elk and His Mission 43 
 
 The Gallant Seventy-Ninth 140 
 
 The Gray and the Blue in Domestic Life 149 
 
 The Harvest 24 
 
 The Heavenly Telephone .'.... 88 
 
 The Irish Lover 87 
 
 The Keystone of the Union 84 
 
 The Last Roll Call 117 
 
 The Man with the Pick and the Drill 68 
 
 The Mountain Boy's Letter 56 
 
 The Music of Life 76 
 
 The Old Kentucky Rifle 100 
 
 The Optimistic Warbler 91 
 
 The Reporter 40 
 
 The Scout's Retreat 30 
 
 The Shadow of a Curse 20 
 
 The Songs Unsung 12 
 
 The Sunshine Trail 47 
 
 The True Story of Marching Through Georgia . . . .125 
 
 The Veteran and His Grandson 126 
 
 The Womanhood of Man 1 10 
 
 Thirty Years Ago 94 
 
 This Ain't Poetry It's God's Truth 46 
 
 To Andrew Carnegie 61 
 
 To Mark Twain 67 
 
 To Miriam 67 
 
 To Mrs. Kate Brownlee Sherwood 70 
 
 To My Book 41 
 
 To My Winchester 54 
 
 To One of God's Queens 59 
 
 To the Daughter of General John B. Gorden .... 50 
 
 What Do I Know? 9 
 
 Whar' the Hand o' God Is Seen 7 
 
 When Bill Come Home 131 
 
 Who the Heroes Were 103 
 
 Woman's Influence 65 
 
WHAR THE HAND O' GOD IS SEEN 
 
 Do I like the city, stranger? Tisn't likely that I would ; 
 Tisn't likely that a ranger from the border ever could 
 Git accustomed to the flurry an' the loud unearthly 
 
 noise 
 
 Everybody in a hurry, men an' wimmin, gals an' boys, 
 All a rushin' like the nation 'mid the rumble an' the jar, 
 Jes' as if their souls' salvation hung upon their gittin' 
 
 thar. 
 
 Like it? No. I love to wander 
 'Mid the vales an' mountains green, 
 
 In the border land out yonder, 
 Whar' the hand o' God is seen. 
 
 Nothin' here but bricks an* mortar, towerin' overhead 
 
 so high 
 
 That you never see a quarter o' the overhangin' sky, 
 Not a tree or grassy medder, not a runnin' brook in 
 
 sight, 
 Nothin' but the buildins' shadder makin' gloom of 
 
 Heaven's light. 
 E'en the birds are all imported from away acrost the 
 
 sea 
 Faces meet me all distorted with the hand of misery. 
 
 Like it? No. I love to wander 
 'Mid the vales an' mountains green, 
 
 In the border land out yonder, 
 Whar' the hand o' God is seen. 
 
 [7] 
 
.ii 1 railroad trains above you, streets by workmen 
 
 all' defaced, 
 Everybody tryin' to shove you in the gutter in their 
 
 haste. 
 Cars an' carts an' wagons rumblin' through the streets 
 
 with deafen'n' roar, 
 Drivers yellin', swearin', grumblin', jes' like imps from 
 
 Sheol's shore; 
 Factories jinin' in the chorus, helpin' 'long the din to 
 
 swell; 
 
 Auctioneers in tones sonorous, lying 'bout the goods 
 they sell. 
 Like it? No. I love to wander 
 
 'Mid the vales an' mountains green, 
 In the border land out yonder, 
 
 Whar' the hand o' God is seen. 
 Yes, I love the Western border ; pine trees wavin* in the 
 
 air, 
 
 Rocks piled up in rough disorder, birds a-singin' every- 
 where ; 
 Deer a playin' in their gladness, elks a feedin' in the 
 
 glen; 
 Not a trace o' pain or sadness campin' on the trail o' 
 
 men. 
 Brooks o' crystal clearness flowin' o'er the rocks, an' 
 
 lovely flowers 
 
 In their tinted beauty growin' in the mountain dells an' 
 bowers. 
 Fairer picture the Creator 
 
 Never threw on earthly screen, 
 Than this lovely home o' Natur' 
 Whar the hand o' God is seen. 
 
 [8] 
 
WHAT DO I KNOW? 
 
 ("What do you know, Captain Jack?" asked an editor. In 
 ten minutes Captain Crawfofd handed him the following 
 poem) : 
 
 What do I know? Poor little me, 
 I need a microscope to see 
 What I do know ; 
 
 The overflow 
 
 Of nature's riches, all aglow 
 And sparkling with the stars and dew; 
 I only know beyond the blue 
 I cannot see. 
 
 Poor little me. 
 
 What do I know ? I know but this : 
 I know my ignorance is bliss 
 Most wisely planned. 
 
 I understand 
 
 That tow'ring pines and mountains grand 
 Are dear and beautiful to me; 
 Beyond their peaks I cannot see, 
 But God is there, 
 
 And everywhere, 
 And this is good enough for me. 
 
 m 
 
THE BRONCHO 
 
 I am saddest when I'm gladdest 
 
 And I'm gladdest when I'm sad; 
 I am maddest when I'm baddest, 
 
 And I'm baddest when I'm mad. 
 But my sadness and my badness 
 
 With my madness all combine, 
 Just to fertilize the gladness 
 
 In this broncho soul of mine. 
 
 I would rather be a broncho 
 
 With a lightnin' disposition, 
 Than a goody goody smooth one, 
 
 Who for suckers goes a-fishin'. 
 For the broncho shows his colors 
 
 An' he reaches out behind him, 
 An' you know just what's a comin' 
 
 When you undertake to bind him. 
 
 He is not a goin' to stand for 
 
 To be roped an' throw'd an' bottled, 
 To be bridled, cinched an' saddled, 
 
 An* unmercifully throttled; 
 An' he'll buck and kick like blazes 
 
 Just for all that there is to him, 
 You may break his heart and kill him, 
 
 But you never can subdue him. 
 
 What's the reason, do you ask me? 
 
 Ask the chump as does the ropin'. 
 He'll admit a pound of sugar's 
 
 .Worth a hundred pounds of dopin'. 
 
 [10] 
 
An' it's well the broncho knows it, 
 An' resents it when you bleed him ; 
 
 But with smiles an' lumps of sugar 
 Why, a little child can lead him. 
 
 INSPIRATION 
 
 I scale imagination's dreamy heights 
 And soar away beyond all earthly sights 
 And seek at Nature's best such nourishment 
 As only comes with harmonies so blent 
 With vision, that in childhood's fairyland 
 Were touched by magic of an unseen hand. 
 
 Thus seeing the unseen, imbibing more 
 Than ever was contained in richest store 
 Of literature, of poetry, or art, 
 \Vhere mechanism forms the greater part 
 While Mother Nature hides within her breast 
 The flaming torch of truth and with it best 
 Of inspirations, pure and undented; 
 I felt her touch when I was yet a child. 
 
 I dreamed the same sweet dream I'm dreaming now 
 And sometimes plucked a pansy from her brow, 
 'Tansies for thoughts," as sweet Ophelia said, 
 And through sweet phantom thoughts my dreams were 
 
 led; 
 
 I wove it in a wreath of simple rhyme 
 And placed it on the brow of Father Time, 
 
 [11] 
 
THE SONGS UNSUNG 
 
 Oh, I wish I could sing 
 
 The real songs that oft spring 
 
 From the musical depths of my soul ; 
 
 There's a symphony there, 
 
 With a melody rare, 
 
 Sweetest harmony blending the whole. 
 
 Like a psean it seems 
 
 As it thrills through my dreams, 
 
 When the harp of my soul starts to play, 
 
 But the instant I sing, 
 
 Like a bird on the wing, 
 
 It trembles and flutters away. 
 
 Oh, I wish I could sing, 
 
 When the bells start to ring 
 
 The chimes that come soft through the air ; 
 
 When the birds and the bees 
 
 Hum and sing in the breeze 
 
 And sweet life surges through, everywhere. 
 
 In the breeze as it floats, 
 I can hear the true notes, 
 To catch them I eagerly try; 
 Then I hum it again 
 Till the sweet minor strain 
 Is turned to a tear or a sigh. 
 
 [12] 
 
HYMN OF NATURE'S GREED 
 
 There's a glint of glory gleaming, 
 
 There's a flag of love outstreaming 
 
 O'er the stronghold of the ramparts of your soul; 
 
 There's a flag of truce uplifting, 
 
 Clouds of care are passing drifting, 
 
 There's a haven where the troubled waters roll 
 
 Cheer up and be glad, 
 
 Let the dead past be sad, 
 
 All hail the bright sunbeams today; 
 
 In your soul there's a light 
 
 That will burn through the night, 
 
 And drive all the dark clouds away. 
 
 There's a wondrous depth of feeling 
 
 We are wrongfully concealing; 
 
 Can't you feel it in the thrilling of your soul? 
 
 What you need is reconstruction 
 
 And a roborant eruption 
 
 Of the glory you are striving to control. 
 
 Mother Nature's hand is reaching 
 You can hear her voice beseeching 
 That you, her child, will but her laws obey. 
 If you're man enough to face her, 
 Don't abuse her but embrace her, 
 
 She will heal your wounds and make your heartstrings 
 play. 
 
 [13] 
 
IT DOESN'T PAY 
 
 "What's gone and what's past help, should be past grief." 
 
 Shak esp eare. 
 
 We should thank the bard of Avon for this truthful 
 
 sentiment ; 
 
 His wisdom, his philosophy, with sunny humor blent 
 Have conquered many a sorrow made light of many 
 
 a care, 
 And turned the gloom of worriment to sunlight clear 
 
 and fair. 
 
 I love to steal his thunder, when it rumbles in my soul ; 
 The flashes of his lightning oft light me to my goal. 
 And thus, while I reflect him, in my simple, rustic ways, 
 Some rustic folks may read him, who could never read 
 his plays. 
 
 Because their understanding, undeveloped, cannot grasp 
 What their souls may drink with pleasure, if I open up 
 
 the clasp 
 
 In a simple transformation or a rustic bas-relief. 
 "What's past and can't be mended should, indeed, be 
 
 past all grief." 
 
 So I ask of you, my brother, or my comrade, does it pay 
 To cloud your splendid intellect with what has passed 
 
 away? 
 
 To dwarf the possibility of reaching yonder goal 
 To handicap your genius with wet blankets on your 
 
 soul? 
 
 [14] 
 
Get wise, my friend, let wisdom take the place of false 
 
 pretense ; 
 There's only one thing needful, that's a bit of common 
 
 sense. 
 
 If you'll only make an effort you'll get it right away, 
 And your answer to my question will be, "No, it doesn't 
 
 pay." 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO OLD GLORY 
 
 O beautiful emblem on Liberty's tree! 
 
 Star-Spangled Gem of the Land of the Free! 
 
 1 love thee, Old Glory, with love that is true 
 And as pure as the stars in thy heavenly blue. 
 There's no flag like my flag; there's no flag like thine, 
 O patriots, countrymen, comrades of mine! 
 
 'Tis kissed by God's breezes, by angels caressed, 
 Beloved by the North, by the South, East and West ; 
 'Tis striped like the rainbow, like rays of the sun, 
 When twilight is fading, and moon has begun, 
 And each brilliant star shooting out when unfurled 
 Sends flashes of hope to the oppressed of the world. 
 
 A BIT OF DOGGEREL 
 
 The most faithful dog that I ever knew, 
 Most lovable and kind and true, 
 Was a yellow cur, tender and brave, 
 Whose great heart broke on his master's grave. 
 [15] 
 
MOTHER'S WAY 
 
 Whatever my soul may long for, 
 
 Whatever my eyes may see, 
 The simple faith of mother 
 
 Is broad enough for me. 
 
 For years and years, for months, from day to day, 
 
 In camp or field where rainbow-tinted spray 
 
 Rises in misty monuments on high, 
 
 To mingle with the dewdrops in the sky, 
 
 I've heard a voice, sometimes in whispers low, 
 
 I've felt the feathery touch like flakes of snow 
 
 Descending when the stars were hid from view 
 
 And not a silvery spray in heaven's blue ; 
 
 And yet beyond it all I saw a light 
 
 That pierced the Stygian darkness of the night, 
 
 And, though my tired eyes were closed the while, 
 
 I saw the jeweled eyes the tender smile 
 
 That midnight gloom nor snowy clouds could 
 
 smother ; 
 I heard I felt I saw the face of Mother. 
 
 Oh, peaceful sleep that comes with thoughts like 
 
 this. 
 
 That whispers peace, and bids me rise to kiss 
 The rod administered by unseen hand ! 
 Nor do I try to think I understand. 
 I only know, that as I sit me here 
 And note the soft, low whisperings in my ear, 
 That somewhere there's a Master of my mind 
 That I can see and worship, though I'm blind, 
 [16] 
 
And while He thus dictates I'll have none other, 
 But God of Faith, and Hope, Sunshine and Mother. 
 
 God is good and good is God, 
 And God and good together 
 Will keep us clean unsight unseen 
 Throughout life's changing weather. 
 
 THANKSGIVING 
 
 We thank Thee, God, the Giver of all good, 
 
 For Peace and Justice, strenuous truths uniting 
 For giving us that glorious Man who stood 
 
 Between the lines and stopped inhuman fighting: 
 For bounteous harvests, strong heroic souls, 
 
 Who dare to follow him we call our Teddy 
 For truth and honor where Old Glory rules ; 
 
 For statesmen unafraid, true, strong and steady. 
 
 God speed the truth, let Justice reign supreme 
 
 Let Labor, Law and Loyalty combine 
 To make it real, our brightest, happiest dream 
 
 Of Liberty and Love and God's Sunshine; 
 And when Thanksgiving Day returns once more 
 
 May Peace and Plenty, strolling hand in hand, 
 Go on and on toward a richer shore, 
 
 While Song and Laughter echoes through the land. 
 
 And echoing from every hill and glen 
 
 Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 
 
 AMEN. 
 
 [17] 
 
GOD'S ANTEROOM 
 
 THE GRAND CANYON OF ARIZONA 
 
 canyon, grand and wild and free! 
 You've got a lariat on me. 
 
 My soul is broncho-busted, too, 
 My hat is off. I bow to you, 
 Almighty Hand, who cut this brand 
 That broncho souls can understand. 
 
 1 gaze in awe and silence here ; 
 I want to laugh, I find a tear 
 That irrigates the soul I feel. 
 
 O Mother Nature, I would kneel 
 And clasp and kiss thy mighty hand 
 And worship in this temple grand. 
 
 What's that you say, you silly dude? 
 Such sentiments are weak and crude? 
 God! Yes, to brainless things like you, 
 Whose soul no greatness could imbue, 
 To see, or feel, or understand 
 God's mighty hand. 
 
 You go to Europe, do you not? 
 Because you worship God, I wot- 
 Yes, fashion's god, a foolish dame, 
 And yet you love her just the same, 
 And bow and worship at her shrine 
 How different this God of mine! 
 
 Almighty scar on mountain crest! 
 My soul seems waking from the tomb, 
 [18] 
 
And I, a mite on Nature's breast, 
 I never knew, I never guessed, 
 But now I know what is, is best, 
 And this is God's own anteroom. 
 
 Mother Nature, hold my hand 
 And steady me a little while, 
 That I may feel and understand 
 This awe-inspiring sight so grand, 
 God's greatest, most impressive brand 
 Clean-cut, and deeper than a mile. 
 
 And now I see the lightning flash, 
 
 1 hear the thunder roll and crash, 
 While echoes through the canyon dash 
 
 'Mid heaven's tears. 
 O Mother Nature, hold me tight 
 While fall the shadows of the night; 
 My trembling soul is all afright 
 With holy fears. 
 
 Almighty scar! Almighty Hand 
 
 That smote thee, who can understand 
 
 And who describe this wondrous land 
 
 Beyond compare? 
 
 Can mortal paint the flower's perfume, 
 Or see beyond the mystic tomb, 
 Or e'en describe God's anteroom, 
 
 So wondrous fair? 
 
 [19] 
 
THE SHADOW OF A CURSE 
 
 I saw it first when roses bloomed 
 
 Upon the cheek pressed close to mine; 
 When in her arms I laughed and crooned, 
 
 And I, a bit of God's sunshine, 
 Was sent to seal her woman's love 
 
 To bind her closer to her fate. 
 No trusting, cooing turtle dove 
 
 Was ever truer to her mate. 
 
 I saw it as a toddling child, 
 
 Nor knew the cause of mother's tears, 
 Till later reckless, though, and wild, 
 
 I shared in all her hopes and fears. 
 I saw it snatch the crust of bread 
 
 From lips of starving child, and then 
 I saw it lay its victims dead, 
 
 In home and church and prison pen. 
 
 I saw it in the humble cot 
 
 Amid the towering pines afar; 
 I saw it in degraded sot, 
 
 A libel foul of what we are. 
 And stalking through the busy marts 
 
 Of towns and cities every day, 
 You'll find it breaking tender hearts 
 
 And dooming manhood to decay. 
 
 You'll see it drive away the blush 
 That steals a halo to the cheek, 
 
 And in its stead a burning flush 
 
 Will change with shame the pure and meek. 
 [20] 
 
It comes in spite of woman's tears, 
 In spite of mother's strong appeals, 
 
 And hearts, deep sorrowing for years, 
 Are crushed 'neath its relentless wheels. 
 
 It comes to murder innocence 
 
 To torture ere the final blow 
 To hold its victims in suspense, 
 
 While knowing death is sure, though slow. 
 And while misleading mother's boys, 
 
 With painted sirens for a bait 
 Poor fool! he plays with the decoys, 
 
 And pays the cost, alas ! too late. 
 
 It comes to dig a million graves 
 
 Of noblest men God ever made. 
 Great hearts and brains are quickest slaves, 
 
 And easiest started down the grade. 
 Of all the plagues that ever spread, 
 
 And all the instruments to slay, 
 None ever claimed so many dead 
 
 As Demon Drink can claim to-day. 
 
 And yet, if people would but think 
 
 Of all the bitterness and woe 
 That come from the foul fountain's brink 
 
 With aching hearts and heads bowed low, 
 They would suppress this crying curse, 
 
 And make our country grandly free, 
 Increasing wealth and brain and purse, 
 
 And truly give us liberty. 
 
 [21] 
 
A PLEA TO THE BOYS 
 
 My most sincere and earnest prayer 
 
 Is not for wealth or fame 
 And yet my castles in the air 
 
 Keep growing, just the same. 
 And if at times I sigh for wealth 
 
 I say it frank and true 
 I want not riches for myself, 
 
 But for the good 'twill do ! 
 
 And what I want to do and do 
 
 When fortune favors me, 
 Is just to find a boy or two 
 
 And tell them earnestly, 
 Impressed with all sincerity, 
 
 Which boys can understand 
 Recount with all austerity 
 
 The truth at my command. 
 
 I like to talk to reckless boys 
 
 The black sheep and the rest, 
 About the sorrows and the joys 
 
 Of roughing it out West. 
 And how a thousand boys or more 
 
 On false dime-novel trails, 
 Who ran away in days of yore, 
 
 Are now in Western jails. 
 
 Oh, if the boys will only heed 
 The truth, that I know best, 
 
 I'm sure they never more would read 
 Those nightmares of the West. 
 [22] 
 
And all the long-haired scouts who claim 
 They took scalps by the score 
 
 Have lied they only gained their fame 
 As showmen, nothing more. 
 
 Suppose you found a rattlesnake 
 
 Coiled up beside his nest; 
 You wouldn't pick him up and take 
 
 His snakeship to your breast? 
 Well, boys, the man who signs his name 
 
 To stories such as these 
 Will strike and sting you just the same. 
 
 Don't read such nonsense, please. 
 
 And so, dear boys, my daily prayer 
 
 Is not for wealth or fame; 
 But I must do and I must dare 
 
 A lot, in honor's name. 
 And all I ask is for a chance 
 
 To prove this lesson true; 
 My broncho soul with joy will dance 
 
 When I can talk to you. 
 
 Some day I mean to organize 
 
 A juvenile crusade, 
 With honest hearts, and sunlit eyes, 
 
 "Determined, unafraid," 
 To march to Washington en masse, 
 
 And there unmask the fakes 
 To pray our lawmakers to pass 
 
 An act to kill the snakes. 
 
 [23] 
 
THE HARVEST 
 
 When your head is bowed in sorrow 
 
 And your soul is out of tune, 
 When the prospects of to-morrow 
 
 Are behind a veil of gloom, 
 Can't you see the light beyond it 
 
 Just a glimmer of the prize? 
 Keep a groping and you'll find it 
 
 Just a blessing in disguise. 
 
 Did you ever climb the mountain, 
 
 Weary, sore-foot and afraid 
 You would never reach the fountain 
 
 On the summit in the shade? 
 Then a sudden glint of glory 
 
 Seemed to flash before your eyes, 
 And the sequel to the story 
 
 'Twas a blessing in disguise. 
 
 Courage is the only asset 
 
 That will conquer in the fight 
 If you have the will to mass it 
 
 On the lines of truth and right. 
 And when at last victorious, 
 
 From the conflict you arise, 
 You'll reap a harvest glorious 
 
 From your blessings in disguise. 
 
 [24] 
 
SOME BRONCHO PHILOSOPHY 
 
 I wonder is it perfume of the flowers I'm smelling now, 
 
 Or the laurel being woven will it fit my sun-tanned 
 brow ? 
 
 And I wonder will they bring it while life's vistas on- 
 ward spread, 
 
 Or wait, before they fling it, till the heart is cold and 
 dead? 
 
 It is not so much the roses or the laurel that I crave, 
 
 But the sunshine of the friendship and approval of the 
 brave 
 
 Who are not afraid to speak it and to grasp a fellow's 
 hands 
 
 When he's slipping cogs and sinking in the world's un- 
 certain sands. 
 
 That's the time to fling the lasso, with a wreath upon the 
 
 rope. 
 Let its coils of strength encircle some poor struggler's 
 
 ray of hope; 
 For the moment that you yank him where his feet will 
 
 hit bed rock, 
 There's a heap of good set going and a premium on 
 
 your stock. 
 
 And I can not help believing that the sunny smiles we 
 
 fling, 
 The bits of fun we scatter, with the songs we love to 
 
 sing, 
 Are the harbingers of blessings on the scrimmage line 
 
 of hope 
 That will light the trail with sunshine as we journey 
 
 o'er life's slope. 
 
 [25] 
 
MOTHER'S PRAYERS 
 
 (Written under a pine tree in the Black Hills while Chief of 
 the Black Hills Rangers in June, 1876.) 
 
 In the dreary hours of midnight, 
 
 When the camp's asleep and still, 
 Not a sound save rippling streamlets, 
 
 Or the voice of whippoorwill, 
 Then I think of dear, loved faces, 
 
 As I steal around my beat 
 Think of other scenes and places, 
 
 And of mother's voice so sweet. 
 
 Mother, who in days of childhood, 
 
 Prayed as only mothers pray; 
 "Guard his footsteps in the wildwood, 
 
 Let him not be led astray !" 
 And when danger hovered o'er me, 
 
 When my life was full of cares, 
 Then a sweet form passed before me, 
 
 And I thought of mother's prayers. 
 
 Mother's prayers! Ah! sacred memory, 
 
 I can hear her sweet voice now, 
 As upon her deathbed lying, 
 
 With her hand upon my brow, 
 Calling on a Saviour's blessing, 
 
 Ere she climbed the Golden Stairs. 
 There's a sting in all transgressing, 
 
 When I think of mother's prayers. 
 
 And while here I tell the story 
 Why my boyhood's days were sad, 
 [26] 
 
Is there not some boy before me 
 Who will make a mother glad? 
 
 Swell her heart with fond emotion, 
 Drive away life's bitter cares, 
 
 Sign and keep the pledge for mother 
 Heed, oh, heed her earnest prayers! 
 
 Oh, my brother, do not drink it, 
 
 Think of all your mother said; 
 While upon her deathbed lying 
 
 Or perhaps she is not dead ; 
 Don't you kill her, then, I pray you, 
 
 She has quite enough of cares ; 
 Sign the Pledge, and God will help you 
 
 If you'll think of mother's prayers. 
 
 KIT CARSON 
 
 (ADIOS, COMPANERO) 
 
 Adios, dear old hero, in peace may you slumber, 
 Adown the near banks of the old Rio Grande; 
 
 We think of your daring with awe and with wonder, 
 As near to your tomb now uncovered we stand. 
 
 A rude, simple tablet, a plain slab of marble, 
 
 Is all that your comrades have placed o'er your grave, 
 
 Sleep on, loyal heart, while the wild songbirds warble 
 An anthem of praise to the deeds of the brave. 
 
 The veil of the future your brave soul has riven, 
 To drink in the sweetest, celestial joys; 
 
 In advance you have taken the trail up to heaven 
 To locate a camp for the rest of the boys. 
 [27] 
 
AT THE MISSION DOOR 
 
 A little newsboy, weeping, stood 
 
 Outside the Waif's Retreat; 
 A shaggy dog, his only friend, 
 
 Was crouching at his feet 
 With attitude of perfect trust, 
 
 And tender, lovelit eye. 
 I saw the boy bend o'er him 
 
 With tear-wet cheek and sigh. 
 
 I asked him why those bitter tears; 
 
 He turned away his head, 
 And answered: "Dere's me only frien' 
 
 Since dad an' mam is dead. 
 An' dose folks in de Mission say 
 
 Dat Tip he can't come in ; 
 Dat lovin' of a dog like dis 
 
 Ain't notin' but a sin. 
 
 "Well, boss, I don't know notin' much, 
 
 But say, when mudder died 
 Tip foun' me at her grave at night, 
 
 An' laid down by my side ; 
 An' when I cried dere all alone 
 
 His head was on my knee, 
 An' somethin' in his eyes jes' said 
 
 He'd be a frien' to me. 
 
 "Now, boss, you look into dem eyes, 
 
 An' say if he can't speak. 
 I tells yer, Tip's a gentleman, 
 
 If he ain't nice and sleek. 
 [28] 
 
He don't snap like no low-down cur, 
 
 His ways is high an' fine; 
 An' when I t'ink how good he is 
 
 I'm mighty proud he's mine." 
 
 Tip seemed to feel his master's praise, 
 
 He looked so very" wise, 
 As though some sad, imprisoned soul 
 
 Were shining through his eyes. 
 I took the boy's brown hand in mine 
 
 And wiped his tears away; 
 I told him that no nobler friend 
 
 Had man on earth to-day. 
 
 Both boy and dog crept to my heart, 
 
 And they have now become 
 The sunshine of my cheerless hearth, 
 
 The blessings of my home. 
 And all that I shall ask of Him 
 
 Who keeps the heavenly log 
 May I be worthy that boy's love, 
 
 The friendship of his dog. 
 
 A SUNSHINE BOOMERANG 
 
 When a bit of sunshine hits ye, 
 After passing of a cloud, 
 When a bit of laughter gits ye 
 
 An' yer spine is feelin' proud, 
 Don't forgit to up and fling it 
 At a soul that's feelin' blue, 
 For the minit that ye sling it 
 It's a boomerang to you. 
 [29] 
 
THE SCOUTS RETREAT 
 
 A cubby hole a-sittin' on a crest, 
 
 An' scraggy peaks a-pointin' to the sky, 
 A mountain lair, above an eagle's nest, 
 
 A runnin' brook, a cataract close by, 
 An orchestra by Mother Nature led, 
 
 A herd o' deer a-browsin' at my feet, 
 God's shinin' gems a-sparkle overhead 
 
 And evening vespers in the Scout's Retreat. 
 
 Almighty King of kings and Lord of lords, 
 
 The lonely scout an' hunter hears thy voice; 
 How with the birds an' bees an' brooks it chords, 
 
 An' earth an' heaven get closer to rejoice; 
 Nor pomp, nor pride, nor hypocritic zeal, 
 
 Nor padded pews, nor soft and springy seat, 
 Are needed where there's nothing to conceal 
 
 From Him, who watches o'er the Scout's Retreat. 
 
 IF YOU SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT 
 
 Suppose that you should die to-night ; 
 
 Just stop and think and hold your breath 
 Remember, there is just one wink 
 
 ,'Twixt you and Death old sure-thing Death. 
 
 Suppose that you should die to-night; 
 
 Would someone miss a sunny ray? 
 Would someone kiss the face of clay? 
 
 Would someone watch and pray? 
 [30] 
 
Suppose that you should die to-night ; 
 
 Would some dear heart with love for you 
 A drop impart of heaven's dew, 
 
 For friendship that was branded true? 
 
 Ah, yes, if I should die to-night, 
 
 I know that some my smile would miss; 
 Some little waif might kneel to kiss 
 
 The hand that signs my name to this 
 If I should die to-night. 
 
 GREETING 
 
 When your rainbow of hope, be it near or afar, 
 
 Is throwing its searchlight on you; 
 When you feel that the gate of success is ajar 
 
 And the star in hope's crescent peeps through, 
 
 Don't leave a poor brother or sister behind, 
 There are many hard pulls on life's slope; 
 
 And some weary brother, nearsighted, might find 
 His star through your own telescope. 
 
 And sometimes a word or a look or a touch 
 . Of nature, that makes us all kin, 
 A smile, or a slap on the back, will do much 
 To help modest merit to win. 
 
 Come, join me, O, ye who have struggled and won 
 Just a mite, with a smile and a tear, 
 
 And hark to the voice that will whisper, "Well done," 
 And enjoy a real happy New Year. 
 
 [31] 
 
A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD 
 
 We were playmates. Little Tommy 
 
 Was the sweetest, brightest boy 
 I had ever known, the object 
 
 Of his mother's pride and joy. 
 I had oft heard people saying 
 
 "He will make his mark some day" ; 
 And I saw that mother praying 
 
 When they led her son astray. 
 
 I remember oh, how vivid 
 
 Comes the picture that I saw 
 When I found my comrade, Tommy, 
 
 In the clutches of the law; 
 And a broken-hearted mother 
 
 With a dry and anguished eye 
 Kissed her darling boy at parting 
 
 When she left him, but to die. 
 
 Cigarettes they were the starter, 
 
 Then dime-novels with their curse; 
 Then 'twas wine and wicked women 
 
 Leading Tom from bad to worse, 
 Till at last he died in prison 
 
 In a felon's narrow cell, 
 And he bade me give the warning 
 
 Of the road that leads to Hell. 
 
 Boys, I wish that I could tell you 
 While the tears are in my eyes, 
 
 Of the snares set to entrap you, 
 By the false pretense and lies 
 [32] 
 
That are told by men you worship 
 In your honest innocence, 
 
 And the papers help to boom them 
 In their vicious false pretense. 
 
 This is just a simple story, 
 
 But, so help me God, 'tis true; 
 And my dying comrade, Tommy, 
 
 Bade me tell it straight to you. 
 Will you heed this honest warning 
 
 When to-night you go to bed? 
 Think it over and remember 
 
 It's a message from the dead. 
 
 LINES TO L. L. 
 
 August 29, 1910 
 
 I bow in homage at thy shrine, 
 
 Dear, brilliant pard and friend of mine. 
 
 Unselfish, undismayed, 
 You lighten many a weary woe, 
 And scatter sunshine as you go, 
 You keep my broncho soul aglow, 
 
 Unroiled and unafraid. 
 
 Though words of mine could never tell 
 All that within my heart doth dwell, 
 
 I know you understand 
 What I would say my heart's intent; 
 I thank the Lord that He has lent 
 Your gentle presence, and has sent 
 
 Your loyal, guiding hand. 
 [33] 
 
SUNSHINE 
 
 I never like to see a man a 'rastlin' with the dumps 
 'Cause in the game o' life he doesn't always catch the 
 
 trumps ; 
 
 But I can always cotton to a free and easy cuss 
 As takes his dose, and thanks the Lord it isn't any wuss. 
 There ain't no use o' kickin' and swearin' at your luck, 
 You can't correct the trouble mor'n you can drown a 
 
 duck. 
 Remember, when beneath the load your sufferin' head 
 
 is bowed, 
 That God '11 sprinkle sunshine in the trail of every 
 
 cloud. 
 
 If you should see a fellow-man with trouble's flag un- 
 furled, 
 
 And lookin' like he didn't have a friend in all the world, 
 
 Go up and slap him on the back, and holler "how dy 
 do?" 
 
 And grasp his hand so warm he'll know he has a friend 
 in you, 
 
 Then ax him what's a-hurtin' 'im, an' laugh his cares 
 away, 
 
 And tell him that the darkest night is just before the 
 day. 
 
 Don't talk in graveyard palaver, but say it right out loud, 
 
 That God '11 sprinkle sunshine in the trail of every 
 cloud. 
 
 This world at best is but a hash of pleasure and of 
 
 pain, 
 Some days are bright and sunny, and some all sloshed 
 
 with rain, 
 
 [34] 
 
And that's just how it ought to be, for when the clouds 
 
 roll by, 
 We know just how to 'predate the bright and smilin' 
 
 sky. 
 So learn to take it as it comes, and don't sweat at the 
 
 pores 
 
 Because the Lord's opinion doesn't coincide with yours ; 
 But always keep rememberin' when cares your path 
 
 enshroud, 
 That God has lots of sunshine to spill behind the cloud. 
 
 A BRONCHO'S PHILOSOPHY 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S "POME" 
 
 Don't blame the world. It's better 
 
 Than the man who wants to be 
 A somebody, but lives to save 
 
 The undertaker's fee. 
 For surely he's a dead one 
 
 On our strenuous preserves. 
 A wooden coat, six feet of earth, 
 
 Is all that he deserves. 
 
 Now, this is my advice to you 
 
 But have you got the sand 
 To buck against temptation, 
 
 And to play a winnin' hand? 
 If so, then shake! God speed you on; 
 
 You'll win, just persevere, 
 And if youVe never been a man, 
 
 Begin with the New Year. 
 [35] 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 WHEN BILL NYE COME TO HIGGINSPORT 
 
 Pap read it in the Weekly Spear 
 
 To all us folks not long ago, 
 'At old Bill Nye was comin' here 
 
 To give his great, unequalled show; 
 An' then he sort o' laffed an' said 
 
 'At folks would git their money's worth 
 Fur he would bet his bottom red 
 
 It was the greatest show on earth. 
 
 Then all the boys just buckled down 
 
 To make enough to take us in, 
 A-doin' chores around the town 
 
 By jinks, we worked like mortal sin 
 A-choppin' wood an' shov'lin' snow, 
 
 An' doin' jobs of every sort, 
 Fur we was bound to see the show 
 
 When Bill Nye come to Higginsport. 
 
 Pap said he was the queerest cuss 
 
 'At ever breathed the atmosphere, 
 An' showed his photygraf to us, 
 
 Tuk just a purpose fur the Spear. 
 By jucks, we all jest laffed outright, 
 
 An* mam, she helt her sides an' squealed- 
 On top his head was jest as white 
 
 As any tater ever peeled. 
 
 Pap said 'at Bill was in the war, 
 But never had to march a bit 
 
 [36] 
 
They had 'im in the signal corps, 
 
 An' when they thought 'twas time to quit 
 
 The fightin' fur a while, pap said, 
 
 They'd fetch 'im out an' turn 'im loose, 
 
 An' when the rebels seed his head 
 They knowed it was a flag o' truce. 
 
 Pap said 'at once a big cyclone 
 
 Come howlin' round where Bill was at, 
 An' he just stood up on a stone 
 
 An' lifted up his ol' white hat. 
 The cyclone stopped an' fetched a yell, 
 
 Then had a awful laughin' fit, 
 An' somehow tuckered out until 
 
 It couldn't blow another bit. 
 
 When pap an' mam an' sis an' me 
 
 Went down to Parker's Publick Hall, 
 I honest was afraid 'at we 
 
 Could never git inside at all. 
 It beat camp-meetin' times the way 
 
 The folks was crowdin' at the door 
 I never seed a circus day 
 
 Wake up the town like that afore. 
 
 The folks inside was mighty nigh 
 
 Like sheep a-cuddlin' in the storm, 
 But I pushed through up close where I 
 
 Could see the funny cuss perform. 
 But goshamighty! wa'n't I sold 
 
 When Mister Nye come out to act, 
 Fur all the stories pap had told 
 
 Were forty million miles from fact. 
 [37] 
 
He didn't wear show clothes at all, 
 
 He didn't dance, he didn't sing, 
 His doin's wasn't what I call 
 
 A public show at all, by jing; 
 He hadn't one dissolvin' view, 
 
 He didn't on the tight rope walk 
 I swear to gosh he didn't do 
 
 A 'tarnal thing but grin an' talk. 
 
 A SERMON TO MYSELF 
 
 (OR TO YOU IF IT FITS) 
 
 Don't be blue just be true 
 
 To yourself and smile. 
 Don't you know the clouds will go 
 
 In a little while? 
 
 Have some grit up an' git! 
 
 What's the recompense 
 Fret and stew! keepin' blue, 
 
 Lackin' common sense? 
 
 Take it cool. Whoa, you mule, 
 
 Kickin' like a steer! 
 Half your trouble's but a bubble: 
 
 What you got to fear ? 
 
 Friends are honey when you've money, 
 
 Otherwise they're few. 
 Then, dod rot it, PLAY YOU'VE GOT IT- 
 
 And you'll git it, too. 
 
 [38] 
 
DOES IT PAY? 
 
 It's easy enough to be funny, 
 
 It's easy enough to be glad, 
 When the larder is flowing with honey 
 
 And the body in comfort is clad; 
 And it's easy enough to be frisky, 
 
 To frolic and laugh and be gay 
 While you drink to your sweetheart in whisky, 
 
 But tell me, my boy, does it pay? 
 
 It's easy enough to be jolly 
 
 When out for a lark with the boys, 
 And away from dear mother and Molly, 
 
 Who'd share all your sorrows and joys. 
 And it's easy enough to deceive them 
 
 Their sweet, loving hearts to betray; 
 But it's selfish and brutal to grieve them 
 
 And tell me, my boy, does it pay? 
 
 But it's easier far to be truthful, 
 
 Straightforward in all that you do. 
 Keep your heart and your soul always youthful, 
 
 To mother and sweetheart be true. 
 And, boys, let me give you a motto, 
 
 To keep in your heart every day 
 Though you drive a wheelbarrow or auto 
 
 Whatever you do, make it pay. 
 
 [39] 
 
THE REPORTER 
 
 Don't turn him down don't scare and fret, 
 
 But greet him with a shake and smile ; 
 And if you're proper stuff you'll get 
 What's coming to you, and you bet 
 He'll do you justice all the while. 
 
 But if you're tough though debonair 
 And dainty in your style of dress 
 And if you meet him with a glare, 
 And undertake to shed some swear, 
 And say you've nothing to confess 
 
 Well, say ! he'll skin you every clip, 
 
 And smooth you down as slick as wax; 
 
 And with his oily, practiced lip, 
 
 He'll surely get you on the hip, 
 And on you grind his little axe! 
 
 But if you'll only reason right; 
 
 Perhaps he wants to make a scoop, 
 And you can help him in his flight 
 He needs more tail to fly his kite, 
 
 Why, get in with him loop the loop ! 
 
 Just give it to him, right offhand, 
 
 Because he's bound to get it see? 
 The whole wide world is his grand stand 
 He won't be left nor balked nor fanned 
 By tenderfoot like you or me. 
 
 [40] 
 
And thus you find him every day, 
 
 With bulldog grit and lots of gall; 
 And when he comes he comes to stay, 
 And every shot's a winnin' play; 
 Don't chew the rag play ball! 
 
 TO MY BOOK 
 
 There's not a soul in all the land 
 
 But loves a song and story; 
 And surely all can understand, 
 The humble poor, the rich and, grand, 
 Some little verse, some simple strand 
 
 May lead to fame and glory. 
 
 Some hungry soul, bowed down with care, 
 
 May pick you up and read you ; 
 For hungry souls are everywhere, 
 And grief and woe, and dark despair, 
 For really happy hearts are rare, 
 
 And souls there are that need you. 
 
 Then go your way, my little book, 
 
 I care not for the lucre. 
 Just scatter sunshine in each nook, 
 By roaring stream, by babbling brook, 
 There's not in all the land a spook 
 But you can play and euchre. 
 
 [41] 
 
A YULETIDE BOUQUET 
 
 TO YOU, MY FRIEND 
 
 From out the larder of my soul, 
 Where nature's mystic posies blend 
 
 With fruits and flowers I fill love's bowl, 
 And serve it warm to you, my friend. 
 
 I cull the sweetest, wildest flowers, 
 Soft-tinted as the rainbow spray, 
 
 And fling to you from nature's bowers, 
 To mingle with December gray. 
 
 These are but echoes of the past, 
 To music set in memory's chimes ; 
 
 The silken nets that love has cast 
 To catch the sunshine of my rhymes. 
 
 And isn't it sweet that some kind deed 
 A memory throb, a God-sent tear 
 
 Oft comes to cultivate the seed 
 
 That we are sure to sow each year? 
 
 And so, I'm flinging this bouquet 
 Of thankfulness and love to you ; 
 
 Sweet buds of reciprocity, 
 
 Besprinkled with affection's dew. 
 
 And with the cheerful, gay Yuletide, 
 This is the hopeful wish I send: 
 
 That love of God and man abide 
 With you and yours, my faithful friend. 
 [42] 
 
THE ELK AND HIS MISSION 
 
 Come, stately-stepping, noble, grand 
 And lordly elk, and take command ; 
 For truly thou art king and head 
 Of every other quadruped 
 That ever stalked the forest wide, 
 Or roamed the plains from tide to tide. 
 A thousand thousand bear thy name, 
 Not half so pure, nor near so tame 
 
 As thou, O Monarch of our land! 
 And I, a broncho in the band, 
 Humble, but having followed you, 
 I would be honest, brave and true; 
 With head erect and eyes aglow, 
 With that fraternal overflow 
 That comes to irrigate the soul 
 When Mother Nature has control. 
 I feel her touch, I catch the strain, 
 And I am with her once again. 
 
 Let's take a faltering brother's hand, 
 And when he fails to understand 
 The blessings sometimes in disguise 
 The blanks that oft precede the prize, 
 That come to test his fitness for ' 
 Some mighty trust, some mission, or 
 Some greater struggle, when the test 
 Will rack the soul and spoil his rest; 
 Ah ! then's the time to take his hand 
 And try to make him understand. 
 [43] 
 
And when at last he sees the light, 
 Through gloomy caverns of the night, 
 And glints of gladness glorifies 
 The soul that's peeping through his eyes, 
 Sometimes a word, a look, a smile, 
 Will tell you it is worth the while. 
 
 He sees the sunshine through his tears, 
 He laughs at all his fretful fears, 
 And thanks the great Exalted, who 
 Has made him brave and strong and true ; 
 And when his eyes are clear of mist, 
 He finds the rod that he has kissed 
 Upholding him, and points the way 
 To help some other wayward stray 
 Adrift upon the Sea of Sorrow 
 And points him to the brighter morrow. 
 
 BET YOUR LAST DOLLAR ON IT 
 
 TO THE B. P. O. E. 
 
 If his eyes are ever sparkling with the jolly light of 
 fun, 
 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 If his tongue is ever ready with a story or a pun, 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 If he slaps you on the shoulder in fraternal sort o' way 
 And asks you how you're makin' it in life's uncertain 
 
 play, 
 And casts some sunshine in your skies if they are gettin' 
 
 gray, 
 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 [44] 
 
If he walks the streets with snappy tread an' independ- 
 ent air, 
 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 If he smiles and snaps his fingers in the threat'ning face 
 o' care, 
 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 If he tells you his religion is the good old Golden Rule, 
 Fears not that his hereafter will be anything but cool, 
 An' if he at hypocrisy kicks like a Georgia mule, 
 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 
 If his ears are ever open to the cry of sore distress, 
 You can bet your bottom dollar he's an Elk. 
 
 If he reverences womanhood, in silks or shabby dress, 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 
 If his pocket 'round the edges is by frequent usage 
 frayed, 
 
 By the visits of a ready hand to lend the worthy aid, 
 
 And by thanks of beneficiary he feels that he's repaid, 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 
 In short, if you should meet a man who is a man all 
 
 through, 
 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 A man who does things on the jump when there are 
 
 things to do, 
 
 You can bet your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 A man who love's his country's flag next to his faithful 
 
 wife, 
 A man who courts good fellowship and shies away from 
 
 strife, 
 
 You need not be a bit afraid to bet your bloomin' life 
 Right with your last round dollar he's an Elk. 
 
 [45] 
 
THIS AIN'T POETRY IPS GOD'S TRUTH 
 
 Don't dilly-dally when you know you're right. 
 Don't count the cost in case you have to fight 
 As fight you must, if you would dare assail 
 The outlaws that will camp upon your trail 
 And lay for you, like cowards that they are, 
 Too cunning to declare an open war. 
 
 Perhaps religion's cloak may serve to blind 
 
 The people for a time; but you will find 
 
 That strength of character and spinal grit 
 
 Will win against deceit and polished wit; 
 
 Nor rank, nor pull, nor high exalted station, 
 
 Nor brains, nor form, nor bogus reputation 
 
 Can stand against the' strenuous, staunch and steady, 
 
 Brave, true and honest followers of Teddy. 
 
 To Hades with the frenzied finance tricks! 
 
 His army has increased since nineteen-six 
 
 Despite the millions, billions that's behind 
 
 "The House of Lords," the senate senile kind, 
 
 May influence some, there's those who can't be bought ; 
 
 And even senatorial thieves are caught 
 
 Like what's-his-name convicted, thank the Lord 
 
 Convicted, yes, and killed; they can't afford 
 
 To live and that is why that one who died- 
 
 Was just a simple case of grafter's suicide. 
 
 [46] 
 
THE SUNSHINE TRAIL 
 
 There's a world of satisfaction 
 
 In this broncho soul of mine. 
 Though I haven't got a dollar 
 
 Of my own, I'm feeling fine ; 
 For I've just got down to bed rock, 
 
 And the nuggets that I find 
 I scatter with the sunshine, 
 
 On the trail I leave behind. 
 
 With a stomach like an ostrich, 
 
 And a glorious appetite; 
 With a God-sent reciprocity 
 
 That greets me every night, 
 When with love and song and laughter 
 
 Hope and charity combined, 
 I scatter wads of sunshine 
 
 On the trail I leave behind. 
 
 Brother, mine, the Eldorado 
 
 Where your soul will strike it rich, 
 You will find in waifs of Slumville 
 
 And your brothers in the ditch. 
 Shed your kids and patent leathers, 
 
 To all ridicule be blind, 
 For there's millions in the sunshine 
 
 On the trail you leave behind. 
 
 [47] 
 
A TRIBUTE TO FATHER JUDGE 
 
 Christ died for men and so did he 
 
 The sweetest soul I ever knew, 
 And when he grasped the hand of me, 
 
 His honest, laughing eyes of blue 
 Dispelled the clouds from out my sky, 
 
 And warmed the chill from off my heart; 
 And when it comes my time to die 
 
 I pray we won't be far apart. 
 
 But if there is a gulf between 
 
 The Father and the wayward stray, 
 His love will tell what might have been, 
 
 And Christ will open up the way. 
 And, true as there's a God above, 
 
 I know with all my heart and soul 
 That all who suffer for the love 
 
 Of truth will reach the heavenly goal. 
 
 Not for a creed or circumstance 
 
 Would he a helping hand refuse; 
 Nor pomp, nor power, nor great finance 
 
 Could change his broad and noble views. 
 He saw his duty. Who can tell 
 
 How much we loved him in the West? 
 But He, who doeth all things well, 
 
 To his tired soul has whispered, "Rest." 
 
 When last I gazed into his face 
 His dear, dead face, so truly kind, 
 
 A halo seemed to light the place, 
 For God had left the smile behind. 
 [48] 
 
And hardy miners bowed their heads 
 And outlaws wiped a tear away, 
 
 And fever patients in their beds 
 Were conscious of a loss that day. 
 
 God's martyr His adopted son 
 
 He died, dear friends, for you and me ; 
 He surely died as Christ had done 
 
 In love, in truth, in poverty. 
 I crave not wealth nor care for fame, 
 
 Nor wealth nor fame do I begrudge, 
 But, Lord, permit me once again 
 
 To clasp the hand of Father Judge. 
 
 I'VE GOT THE BRAND 
 
 Look where the eagle builds his nest, 
 Far up on yonder mountain crest 
 And where his young in safety rest 
 
 Without a Cctre. 
 
 Look where the eagle plumes his flight 
 And soars above the highest height, 
 Where starry vigils pierce the night 
 
 God's face is there. 
 
 Look deep into the deepest dell, 
 Look deeper still where angels fell, 
 And in the depths of deepest hell 
 
 And black despair. 
 
 Look straight with eyes that know no fear, 
 And you will see and feel and hear 
 The unafraid who love to cheer 
 God's face is there. 
 [49] 
 
Oh, brother mine, and sisters, too, 
 
 Love's lariat encircles you. 
 
 Don't stretch your good face out o' true; 
 
 Give me your hand. 
 
 You're just a wayward maverick stray; 
 Drive superstitious ghosts away, 
 And join God's brotherhood to-day 
 
 And take the brand. 
 
 God's brand! Why, every little flower 
 That blossoms in His richest bower 
 Is branded with His wondrous power 
 
 And mighty hand. 
 And thus in everything I see, 
 From bursting buds to tallest tree, 
 God's face is peeping out at me 
 
 I've got the brand. 
 
 TO THE DAUGHTER OF GENERAL JOHN B. 
 GORDON 
 
 Fair daughter of a noble sire, 
 
 I thank thee from my very soul ; 
 And all I wish for or desire, 
 The height to which I would aspire, 
 Is where he signs God's muster roll. 
 
 For men are few who died like him, 
 
 And men are few who lived so pure, 
 But they who try to follow him 
 With truth their motto, lamps all trim, 
 Will read their title clear, I'm sure. 
 [50] 
 
And yonder where eternal peace 
 
 And love shall reign forevermore, 
 The man who said, "Let us have peace," 
 And he who said that "War must cease," 
 Are comrades on the other shore. 
 
 God ! how I pity those who hate 
 
 The bravest of the blue and gray, 
 And fearlessly I dare to state 
 That such as they were always late 
 Or from the battle far away. 
 
 God bless the "Reb" that shot me down, 
 
 The very thought rolls out a tear, 
 For such as he will wear a crown 
 While Hell will do the coward brown 
 Who did his fighting in the rear. 
 
 Sweet daughter of my noble friend, 
 Among the "Yanks" in Hampshire's hills, 
 
 Besides the simple verses penned, 
 
 These honest sentiments I send 
 With no aristocratic frills. 
 
 OUR COUNTRY 
 
 Our Country more than ever blessed, 
 Our Flag by North and South caressed, 
 Our purpose that our love increase 
 For TRUTH, FIDELITY and PEACE. 
 
 [51] 
 
TRIBUTE TO MY OLD PARD, "TOM" WALSH 
 
 We first clasped the hand of friendship in the stirring 
 
 old Black Hills days, 
 When men stood shoulder to shoulder repelling the mad 
 
 forays 
 Of red men, in paint and feathers, resisting intruders 
 
 bold 
 Who threaded the plains by thousands, drawn thence 
 
 by the lure of gold. 
 Ah ! those were the days of heroes ; brave men took 
 
 their lives in hand, 
 Dared all of the border perils in reaching the sought- 
 
 for land; 
 Men strong in their rugged manhood were those of that 
 
 early day 
 For cowardly ones never started, and the weaker ones 
 
 died on the way. 
 
 With the valorous Black Hills Rangers together we 
 
 rode the trail 
 Protecting the hardy miners who toiled in the gulch or 
 
 swale, 
 Repelling the savage Indians who swarmed in the hills 
 
 around 
 While the magic City of Custer was rising up from the 
 
 ground. 
 And in all of that band of Rangers there was none more 
 
 heroic than he 
 Who has passed from earth's busy whirlpool to the 
 
 peace of eternity, 
 And yet with his rough-clad comrades he was lovable, 
 
 gentle, mild, 
 
 [52] 
 
The heart in his bosom tender as heart of a woman or 
 child. 
 
 Then widely apart we drifted, as barks on a restless sea, 
 And the days when we toiled together remained but a 
 
 memory ; 
 He anchored in Port of Riches, I drifted with many a 
 
 tide 
 
 Till on current of chance I floated again to my com- 
 rade's side. 
 He basked in the Sun of Fortune, I still just as poor as 
 
 when 
 In the early days of the border we battled with savage 
 
 men. 
 Yet wealth had not changed his nature nor cooled the 
 
 love of my chum 
 The clasp of his hand was hearty ; he yet was the same 
 
 old Tom. 
 
 Together we sat as comrades and talked of the days 
 
 of old, 
 When we toiled in the hills out yonder in search of 
 
 the hidden gold; 
 Told stories and laughed together as we did on many 
 
 a night 
 
 Ere we sought for rest in our blankets in the camp- 
 fire's flickering light. 
 Between us the hand of fortune had raised no barrier 
 
 high, 
 He yet was the same true comrade as when he was 
 
 poor as I. 
 The door of his home was opened, and warm was his 
 
 welcoming hand 
 
 [53] 
 
As if it were offered in greeting to the greatest man 
 of the land. 
 
 The heart that was stilled forever when he sank to 
 
 eternal rest 
 Was as kind and noble as ever was housed in a human 
 
 breast ; 
 
 And the news that his gentle spirit from the Earth- 
 land had winged away 
 Left a sting in the hearts of thousands of friends of 
 
 the early day. 
 Though shaft of the purest marble o'er his silent sleep 
 
 may arise, 
 And point as consoling finger towards his home in the 
 
 arching skies, 
 A token of love more sacred will be cherished in every 
 
 heart, 
 By the comrades of old who knew him in reclaiming 
 
 the West took part. 
 
 TO MY WINCHESTER 
 
 Sweetheart of mine, 
 For years thy loyalty has proven true 
 
 As is the steel of which thou are created; 
 There are no fickle vanities in you, 
 
 Thy constancy might well be emulated 
 By beauteous sweetheart of a softer mould, 
 
 Whose eyes gleam love on every new adorer, 
 Who bends the pliant knee to god of gold 
 
 And blesses every knight who bows before her 
 At Cupid's shrine. 
 [54] 
 
My pretty pard, 
 As loyal helpmate thou hast ever stood 
 
 Facing with me the dangers placed before us, 
 Faithful 'mid trying scenes of war and blood 
 
 As when the skies of peace shone clearly o'er us; 
 'Mid all the trying hours of olden days, 
 
 When peril threatened, thou hast never failed me 
 Loyal wert thou in many deadly frays, 
 
 When painted foemen wickedly assailed me, 
 And pressed me hard. 
 
 Thou art not sweet 
 In disposition unto all, my dear; 
 
 To some thou art most spiteful in thine anger 
 Many have fled in abject fright to hear 
 
 Thy ringing tones in war's resounding clangor. 
 Although thy face may gleam with polished smiles, 
 
 Thou art a spitfire when the scene is fitting, 
 And gone are all thy sweet coquettish wiles 
 
 When foes of mine their battle powers are pitting 
 In war's mad heat. 
 
 I love thee, dear, 
 And love of loyal man was never placed 
 
 Upon a more deserving, true companion, 
 In Western wanderings, when peril faced 
 
 Our daily life, on plain, in gloomy canyon. 
 My trust in thee has never been betrayed, 
 
 True as thy tempered steel I've always found thee, 
 In scenes of danger I was not afraid 
 
 Though savage foemen lurked in rocks around me, 
 For thou wert near. 
 [55] 
 
Come, dear one, fling 
 Thy moody silence off, and lift thy voice 
 
 In song as in the days now gone forever ; 
 For all the dangers past let us rejoice, 
 
 I'll beat the time with thy quick-acting lever. 
 Sing in thy wildest tones, let not a note 
 
 Be sweet and soft as note from tender woman; 
 Sing as thou didst when from thy fiery throat 
 
 We hurled defiance at a foe inhuman. 
 Sing, sweetheart, sing! 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN BOY'S LETTER 
 
 When General U. S. Grant returned . from his trip around 
 the world in the year 1878, "The Color' Guard" was produced 
 at the California Theatre, in San Francisco, under the auspices 
 of Lincoln Post, G. A. R. The cast included Mr. Thomas W. 
 Keene and entire California Theatre Company, as also Cap- 
 tain John Wallace Crawford, who had been especially requested 
 to play the part of "Bob Mason" by Mr. Keene, who wanted 
 a "natural interpreter" for the part. 
 
 General U. S. Grant, Mrs. Grant, Colonel Fred. Grant and 
 John Russell Young occupied a box at the California Theatre 
 at this performance, and during the course of the dialogue Mr. 
 Keene said to Captain "Jack": "I understand since the war 
 broke out you've had an eruption of poetic fire, and that the 
 boys had you write a letter to General Grant. You know the 
 General has just returned from his long tour of the world, 
 and I'm sure he'd be glad to hear it." Captain Crawford, as 
 "Bob Mason," replied: "If you-uns are satisfied with we- 
 uns' doggerel, all right." Then throwing his rifle across his 
 shoulder and stepping to the front of the stage and saluting 
 General Grant, he recited this dialect poem: 
 
 Dear Gin'ral: 
 
 I ain't no great scholar, 
 An' I never done nothin' to brag, 
 'Cept this, I was one of the outfit 
 As fought for our Star-Spangled Flag. 
 [56] 
 
An' today, while yer toasted by scholars, 
 
 An' big guns as make a great noise, 
 Why, I thought it the square thing to write you 
 
 An' chip in a word from the boys. 
 
 'Cause, yer see, we ain't got the collat'r'l, 
 
 Nor the larnin' to dish it up right ; 
 But you'll find should thar' be any trouble, 
 
 Our boys are still ready to fight. 
 As fur you, if they didn't corral you, 
 
 You'd shake comrades' hands that you seed, 
 An' that's why I wanted to tell you 
 
 We'll jest take the word fur the deed. 
 
 But you're back, and the men of all nations 
 
 War' proud to do honor to you, 
 An' I reckon, Ulysses, you told 'em 
 
 You war' proud o' yer comrades in blue. 
 For you, we are sure, of all others, 
 
 Remembered your boys in the ranks, 
 Who follered you into the battle, 
 
 An' gallantly guarded the flanks. 
 
 So welcome, a thousand times, welcome; 
 
 Our land is ablaze with delight ; 
 Our people give thanks for your safety 
 
 Your comrades are happy to-night. 
 We know you are weary and tuckered, 
 
 But seem' as you're a new comer, 
 You'll Grant us one glance on this line, if 
 
 In readin' "it takes you all summer." 
 
 The above poem was telegraphed across the continent, and 
 appeared in Grant's "Tour of the World," published in Chi- 
 cago, and, with the exception of Bret Harte's "Heathen 
 Chinee," is the only poem ever wired from ocean to ocean. 
 Will L. Vischer, in the Denver Tribune. 
 
 [57] 
 
IF I BUT COULD 
 
 If I could clothe each jeweled thought 
 
 That comes to me from Nature's bowers 
 In classic language, such as taught 
 
 Away from western woods and flowers, 
 If I could sing the sweet refrains 
 
 That in my soul in silence cluster, 
 From many a heart I'd strike the chains, 
 
 And give the star of hope new lustre. 
 
 If I could scatter all the gems 
 
 That light my soul in darkened places, 
 Could pluck the hope-buds from their stems, 
 
 And wreathe them o'er despondent faces, 
 If I but had the power to stay 
 
 The blighting hand of pain and sorrow ; 
 The human flowers that wilt to-day 
 
 Would raise their heads and bloom to-morrow. 
 
 If from the Master Hand above 
 
 To me the longed-for power was given 
 To change all bitterness to love, 
 
 Of every earthly hell make heaven, 
 The lowering clouds would quickly flee 
 
 Before the light which followed after, 
 And every wave of Life's broad sea 
 
 Would gleam and shine with sparkling laughter. 
 
 [58] 
 
TO ONE OF GOD'S QUEENS 
 
 MRS. H. S. K. 
 
 When first I took your hand in mine, 
 
 And looking in your eyes to see, 
 A something there almost divine, 
 
 Was pictured in the soul of me; 
 And as you whispered sweet and low, 
 
 "The boys will bless you and rejoice, 
 Because of love that you bestow," 
 
 I thought I heard my mother's voice. 
 
 And as the balmy days were spent, 
 
 In praise and prayer and soulful song, 
 My heart was full and sweet content 
 
 Lit up my soul and made me strong; 
 And when I saw upon your cheek, 
 
 A mirrored gem a-sparkle there, 
 I surely heard an angel speak, 
 
 And saw my mother's face so fair. 
 
 God bless you, dear, kind, gentle soul! 
 
 If He should call you ere I go, 
 As through the pearly gates you stroll 
 
 You'll meet my mother there, I know. 
 And she will surely show you through 
 
 The Lord's domain, and give you joy, 
 Because of friendship pure and true 
 
 You gave to her wild wayward boy. 
 
 [59] 
 
HOWDY, TEDDY? HOWDY DO? 
 
 Written for his ranch friend, Colonel Roosevelt 
 
 Howdy, Teddy? Howdy do? 
 How's the world bin usin' you ? 
 How'd yer strenyusness come on 
 All the time that you've bin gone ? 
 Gee, but yer a-lookin' good, 
 Seemed to thrive on jungle food, 
 Or was it yer right smart bit 
 O' huntin' makes you look so fit? 
 
 Read 'bout yer doin's there, 
 
 Where the wild beasts make their lair, 
 
 Roamin' round through jungles and 
 
 Trampin' over desert sand 
 
 Till the native niggers swore 
 
 You was IT, and then some more; 
 
 Made 'em stir their stumps a few 
 
 Tryin' to keep in sight of you. 
 
 Read how you in strenyus way 
 There in London made a play; 
 One that sort of made 'em sit 
 Up and notice things a bit. 
 By a dextrous turn o' wrist, 
 Give the lion's tail a twist 
 Till the critter howled, an' its 
 Keepers throwed a bunch o' fits. 
 
 Kep' close cases on you, Ted, 
 Through the stories that we read, 
 An' we got, I'm free to say, 
 Prouder of you every day. 
 [60] 
 
An' we're glad to see you back, 
 Red an' yaller, white and black, 
 Stretch a hand to welcome you, 
 Howdy, Teddy ? Howdy do ? 
 
 TO ANDREW CARNEGIE 
 
 (Lines written on the fly-leaf of Crawford's Broncho Book 
 of poems, which the author presented to his friend, Andrew 
 Carnegie.) 
 
 I have no regrets to offer 
 
 With this Broncho Book I proffer 
 To the greatest Educator in the world, 
 
 I am free and independent, 
 
 And a lineal descendant 
 Of "Scots wha hae" who Freedom's flag unfurled. 
 
 I'm not begging; I'm not preaching, 
 
 But my Broncho soul is reaching 
 For the fearless, reckless boys misunderstood; 
 
 Some have genius, just like Andy, 
 
 Some need books, advice and candy, 
 But Andy lacking all of those made good. 
 
 Well I'm no sae far behind ye, 
 But I'm no a-braggin', mind ye, 
 Tho' I'm richer far than you can ever be, 
 For you never found such pleasures 
 In your richest, rarest treasures, 
 As I find in these wee gems God gave to me. 
 Christmas f 1908, 
 
 [61] 
 
A SCOUTS GREETING 
 
 TO GENERAL WESLEY MERRITT 
 
 (Published with the following lines in The Boston Sunday 
 Post, February 14, 1897: 
 
 "The following poem by Captain Jack Crawford, the poet 
 scout, was written on the train on his way back East recently, 
 and sent to the Loyal Legion of the West members in St. 
 Paul, where it was read at a reception given in honor of their 
 newly-chosen leader, General Wesley Merritt, U.S.A. Captain 
 Crawford was appointed chief of scouts by General Merritt 
 during the Sitting Bull campaign, just after the Custer mas- 
 sacre on August 24, 1876. In the following September Craw- 
 ferd carried the New York H&rald's special message from 
 Slim Buttes to Fort Laramie, 350 miles, in three and a half 
 days, killing two horses and outriding five relays of couriers. 
 For this he was paid $500 and expenses.") 
 
 Dear General: 
 
 My duty trail is leading 
 
 On toward the borders of the sunrise land, 
 And as along the gleaming rails I'm speeding, 
 
 My brain is flashing rhymings to my hand. 
 The warmest admiration prompts this greeting 
 
 My admiration for a soldier true, 
 Whose record as a warrior is meeting 
 
 To-night a tribute from the boys in blue. 
 
 When treason with uplifted hand was dealing 
 
 Its hardest blows against the Union's breast, 
 And loyal leaders eager were appealing 
 
 For succor from the North and East and West, 
 Your bright sword flashed responsive to the slogan, 
 
 And with the heroes now beneath the sod, 
 Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, McPherson, Logan, 
 
 You took your stand for Liberty and God. 
 [62] 
 
Your record in the fray needs no recalling, 
 
 'Tis known in every household in the land 
 When shot and shell like hail were round you falling, 
 
 Like man of iron you led your brave command. 
 On many a field your prowess in the battle 
 
 Inspired your men to deeds of Spartan mould, 
 And led them on undaunted 'mid the rattle 
 
 Of cannon where the war waves fiercest rolled. 
 
 When that great fratricidal war was ended, 
 
 Your warrior heart yet sought new fields of fray; 
 From out the West appealing cries ascended, 
 
 Where enemies, more fierce than those in gray, 
 With wild ferocity were madly sweeping 
 
 Amid the settlers of the Western plains, 
 And flames from hard-earned homes, were wildly leap- 
 ing 
 
 Into the air o'er sacrificed remains. 
 
 Through all the savage wars you rode undaunted, 
 
 And scattered terror to the redskin foe 
 Where'er the flag of Merritt's troopers flaunted, 
 
 The bugle notes of victory would blow. 
 In rains and snows, through trials and privation, 
 
 You hung with stern persistence to the trail, 
 Until the Indian foe in consternation 
 
 Threw down his arms beneath your leaden hail. 
 
 We of the buckskin loved you and admired you, 
 For well we knew on every bloody field, 
 
 The valor of a warrior true inspired you 
 
 With arm of steel the gleaming sword to wield. 
 
 O'er all the savage trails we rode together, 
 
 [63] 
 
Through mountain pass and o'er the sandy plains; 
 In burning suns, or winter's fiercest weather, 
 
 The same warm patriot blood coursed thro' your 
 veins. 
 
 To-night, with loving comrades gathered 'round you, 
 
 When joy and pleasure hold despotic sway, 
 We absent ones recall the ties which bound you 
 
 Close to our hearts in many a savage fray. 
 And as you listen to the friendly greeting 
 
 Of comrades, as the merry moments fly, 
 Let but one thought o'er the back trail go fleeting 
 
 Unto the buckskinned boys of days gone by. 
 
 God bless you, General, and scatter pleasure 
 
 With bounteous hand along your trail of life; 
 May floods of sunshine, copious, without measure, 
 
 Beat back each threatening cloud of care or strife ; 
 And when your honored sword is sheathed forever 
 
 When hand of death has cut the earthly tie 
 May angel escort guide you o'er the river, 
 
 Safe to the great headquarters up on high. 
 
 CAMP FIRE SPARKS 
 
 When 'round the camp fire comrades sit, 
 
 In open air or canvas tent, 
 The chambers of each heart are lit 
 
 With sparks of fun and sentiment. 
 
 [64] 
 
WOMAN'S INFLUENCE 
 
 TO MRS. M. M. B. 
 
 Dear friend, what a halo of sunshine and glory 
 
 Your womanly wisdom wove into my soul. 
 With clear intuition you brought out my story, 
 
 And somehow my life seemed just then to unroll. 
 Thank God for the love-light that sometimes is given, 
 
 That opens the windows of glory to me; 
 That gives to my peepers a glimmer of heaven 
 
 And pours oil of peace on a troublesome sea. 
 
 Thank God for the influence essence of sweetness 
 
 That reaches my soul with a carol and thrill ; 
 Thank God for the wonderful way, the completeness 
 
 In which He is guiding me over life's hill. 
 Oh, thank Him, ye men, for that moment of giving 
 
 A helpmate to guide your weak steps through the 
 
 world ; 
 She makes every moment more worthy of living 
 
 And points to the flag of ENDEAVOR unfurled. 
 
 Thank God for the influence essence of sweetness 
 
 Though falter your feet over forbidden way, 
 That hold you and love you, while praying caressing, 
 
 And follow your pathway where'er it may lay, 
 So leaving our sorrows to heaven's adjusting, 
 
 Come stand on the plane where no tempter can dope, 
 Where womanhood places us, loving and trusting 
 
 The up-turning, deep-winding highway of Hope. 
 
 [65] 
 
OUR ROOSEVELT 
 
 Hail, Columbia's grandest son, 
 Theodore, the strenuous one, 
 Lincoln, Grant and Washington, 
 All combined is he. 
 
 Since the King of Peace is dead, 
 Prince and King is Yankee Ted ; 
 Grander hero never led 
 Truth to victory ! 
 
 Manhood's greatest, grandest flower, 
 Honored by each earthly Power 
 Is Roosevelt, hero of the hour, 
 Champion of the free. 
 
 Strains of blood from Huguenot, 
 Sturdy Dutch and brawny Scot, 
 His ancestors nobly fought 
 Fought for liberty. 
 
 Absolutely undisguised, 
 He all graft and tricks despised; 
 He's honored, toasted, lionized, 
 By the entire world. 
 
 May the Power that made him great, 
 Keep him sane and safe and straight; 
 Captain of our Ship of State 
 Glory's flag unfurled. 
 
 World's Ambassador of Peace 
 All inhuman wars must "cease ; 
 May your power for good increase, 
 While we follow you. 
 [66] 
 
tO MIRIAM 
 
 Conceived in love, as pure as God's ozone, 
 Sired by a King, a princely thoroughbred; 
 
 Cradled in perfect trust on Love's blest throne 
 Where Truth is all aflame and Fear is dead. 
 
 With industry abloom, God in command, 
 
 True hearts to love and guide her on life's way; 
 I look into her eyes and understand 
 
 The classic chimes of Love's sweet, soothing lay. 
 
 O God, I thank Thee for the pure, sweet love 
 That comes to me from such a child as this; 
 
 Her voice so like the cooing of a dove, 
 
 Her smile so like the sun's first morning kiss. 
 
 And as she grows more queenly day by day, 
 More like the mother flower, whose soul imparts 
 
 Those brilliant gems that sparkle in love's spray, 
 
 God make her like the mother Queen of Hearts. 
 
 TO MARK TWAIN 
 
 December 25, 1909 
 
 ("Dear Mark Twain: On Xmas Day when my heart went 
 
 out to you in your sorrow I scribbled the enclosed lines; 
 
 although no words could express the deep sympathy I feel.") 
 
 Congratulations on your grit, 
 Your bravery when hardest hit 
 We've only got to wait a bit 
 
 For Death's tattoo, 
 And after taps a new delight 
 [67] 
 
He doeth all things well and right 
 God's reveille will reunite 
 Your Jean and you. 
 
 Else why the wondrous love you feel, 
 The sorrows you can not conceal ? 
 Christ came again today to heal 
 
 Your wounded heart. 
 Look up, brave soul, be not afraid, 
 Be not discouraged nor dismayed 
 God knows that you have always played 
 
 An honest part. 
 
 THE MAN WITH THE PICK AND THE DRILL 
 
 (Read at the Mining Congress and dedicated to "The Butte 
 Miners' Union," Sept. 2, 1902.) 
 
 I love the man with the pick and drill 
 
 And courage that knows no fear; 
 The hero bold, in search of gold, 
 
 With the hope-star ever near, 
 To see him climb the mountains high 
 
 And dig in the deepest dell, 
 Inspires me through with a love so true 
 
 That I want to whoop and yell. 
 
 I love the man with the pick and gun, 
 
 The real old pioneer, 
 Who lived on greens and toothsome beans, 
 
 And the lordly elk and deer ; 
 [68] 
 
The man who followed the Empire's star 
 On its onward western flight; 
 
 Who never flagged and never lagged, 
 And slept with his gun at night. 
 
 I love the man who is greater far 
 
 Than the ten-time millionaire 
 Whose millions are the fruits of war 
 
 And a monument of despair ; 
 Who schemes to rob his f ellowmen, 
 
 Legitimately unjust, 
 And then cahoots with his chum galoots 
 
 To form an ungodly trust. 
 
 I love the man who strikes it rich 
 
 After toiling many years ; 
 His wealth is clean as a sunny beam 
 
 And unstained by blood and tears ; 
 He wrongs no man; old Mother Earth 
 
 Surrenders to her kings 
 Her wealth untold of precious gold, 
 
 And God and Nature sings. 
 
 I love the kings of Mother Earth, 
 
 Uncrowned though they may be; 
 And manly men in gulch and glen 
 
 Who died for you and me, 
 Are wearing brighter laurels now 
 
 Than all the titled peers 
 Of wealth and state, however great, 
 
 Whose riches came with tears. 
 
 [69] 
 
TO MRS. KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD 
 
 (Who was one of the original organizers of the Woman's 
 Relief Corps, Auxiliary to the Grand ^\rmy of the Republic. 
 Just after her retirement from the position of President of 
 the W. R. C, I had the honor to recite one of my poems in 
 her presence, and she took the badge of office from her own 
 bosom and pinned it to mine. This touching circumstance 
 called forth the following) : 
 
 PERHAPS 
 
 (TO OUR G. A. R. GODDESS, COMRADE KATE B. SHERWOOD) 
 
 Perhaps, beloved goddess, you never will know 
 The joy and the pride that inflated my soul 
 That night when you pinned your own badge on my 
 
 bosom 
 
 That night when my heart wrote its name on your 
 roll. 
 
 Perhaps it was weakness that made my eyes glisten, 
 While looking in thine, rather misty, I ween, 
 
 While a warrior's soul and the heart of a woman 
 Were drifting in sight of our comrade, Pauline.* 
 
 Perhaps, after all, 'mid the strife and commotion, 
 The worry and fretting of life's busy throng, 
 
 The soul will ride over the tempest-tossed ocean 
 And anchor where angels and sunshine belong. 
 
 Perhaps in God's army our missing will gather, 
 
 Unknown will be known when they answer their 
 
 names ; 
 
 Not one be unseen by the all-seeing Father, 
 Though sleeping in woodland, in mountain and 
 plains, 
 
 [70] 
 
And oh, what an army of heroes will muster 
 When Gabriel's trumpet shall call to review, 
 
 And near to the throne in a hallowed cluster 
 
 Will stand one grand army the Gray and the Blue. 
 
 Perhaps the great chieftain will have a reunion, 
 And oh ! what a camp fire the angels would see 
 
 Grant, Jackson and Sherman, and Hancock and Gor- 
 don, 
 With Buckner and Johnston and Logan and Lee. 
 
 Perhaps each would tell of the heart's honest prompt- 
 ings 
 That bade them take arms on the side they thought 
 
 right, 
 And the great Chief of all will make plain why He 
 
 willed it 
 That comrades and brothers each other should fight. 
 
 Perhaps He will point to the emblem of freedom, 
 As out o'er the dome her broad stripes are unfurled, 
 
 And say to those chieftains, those battle-scarred heroes, 
 "Your work made that banner enlighten the world." 
 
 And, Kate, if the Lord will detail me to find it, 
 Your crown will be brighter than any I know; 
 
 With sunshine in front ^nd with starlight behind it, 
 I'm sure it would light up this world here below. 
 
 *Paul Van Deervoort, Past Commander-in-Chief and honor- 
 ary member of the Woman's Relief Corps. 
 
 [71] 
 
EMBLEMATIC 
 
 (Written for and dedicated to the Masonic Fraternity of 
 the World. Suggested by Dr. Walter C. Miller, Augusta, 
 Ga., 1909.) 
 
 The coming years may bring to you success, 
 
 The victory laurel wreath may deck your brow, 
 And you may feel Love's hallowed caress, 
 And have withal domestic tenderness, 
 
 And fortune's god may smile on you as now ; 
 And jewels fit for eastern potentate 
 Hang over your ambitious heart, and Fate 
 May call thee "Prince of Men," or "King of Hearts," 
 While Cupid strives to pierce you with his darts, 
 Nay, even more than these, with coming light 
 Your feet may press Fame's loftiest dazzling height, 
 And looking down upon the world below 
 You may exclaim, "I cannot greater grow." 
 But, nevermore, O worthy brother mine, 
 Can innocence and purity combine 
 With all that's sweet and tender here below, 
 As in this emblem which I now bestow. 
 
 'Tis yours to wear throughout a life of love, 
 And when your spirit wings to realms above 
 'Twill with your cold clay rest beneath the sod, 
 While breeze-kissed flowers whisper of your God. 
 O, may its stainless, spotless surface be 
 An emblem of that perfect purity 
 Distinguished far above all else on earth 
 And sacred as the virtue of the hearth, 
 And when at last your naked soul shall stand 
 Before the throne in yon great temple grand, 
 
 [72] 
 
O, may it be your portion there to hear 
 
 "Well done," and find a host of brothers near 
 
 To join the angel choir in glad refrain 
 
 Till Northeast corner echoes come again, 
 
 Then while the hosts in silent grandeur stand, 
 
 The Supreme Builder, smiling, in command, 
 
 Shall say to you to whom this emblem's given, 
 
 "Welcome art thou to all the joys of Heaven." 
 
 And then shall dawn within your 'lightened soul 
 
 The purposes divine that held control 
 
 The full fruition of the Builder's plan 
 
 The Fatherhood of God The Brotherhood of Man. 
 
 BURNS' ANNIVERSARY 
 
 IN THE HIELAN'S o' NEVADA TO THE SONS OF CALEDONIA. 
 
 Awa' ye brawny sons o' Scotland, 
 
 Up the banks an' doon the braes; 
 Through the Hielan's o' Nevada, 
 
 Sing your sangs o' ither days. 
 This is no rich Cowrie's valley, 
 
 Nor the Forth's fair sunny side, 
 Nor the grand auld rugged mountain. 
 
 Faither o' the classic Clyde. 
 
 Yet just for a while imagine' 
 
 Ye are back on Scotia's shore ; 
 'Mang the grouse on hill or heather, 
 
 Whaur the Hielan' waters roar. 
 
 [73] 
 
Or perhaps in glens o' brecken 
 Whaur the Doon an' Afton rin, 
 
 Thinkin' o' your Robby's courtship, 
 By the licht o' bonnie minn. 
 
 Noble, brave, unselfish poet, 
 
 Dinna slicht him 'mid your joys ; 
 Fill an' drink tae him a bumper 
 
 He was Nature's bard, my boys. 
 First o' Scotland's famous freemen, 
 
 Spurnin' Lords and Monarch's crown; 
 Far ower honest tae be schemin' 
 
 Bobby Burns; boys, drink her down. 
 
 Ride ance mair wi' Tarn o' Shanter 
 
 'Till the wutches arch your hair; 
 Smile at Hornbrook's vaunted weesdom, 
 
 Sigh at Holy Willie's prayer. 
 Prie the he'rty, sonsie Haggis 
 
 Ere ye rise tae gang awa' 
 Let the Louse an' Mouse thegither 
 
 Teach us lessons big an' braw. 
 
 Up in Heaven wi' Hielan' Mary 
 
 Burns noo sings a sweeter sang, 
 Bootless wearin' brichter laurels 
 
 Than the men wha did him wrang. 
 "Scots wha hae," methinks I hear it 
 
 Hoo sic sparks o' genius shine 
 At your picnic drain this bumper, 
 
 "Bobby Burns an' Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 [74] 
 
SAVIOR OF MY SOUL 
 
 I am hoping, Savior, hoping, 
 
 While for strength on Thee I call; 
 I am waiting, Lord, and groping 
 
 Groping lest I slip and fall. 
 I am hungry for the message, 
 
 Let it reach my soul today; 
 Let the sunshine of Thy glory 
 
 Drive these clouds of doubts away. 
 
 O Savior of my soul, I do adore thee; 
 
 Thy precious blood will cleanse me and restore me, 
 
 I have wandered far away, 
 
 But I'm nearer Thee today 
 O Savior of my soul, Thou wilt restore me. 
 
 I am coming, Savior, coming, 
 
 On the wings of Faith I fly ; 
 In my soul love's music thrumming, 
 
 For the clouds are rolling by. 
 O, the sunshine, love and laughter, 
 
 Faith has made me whole today, 
 'Twill be joy and peace hereafter, 
 
 Since all doubts have passed away. 
 
 O Savior of my soul, I do adore thee; 
 hy precious blood was given to restore me; 
 
 I have wandered far away, 
 
 But I'm nearer Thee today 
 O Savior of my soul, that ruleth o'er me. 
 
 [75] 
 
THE MUSIC OF LIFE 
 
 A RECITATION TO BE RECITED TO MUSIC 
 
 Music "London Bridge Is Falling Down" 
 I. 
 
 How sweet, how fair is the dawn of life, 
 In the world with woe and folly rife, 
 To hear the ring of childish song, 
 
 As burden-heavy we trudge along 
 And backward, through the vanished years, 
 
 In childhood's dreams forget Fate's frown, 
 Our hearts join in the children's play, 
 
 When "London Bridge Is Falling Down." 
 
 II. 
 
 Music "Come, My Love, the Stars Are Shining." 
 "Old Madrid." 
 
 O'er "London Bridge" how short the span 
 'Twixt child and maid, 'twixt boy and man ! 
 The tender song from maiden lips, 
 
 Like harp-strings 'neath Love's finger-tips 
 Is Love's own heaven-born gift of song, 
 
 As its wings first flutter in earthly flame, 
 Ere its tune grows false and its rhythm wrong, 
 
 And Man not Love is all to blame. 
 
 III. 
 Music "Rock-a-Bye Baby" or "Sleep, Baby, Sleep. 3 
 
 But sweeter far in the noon of life, 
 The song of the fairer, happier wife 
 [76] 
 
As she croons to her babe a lullabye 
 That ringeth a song of joy on high. 
 She finds a solace for every care 
 
 In the rich reward of Motherhood; 
 The fervent answer to every pray'r ; 
 
 The vessel that holdeth all of good. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Music "Rock of Ages!' 
 
 But when the night and storm comes on, 
 And wife and mother bows alone, 
 When Fate has carried all away 
 Who filled that happier, brighter day; 
 With none to trust and all to fear, 
 
 'Tis then her faith and strength we see, 
 As through the storm her voice rings clear, 
 
 "O, Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me." 
 
 V. 
 
 Music "Nearer, My God, to Thee" 
 
 And thus with calm, unfurrowed brow, 
 To where the deeper waters flow, 
 Guided by unseen hands along, 
 Turned to the highest praise her song 
 Fearless of rock, of hidden reef, 
 
 Up, as the lark, swift-winged, will flee, 
 Her song will rise, through joy, through grief, 
 . "Nearer, Oh, Nearer, God, to Thee." 
 
 [77] 
 
SERENADE IN THE HILLS 
 
 There are joybells in the drilling 
 
 While I'm shooting through the hill. 
 There is music in the hammer 
 
 As it bounces from the drill ; 
 And at every stroke I'm thinking 
 
 What the next discharge will do; 
 Will it bring me luck and fortune? 
 
 Will it bring me back to you? 
 
 CHORUS 
 Love grows strong in the mountains, my own, 
 
 Hearts in the wild woods are true ; 
 Men grow kind and tender, dear heart, 
 
 And my heart is sighing for you. 
 Wait for me, dearest, I need your love, 
 
 Your trust you never shall rue. 
 A prayer and a tear, for your absent one, dear, 
 
 To bring me to mother and you. 
 
 When I hear the night-birds singing, 
 
 Near my little mountain home, 
 When the stars are all a-twinkle 
 
 In the blue of Heaven's dome, 
 When the evening tasks are over 
 
 And there's no more work to do, 
 Then I find my soul is singing 
 
 Tender serenades to you. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Love grows stronger in the mountains, my own, 
 Hearts in the wild woods are true; 
 [78] 
 
Men grow kind and tender, dear heart, 
 
 And my heart is sighing for you. 
 Wait for me, dearest, I need your love, 
 
 Your trust you never shall rue. 
 A prayer and a tear, for your absent one, dear, 
 
 To bring me to mother and you. 
 
 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP 
 
 (Written while alone in the San Mateo Mountains, New 
 Mexico, and while Chief of Scouts under General Edward 
 Hatch, on the trail of Victorio, the Apache chief, and his mur- 
 derous band.) 
 
 Near the camp-fire's flickering light 
 
 In my blanket bed I lie, 
 Gazing through the shades of night 
 
 At the twinkling stars on high; 
 O'er me spirits in the air 
 
 Silent vigils seem to keep 
 As I breathe my childhood's prayer, 
 
 "Now I lay me down to sleep." 
 
 Sadly sings the whippoorwill 
 
 In the boughs of yonder tree; 
 Laughingly the dancing rill 
 
 Swells the midnight melody. 
 Foemen may be lurking near 
 
 In the valley dark and deep ; 
 Low I breathe in Jesus' ear: 
 
 "I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep." 
 
 'Mid those stars one face I see 
 One the Savior called away 
 [79] 
 
Mother, who in infancy 
 
 Taught my baby lips to pray ; 
 
 Her sweet spirit hovers near 
 In this lonely mountain brake. 
 
 "Take me to her, Savior dear, 
 If I should die before I wake." 
 
 Fainter grows the flickering light 
 
 As each ember slowly dies; 
 Plaintively the birds of night 
 
 Fill the air with saddening cries ; 
 Over me they seem to cry: 
 
 "You may never more awake." 
 Low I lisp: "If I should die, 
 
 I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take." 
 
 Now I lay me down to sleep ; 
 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep. 
 If I should die before I wake, 
 
 I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take. 
 
 NORA LEE 
 
 A SONG 
 
 I have watched the roses blooming, 
 
 Know the violet's lovely hue, 
 And daisies like the starlight, 
 
 As they sparkle with the dew ; 
 I have looked upon the lilies 
 
 And the flowers of every tree, 
 But none are half so pretty 
 
 As my blue-eyed Nora Lee. 
 [80] 
 
CHORUS 
 
 She is sweeter than the violets, 
 
 She is fairer than the rose ; 
 Her eyes are soft and tender, 
 
 And her cheek with beauty glows. 
 Oh, I never can forget her, 
 
 Though she never thinks of me ; 
 I love that blue-eyed beauty 
 
 Little darling, Nora Lee. 
 
 To my prairie home I'm going, 
 
 With my comrades brave and free, 
 And yet where'er I wander 
 
 Those blue eyes will follow me. 
 I shall see them in the camp-fire, 
 
 They will sparkle in the dell, 
 And in the rippling streamlets 
 
 I shall hear that last farewell. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 She is sweeter than the violets, 
 
 She is fairer than the rose ; 
 Her eyes are soft and tender, 
 
 And her cheek with beauty glows. 
 "God bless you, Jack, God bless you !" 
 
 Were the words she whispered low; 
 I thought 'twas heavenly music 
 
 From her throat as white as snow. 
 
 [81] 
 
FAITH 
 
 A HYMN 
 
 TO MRS. MC KINLEY, IN MEMORIAM 
 Copyright, 1907. 
 
 I am standing on the border 
 
 Of the bright Celestial land, 
 And I see the heavenly sunlight 
 
 Dancing on the golden strand; 
 There I'll meet the blessed Saviour 
 
 And will take His guiding hand 
 I shall camp with Him in glory in the morning. 
 
 REFRAIN 
 
 In the morning, in the morning, 
 
 With the halo of His love my soul adorning ; 
 
 I am clinging to His hand, 
 
 I shall know and understand, 
 When I meet my blessed Saviour in the morning. 
 
 I am waiting for the summons 
 
 That shall call me to my own, 
 I am nearer to my Saviour, 
 
 And my faith has stronger grown; 
 I can see my loved companions 
 
 And my dear ones near the throne 
 I am coming, blessed Saviour, in the morning. 
 
 O! the glory of possession 
 
 Of the simple faith that clings 
 To the sheltering Rock of Ages, 
 
 And the peace of love it brings 
 [82] 
 
Is the crowning song eternal 
 
 That my soul in rapture sings 
 I shall see my loved Redeemer in the morning. 
 
 RESIGNED 
 
 Ah'm a-croonin' to de baby 
 
 Jes' a little ebenin' song; 
 Ah'm a-rockin' ob de cradle, 
 
 Kase his mammy isn't strong ; 
 Fo' she's been a-workin' steady, 
 
 She's mah honey, good and kind, 
 An' Ah kain't do much to help her 
 
 Or de baby, fo' Ah'm blind. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 But Ah'm hopin' and Ah'm gropin* 
 An' Ah'm singin' all de while, 
 
 An' it sort o' cheers mah honey 
 When she sees me wid a smile. 
 
 Ah'm a-whistlin' to de baby 
 
 As Ah hoi' his little han', 
 An' Ah pray de Lord to watch him 
 
 Till he gits to be a man. 
 An' when clouds a-hover over 
 
 An' de win's a-howlin' strong, 
 Ah rock-a-bye ma baby. 
 
 An' Ah sing ma little song. 
 
 CHORUS 
 [83] 
 
THE KEYSTONE OF THE UNION 
 
 PENNSYLVANIA 
 
 O Sov'reign State, thy name we hail, 
 
 Our hearts aglow with patriot pride, 
 Thy praises ring in ev'ry vale, 
 
 From ev'ry lofty mountain side. 
 We love thy rocks, we love thy rills, 
 
 Thy fruitful fields and rivers broad, 
 We love thy old historic hills, 
 
 Whose winding paths our fathers trod. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 O Mighty State; O Sov'reign State, 
 Thou bulwark of our land so great, 
 To thee our love we consecrate, 
 O Keystone of the Union. 
 
 Deep in each mountain's wounded side, 
 
 Hid from the sun's enliv'ning beams, 
 In gloomy caverns dark and wide, 
 
 The lamp of toiling miner gleams. 
 A million hearts their labors cheer, 
 
 Their product spreads o'er land and sea, 
 It gladdens homes in ev'ry sphere, 
 
 And drives the wheels of Industry. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 O Mighty State; O Sov'reign State, 
 
 Thou bulwark of our land so great, 
 
 To thee our love we consecrate, 
 
 O Keystone of the Union. 
 
 [84] 
 
When war's alarm swept o'er the land, 
 
 And treason's hand on Sumpter fell, 
 Thy loyal sons with valor grand 
 
 Upheld the cause they loved so well. 
 On many a field with crimson stained, ' 
 
 And on the ever restless sea, 
 Thy honor well their arms maintained, 
 
 Thy flag they bore to victory. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 O Mighty State; O Sov'reign State, 
 Thou bulwark of our land so great, 
 To thee our love we consecrate, 
 O Keystone of the Union. 
 
 We honor those who fought and bled 
 
 When duty called our warrior braves; 
 We bless the mem'ry of the dead, 
 
 Now sleeping in their honored graves. 
 Should e'er again the trumpet sound, 
 
 And guns in angry discord roar, 
 Thy loyal sons would rally round 
 
 The flag their sires so nobly bore. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 O Mighty State; O Sov'reign State, 
 Thou bulwark of our land so great, 
 To thee our love we consecrate, 
 O Keystone of the Union. 
 
 [85] 
 
MY LITTLE NEW LOG CABIN IN THE HILLS 
 
 A PARODY 
 
 (Written at Custer City, in the Black Hills, in the spring of 
 1876, for Dick Brown, the banjo player, and sung by Dick 
 and I, the miners joining in the chorus, in the camp and in 
 the cabin.) 
 
 In my little new log cabin home my heart is light and 
 
 free, 
 
 While the boys around me gather every day, 
 And the sweetest hours I ever knew are those I'm pass- 
 ing now, 
 While the banjo makes sweet music to my lay. 
 
 CHORUS 
 The scenes are changing every day, the snow is nearly 
 
 gone, 
 
 And there's music in the laughter of the rills ; 
 But the dearest spot of all I know is where I love to 
 
 dwell, 
 In my little new log cabin in the hills. 
 
 While the birds are sweetly singing to the coming of the 
 
 spring, 
 
 And the flow'rets peep their heads out from the sod, 
 We feel as gay and happy as the songsters on the wing 
 Who are sending up sweet anthems to their God. 
 
 CHORUS 
 Then let us work with heart and hand and help each 
 
 other through 
 
 In this pretty little world we call our own, 
 Whether building or prospecting yes, or lighting with 
 
 the Sioux, 
 
 For 'tis hard sometimes to play your hand alone. 
 CHORUS 
 [86] 
 
THE IRISH LOVER 
 
 I left a little colleen in the isle beyond the sea 
 A pretty blue-eyed maiden, who is all in all to me; 
 She said ere I took shippin' for far across the sea: 
 "Oh, don't forget your other heart is waitin'." 
 
 CHORUS 
 Sure you're a part o' me, Rosie, sweatheart o' me, 
 
 Rosie the pride o' me, bride o' me heart ; 
 I will be true for you, what won't I do for you, 
 
 Never, oh, never again shall we part. 
 
 Her letter I've been readin' an' it's blurred across with 
 
 tears. 
 "Sure, Denny dear, it seems as if you're gone a dozen 
 
 years. 
 
 But don't ye be uneasy, for I haven't any fears ; 
 You won't forget your other heart is waitin'." 
 
 CHORUS 
 Sure you're a part o' me, Rosie, sweetheart o' me, 
 
 Rosie the pride o' me, bride o' me heart. 
 I will be true for you, what won't I do for you, 
 
 Never, oh, never again will we part. 
 
 The ship will soon be sailin' an' I'm coming back 
 
 asthore, 
 I'm coming wid' yer passage an' I've got a good dale 
 
 more; 
 I've got a pretty cottage, an' there's room enough for 
 
 four, 
 So darlin', I won't keep ye longer waitin'. 
 
 CHORUS 
 [87] 
 
THE HEAVENLY TELEPHONE 
 
 When baby Bess knelt at my knee to say her evening 
 
 prayer, 
 
 She cutely asked me if it went by telephone up there. 
 And wondered why the Master didn't answer right 
 
 away, 
 
 Just as her papa answered from the office every day. 
 Next morn I found her at the 'phone, tiptoeing on a 
 
 chair 
 And crying, "Hello, Central," and with such a roguish 
 
 air 
 She said, "Now, mamma, go away; this talk is all my 
 
 own. 
 I want to ask Dod if he hears the pray'rs I telephone." 
 
 In one short week our baby lay upon her dying bed, 
 And ev'ry heart seemed breaking, as in feeble tones she 
 
 said, 
 
 "I'm going up to Heaven, where the little angels play, 
 And I will be an angel, too, if I can find the way; 
 But, mamma dear, I'm 'fraid I'll be so lonesome when 
 
 I go, 
 Because I ain't acquainted with a soul up there, you 
 
 know; 
 But if you'll kneel down by my bed, I'll try real hard 
 
 to wait 
 Until you telephone to God to meet me at the gate." 
 
 The baby's wished-for message from a bleeding heart 
 
 was sent, 
 And then her spotless spirit to the heavenly mansion 
 
 went. 
 
 [83] 
 
There at the pearly gates I know the loving Master 
 
 stood 
 To welcome her with gentle smile as she so hoped He 
 
 would. 
 
 Her prattling voice forever will be ling' ring in my ear, 
 And when I miss her toddling step and all seems dark 
 
 and drear, 
 I seek the quiet churchyard, where we laid her 'neath 
 
 the sod, 
 And kneeling by her little grave, I "telephone" to God. 
 
 COME BACK, PAPA 
 
 My heart was bowed down in sadness, 
 
 My soul was all dark with despair, 
 When a voice with a ripple of gladness 
 
 Came floating to me through the air 
 The voice of a little one ringing 
 
 Like joybells from over the lea, 
 And this is the song she was singing : 
 
 "Oh, come back, dear papa, to me!" 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 "Conic back to me, oh, come back to me ; 
 Mamma and Dolly are watching for thee. 
 Come back, dear papa, from over the sea ; 
 Mamma and baby are waiting for thee." 
 
 My arms were soon folded around her, 
 She snuggled close up to my breast; 
 
 I blest the dear spot where I found her, 
 And carried her into our nest. 
 [89] 
 
And while 'round my neck she was clinging, 
 The sunburst of love seemed to be 
 
 Aflame in the soul that was singing, 
 "Oh, come back, dear papa, to me." 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 A CURE FOR INSOMNIA 
 
 There's a song that I sing when my soul is aglow 
 
 With the rapture of love undefiled; 
 When the wealth of the world I would gladly bestow 
 
 For the innocent laugh of a child. 
 When alone in the mountain a bright, shining star 
 
 From God's jeweled crown seems to peep, 
 While someone is holding the gateway ajar, 
 
 I sing, " Mother, rock me to sleep." 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Rock me to sleep, let me dream of my childhood, 
 Back to the mountains and fountains and wildwood. 
 Dear mother in heaven, thy sweet song repeat 
 And rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 
 
 There's a song that I sing when my soul is in tune 
 
 With the birds and the flowers and the bees, 
 And green buds are sprouting and blossoms of June 
 
 Are lading with perfume the breeze. 
 At night, when unbidden, my troubles appear 
 
 And sometimes I nervously leap, 
 I just keep repeating, "Dear mother is near," 
 
 And then I sing, "Rock me to sleep." 
 
 CHORUS 
 [90] 
 
THE OPTIMISTIC WARBLER 
 
 Sing a cheerful song, or whistle 
 
 If you don't know how to sing, 
 And remember that the thistle 
 
 Beats the daisies in the Spring ; 
 That the gloomy clouds of sorrow 
 
 Which o'erhang your sky today 
 Will unfold a bright tomorrow 
 
 When the clouds have passed away. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 I'm an optimistic warbler 
 
 And I whistle, laugh and sing, 
 Bringing gladness out of sadness 
 
 With the sunshine that I fling. 
 While a heap of satisfaction 
 
 Snuggles underneath my vest, 
 As I laugh and sing and whistle 
 
 Ere I lay me down to rest. 
 
 Oh, I wish that I could muster 
 
 On the heights of Nature's crest, 
 A great army that would trust her 
 
 With its happiness and rest. 
 She would soothe their every sorrow, 
 
 And with chiming joybells bring 
 Floods of sunshine on the morrow 
 
 If they'd whistle, laugh and sing. 
 
 CHORUS 
 [91] 
 
IN DONEGAL 
 
 Oh, would that I again a boy could be, 
 Roaming barefooted by the Irish Sea; 
 
 My world's so small, 
 
 Watching the flocks that grazed upon the shore, 
 Wrapped in the cast-off coat my father wore, 
 
 In Donegal. 
 
 I see myself, bareheaded in the breeze, 
 Wading the shoals, salt water to my knees. 
 
 The seagulls call 
 
 In wake of passing ships that greeted me, 
 En route to God's sweet land of liberty, 
 
 From Donegal. 
 
 Then comes a dear, loved vision on the strand- 
 A blue-eyed Irish lass who took my hand 
 
 In hers so small, 
 
 And said to me, in accents sweet and low, 
 ''You'll ne'er forget the girl that loved you so, 
 
 In Donegal." 
 
 Oh, sweet and holy love of ten years old, 
 Mary of Donegal with hair of gold, 
 
 With rippling fall. 
 
 "Good bye, God bless you, little playmate, Jack. 
 You won't forget some day you will come back 
 
 To Donegal." 
 
 Years passed again I found me on the strand, 
 And I was just a boy once more unmanned, 
 Bare feet and all; 
 [92] 
 
I sighed for Mary as in days of yore, 
 But whispering waves made answer, "Never- 
 more!" 
 
 In Donegal. 
 
 HEARD IN THE CANE-BRAKE 
 
 Fo' de Lord, I's gwine ter hustle, 
 
 I's a pullin' fo' de shore, 
 Whar' de bridegroom am a-waitin' 
 
 Fo' to tote de shif'less o'er; 
 Whar' de weary am a-restin', 
 
 An' dar's sorrow never more 
 On de othah side ob Jordan in de mawnin'. 
 
 Oh, dar ain't no automobiles 
 
 In de Hallelujah Lan', 
 Whar' Jehovah's golden chariot 
 
 Am a-rollin' f rough de san' ; 
 Whar de blessed Lawd am waitin' 
 
 Fo' to take yo' by de han', 
 On de othah side ob Jordan in de mawnin'. 
 
 Hallelujah ! fo' de streets ob gold, 
 
 Whar' night am lak' de day, 
 Hallelujah! fo' dem golden harps 
 
 On which dem angels play, 
 Hallelujah! fo' de Lam' ob God 
 
 Dat wash ma sins away, 
 On de othah side ob Jordan in de mawnin'. 
 [93J 
 
THIRTY YEARS AGO 
 
 Come, mother, put your knittin' down; you've done 
 
 enough to-night; 
 
 It isn't good for them old eyes to work by candlelight. 
 They ain't as flashy as they was some thirty years ago, 
 When at the old red meetin' house I first became your 
 
 beau. 
 
 The big pertracted meetin' was a runnin' at the time, 
 An' Preacher Giles's sermons jist a makin' sinners 
 
 climb ; 
 The mourners' benches wouldn't hold the crowds that 
 
 forward went 
 To seek salvation from the Lord and o'er their sins 
 
 lament. 
 
 Up in the "amen corner" you would always take your 
 
 seat, 
 
 An' jine in with the singin' in a voice so master sweet 
 That of'entimes I've shet my eyes an' half imagined 
 
 you 
 
 War act'ally an angel sent to help the meetin' through. 
 I vum, but how "Amazin' Grace" a-rollin' from your 
 
 lips 
 Would make me feel like I war' witched, c'lar to my 
 
 finger-tips. 
 An' "Sinner Turn, Why Will Ye Die," you sung so 
 
 feelin'ly, 
 I swow it made me think you sung especially at me. 
 
 I reckon for a dozen nights I sot back near the door, 
 An' when the benediction come, I'd sweat from every 
 
 pore 
 
 [94] 
 
Because I had determined for to offer you my arm, 
 Alt' ax if I might see you home, acrost your father's 
 
 farm; 
 But when I'd take my place in line outside the little 
 
 church, 
 An' seed you comin' through the door, my heart'd give 
 
 a lurch, 
 An' thar' I'd stand dumb as a fool, an' swaller at the 
 
 chokes, 
 Till you war half way down the lane along with all 
 
 your folks. 
 
 I swan to goodness, mother, if it doesn't make me 
 laugh 
 
 To think o' me a standin' thar', a great big bashful calf, 
 
 Without a spark o' courage fur to make a move, al- 
 though 
 
 I didn't think you'd sack me, fur you had no other beau. 
 
 But one night I remember, I war' sittin' in the rear, 
 
 When Cyrus Hawkins nudged my arm, an' whispered 
 in my ear, 
 
 "Jist watch me w'en the meetin's out an' you will see 
 a sight 
 
 I'm goin' to ax Jane Hall if I can beau her home to- 
 night." 
 
 Jemina crickets ! but them words just cut me like a dart, 
 An' it war' all that I could do to swaller down by heart, 
 An' then an 'there I silent vowed that I would be a 
 
 lout 
 
 To let that slouchy, freckled fool step in an' cut me out. 
 So w'en the old doxology war' bein' sung, I crep' 
 Outside ahead of all the rest an* stood upon the step, 
 
 [95] 
 
An* w'en I staggered up to you, a wobblin' at the knees, 
 You tuk my arm an' off we went as cosy as you please. 
 
 Do you remember, mother, how I never spoke a word 
 Till we war' nearly half way home? I swow it was 
 
 absurd 
 
 But then I'd never had a gal hitched to me that-a-way, 
 An' I'll be blest if I could think of anything to say. 
 'T war' you as broke the solitude, an' tried to start the 
 
 talk, 
 
 Observin' 't war' a lovely night, an' splendid fur a walk, 
 An' if my memory sarves me right my 'tarnal bashful- 
 ness 
 
 Condensed my answer to a sort o' whispered, half- 
 skeered "Yes." 
 
 Well, mother, 'twas a funny start, but bless the Lord 
 
 above, 
 
 It ended in a double case of unresistful love 
 When we got acquainted more I guess I talked as good 
 As any love-sick country boy in our hull neighborhood. 
 An' arter the revival broke I didn't stand no more 
 An' wait fur you, proud as a king, outside the church's 
 
 door; 
 But then that didn't break us off, not by a plaguey 
 
 sight, 
 Because I went a courtin' you most every Sunday night. 
 
 An' mother, do you mind that blessed day in early 
 
 Spring, 
 When bees begun to hum around an' birds begun 
 
 to sing? 
 
 [96] 
 
I found you in the pastur' lot a milkin', an' I told 
 The story of the burnin' love that in my bosom rolled. 
 Jee-whiz! but how the milk did fly; you squeezed so 
 
 'tarnal hard 
 The heifer kicked the bucket nearly half acrost the 
 
 yard! 
 An' w'en I fetched it back again an' tuk you by the 
 
 hand, 
 Your look made me the happiest man in all this Yankee 
 
 land. 
 
 Fur thirty years we've jogged along the rugged road 
 
 o' life, 
 
 An' mother, you have bin to me a true an' noble wife 
 Our old revival meetin' love hain't flickered out a bit, 
 An' though we're gittin' old an' gray, we're them same 
 
 lovers yit. 
 Your kisses now are just as sweet, an' full o' heavenly 
 
 dew 
 As them you give me at the gate when I was courtin' 
 
 you; 
 An' we will still be lovers w'en I clasp you to my 
 
 breast, 
 "Whar' the wicked cease from troublin', an' the weary 
 
 are at rest.'* 
 
 [97] 
 
DOT LITTLE CRIPPLED BOY VOT DIED 
 
 (An old German cobbler in the coal fields grieving over the 
 death of a little orphan cripple boy to whom he became greatly 
 attached.) 
 
 I don'd vas feeling good von bit, 
 
 A great big lump vas in my neck, 
 Und ven I try to svaller it 
 
 It yust seems like my heart vould break ; 
 Sometimes my eyes vas like a spoud 
 
 Mit tears I somehow don'd could hide, 
 Und I yust sit and fret aboud 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vot died. 
 
 He used to come my shoe-shop in 
 
 Und vatch me ven I drive dem pegs. 
 Und it yust make my heart ache ven 
 
 I see dem little crippled legs. 
 But he vas always schmiling mit 
 
 Dem big blue eyes so open vide, 
 Und nefer mind dot pain one bit, 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vot died. 
 
 I tol* him Deutschland stories, und 
 
 He laugh yust like dem angel dings, 
 Vot mit der picture books go 'round 
 
 Up yonder mit der schnow vite vings; 
 Und now my eyes vas all in schwim 
 
 Mit tear-drops dot I don'd could hide, 
 Because I got some love mit him, 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vot died. 
 
 Some day he don'd vould come, und den 
 I feel oil ofer black mit blue, 
 [98] 
 
Und sighs vould shake my bosom ven 
 
 I tried to cobble mit a shoe. 
 Den I vould go out by my door 
 
 Und look about mit efery side, 
 My old heart yust was aching for 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vot died. 
 
 Vun time he don'd vas come for more 
 
 As most a veek I don'd know vy 
 Und vun day standing in de door 
 
 I see some funerals go by. 
 I ask von little bootblack who 
 
 In dot vite hearse vas took a ride; 
 Und he say, "Dutchy, don'd you know 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vas died?" 
 
 I feel yust like my heart vas sick, 
 
 Und nefer vant to beat some more. 
 I close my shop up pooty quick, 
 
 Und hang some black stuff on der door 
 Und den I t'ink, "Some day I go 
 
 Mit angels by dot oder side, 
 Und how den vas I going to know 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vot died?" 
 
 Dose little legs vill be all straight 
 
 In dot bright land so far avay, 
 Und ven I go in by der gate, 
 
 Vere all der little angels blay, 
 I vonder if I find him out. 
 
 Maybe he run avay und hide; 
 Veil, I don'd t'ink I shtay mitoud 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vot died. 
 [99] 
 
THE OLD KENTUCKY RIFLE 
 
 I am crowdin' close to eighty, gittin' mighty near the 
 
 end, 
 My hair is white and scattered, an' my back has got 
 
 a bend. 
 
 I am shaky on my trotters, an' my eyes has got so dim 
 I kin scarcely see yon mountain that so of'en I have 
 
 clim. 
 I've gathered up some treasures that I value mighty 
 
 high, 
 An' thar's one which all the money of the earth could 
 
 never buy. 
 Among my goods and chattels here I prize it more then 
 
 all, 
 That ol 1 Kentucky rifle hangin' thar' ag'in the wall. 
 
 Its stock is scarred an' battered, an' its bar'l is full o' 
 
 nicks, 
 Its lock is worn with sarvice till I scarce kin hear 
 
 its clicks. 
 It's lost its shinin' beauty that it had when I was 
 
 young, 
 But when it speaks it hasn't lost the sharpness of its 
 
 tongue. 
 It was my lone companion when this country was a 
 
 wild, 
 
 I love it dear as father ever loved a favored child. 
 An' I've seed some skeery moments when to me 'twas 
 
 all in all, 
 
 That ol' Kentucky rifle hangin' thar' ag'in the wall. 
 
 [100] 
 
Lots o' deer has fell before it ; yes, an' many a panther, 
 
 too, 
 In early days some injuns knowed about what it 
 
 could do. 
 An' a squir'l's eye peepin' at me from the very tallest 
 
 tree, 
 I could bu'st all into bits an' bring the critter down 
 
 to me. 
 An' the Chris'mas shootin' matches, master mine! but 
 
 wan'n't they fun? 
 An' I reckon I surprised 'em with the shootin' that I 
 
 done. 
 Ev'ry turkey that I drawed on caught the vengeance 
 
 of a ball 
 From that ol' Kentucky rifle hangin' thar' ag'in the wall. 
 
 I have seed the new inventions they are makin' now- 
 
 a-days,, 
 
 An' I own they're mighty slick in a variety o' ways; 
 They are han'some fur to look at, you kin load 'em 
 
 with a snap, 
 An' you never have to bother with a flint-lock or a 
 
 cap; 
 You kin shoot 'em mighty lively when you bring 'em 
 
 to the scratch, 
 Never have to ram yer bullets, never have to cut a 
 
 patch. 
 But fur close and hair-breadth shootin' I could one 
 
 day down 'em all 
 With that ol' Kentucky rifle hangin' thar' ag'in the wall. 
 
 [101] 
 
Thar's one thing makes me love it as I never did 
 
 afore 
 When I heard the ringin' summons callin' loyal men 
 
 to war. 
 All the fire that nerved my daddy in the Revolution 
 
 days 
 
 Got a surgin' in my bosom till my heart was all ablaze. 
 Then I shouldered that ol' rifle, filled my bullet-pouch 
 
 with lead, 
 Put that ol' warm cap o' coonskin sort o' keerless on 
 
 my head, 
 An' I offers them the sarvice of a mighty keen-eyed 
 
 man 
 For to do some fancy shootin' under glorious ol* 
 
 Berdan. 
 
 Through the bloody war I packed her, and I brought 
 
 her home ag'in 
 
 Proud an' sassy o' the record that I tuk her in to win ; 
 An' when age was creepin' on me an' I couldn't shoot 
 
 no more, 
 With my shaky hands I hung her up to rest behind 
 
 the door. 
 When this ol' an* worn-out body underneath the ground 
 
 they hide, 
 
 I have asked 'em fur to lay it sort o' loving by my side, 
 An' when Gabriel blows his trumpet I'll march up'ard 
 
 at the call, 
 Hangin' on to that ol' rifle over thar' ag'in the wall. 
 
 [102] 
 
WHO THE HEROES WERE 
 
 You "never was scared in battle"? Here, 
 
 Old comrade, don't make a break like that! 
 The man never lived who was free from fear 
 
 When the vicious bullets began to spat, 
 And the cannons belched from their iron throats 
 
 The deafening notes of the song of war 
 The frightful, terrible, thundering notes 
 
 That caused the eternal earth to jar. 
 
 I've heard men say they were just as cool 
 
 In the heat of the battle as they would be 
 In a quiet seat in a Sabbath school, 
 
 But they couldn't find a believer in me. 
 I never flinched, never shirked a call, 
 
 But several times in the war-swept South 
 If I'd been shot through the heart, the ball 
 
 Would have had to hit me square in the mouth. 
 
 It's the silliest sort of talk we hear 
 
 And hear from soldiers of solid worth 
 That they stood in the front and felt no fear 
 
 When the rumblings of battle convulsed the earth. 
 I hold that our bravest men were those 
 
 Who felt alarm at the cannon's roar, 
 Yet never rearward pointed their toes, 
 
 But stood like men till the battle was o'er. 
 
 [103] 
 
BRONCHO vs. BICYCLE 
 
 
 
 (Written by request of Colonel Albert A. Pope, and read 
 at the Bicycle Club Dinner, Boston, giyen in honor of Mr. 
 Tom Stevens, the famous bicyclist, who had just returned 
 from a tour of the world on his wheel.) 
 
 The first we saw of the high-tone tramp 
 War' over thar' at our Pecos camp; 
 He war' comin' down the Santa Fe trail, 
 Astride of a wheel with a crooked tail, 
 A-skinnin' along with a merry song, 
 An' ringin' a little warnin' gong. 
 He looked so outlandish, strange and queer 
 That all of us grinned from ear to ear, 
 An' every boy on the round-up swore 
 He had never seed sich a hoss afore. 
 
 Wai', up he rode, with a sunshine smile, 
 
 A-smokin' a cigarette, an' I'll 
 
 Be kicked in the neck if I ever seen 
 
 Sich a saddle as that on his queer machine. 
 
 Why, it made us laugh, for it wasn't half 
 
 Big enough for the back of a suckin' calf. 
 
 He tuk our fun in a keerless way, 
 
 A-venturin' only once to say 
 
 Thar' wasn't a broncho about the place 
 
 Could down that wheel in a ten-mile race. 
 
 I'd a lightnin' broncho out in the herd 
 That could split the air like a flyin' bird, 
 An' I hinted round in an off-hand way 
 That, pervidin' the enterprise 'd pay, 
 [104] 
 
I thought as I might jest happen to light 
 On a hoss that'd leave 'im out o' sight. 
 In less'n a second we seed 'im yank 
 A roll o' greenbacks out of his flank, 
 An' he said if we wanted to bet to name 
 The limit, an' he would tackle the game. 
 
 Just a week afore we had all been down 
 
 On a jamboree to the nearest town, 
 
 An' the whisky' joints an' the faro games, 
 
 An' shakin' our hoofs with the dance-house dames 
 
 Made a wholesale bust, an', pard, I'll be cussed 
 
 If a man in the outfit had any dust; 
 
 An' so I explained, but the youth replied 
 
 That he'd lay the money matter aside. 
 
 An' to show that his back didn't grow no moss, 
 
 He'd bet his machine agin my hoss. 
 
 I tuk him up, and the bet war' closed, 
 
 An' me a-chucklin', fur I supposed 
 
 I war' playin' in dead sure winnin' luck, 
 
 In the softest snap I had ever struck, 
 
 An' the boys chipped in with a knowin' grin, 
 
 For they thought the fool had no chance to win. 
 
 An' so we agreed fur to run that day 
 To the Navajo Crossin' ten miles away 
 As han'some a track as ever you seed 
 For testin' a hoss's purtiest speed. 
 Apache Johnson and Texas Ned 
 Saddled their horses and rode ahead 
 To station themselves ten miles away 
 To act as judges an* see fair play. 
 [105] 
 
While Mexican Bart an* Big Jim Hart 
 Stayed back for to give us an even start. 
 
 I got aboard o' my broncho bird, 
 An' we came to the scratch an' got the word, 
 An' I laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear 
 To see that tenderfoot drop to the rear. 
 
 The first three miles slipped away first-rate, 
 Then broncho began fur to lose his gait, 
 But I wa'n't oneasy, an' didn't mind, 
 With tenderfoot more'n a mile behind. 
 So I jogged along, with a cowboy song, 
 Till all of a suddent I heard that gong 
 A-ringin' a warnin' in my ear, 
 Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting! too infernal near, 
 An' lookin' back'ards I seed the chump 
 Of a tenderfoot gamin' every jump! 
 
 I hit ol' broncho a cut with the quirt, 
 An' once more got him to scratchin' dirt, 
 But his wind seemed weak, an' I tell you, boss, 
 I seed that he wasn't no ten-mile hoss. 
 Still the plucky brute took another shoot, 
 An* pulled away from the wheel galoot, 
 But the animal couldn't hold his gait, 
 An' somehow the idee entered my pate 
 That if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their grip 
 He'd own that hoss at the end o' the trip. 
 
 Closer and closer come tenderfoot, 
 An* harder the whip to the hoss I put; 
 [106] 
 
But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his face, 
 
 Ran up to my side with his easy pace 
 
 Rode up to my side, an', durn his hide, 
 
 Remarked 'twar' a pleasant day fur a ride; 
 
 Then axed, unconsarned, if I had a match, 
 
 An* on his breeches gave it a scratch, 
 
 Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good day, 
 
 An', as fresh as a daisy, scooted away. 
 
 Ahead he went that infernal gong 
 
 A-ringin' "good-bye" as he flew along; 
 
 An' the smoke of his cigarette came back 
 
 Like a vapory snicker along the track. 
 
 On an' on he sped, gittin' further ahead, 
 
 His feet keepin' up that onceasable tread, 
 
 Till he faded away in the distance ; an' when 
 
 I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again, 
 
 He war' thar' with the boys at the end of the race, 
 
 That same keerless, unconsarned smile on his face. 
 
 Now, pard, w'en a cowboy gits beat he don't sw'ar, 
 Nor kick, if the beatin' be done on the squar' ; 
 So I tuck that Easterner right by the hand, 
 An' told him that broncho awaited his brand. 
 Then I asked 'im his name, and whar' from he came, 
 And how long he'd practiced the wheel-rollin' game. 
 Tom Stevens, he said, war' his name, an' he come 
 From a town they call Bosting, in ol' Yankeedom ; 
 Then he jist paralyzed us by sayin' he'd whirled 
 That very identical wheel round the world. 
 Wai', pard, thar's the story o' how that smart chap 
 Done me up w'en I thought I had sich a soft snap ; 
 Done me up on a race with remarkable ease, 
 An* lowered my pride a good many degrees. 
 
 [107] 
 
Did I give 'im the boss ? W'y, of course I did, boss, 
 An' I'll tell you, it wa'n't no diminutive loss. 
 He writ me a letter from back in the East, 
 An' said he'd presented the neat little beast 
 To a feller named Pope, who stands at the head 
 O' the ranch whar' the cussed wheel horses ar' bred. 
 
 THAR' WAS JIM 
 
 Wildest boy in all the village, 
 
 Up to every wicked lark, 
 Happy at a chance to pillage 
 
 Melon patches in the dark. 
 Seemed a 'tarnal mischief breeder, 
 
 Fur in every wicked whim, 
 Put your hand upon the leader, 
 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 He war' eighteen when the summons 
 
 Come fur Union volunteers, 
 An' the firm's an' the drummin's 
 
 An' the patriotic cheers 
 Made us with excitement dance, sir, 
 
 Even old men, staid and prim, 
 An' among the fust to answer, 
 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 One day when Gin'ral wanted 
 Volunteers to charge a place 
 
 Whar' the rebel banner flaunted 
 Imperdently in our face, 
 [108] 
 
Seemed as though the cannon's bellers 
 Had no skeerishness fur him, 
 
 Fur among the foremost fellers, 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 How we cheered 'em at the startin' 
 
 On that fearful charge they made, 
 Fur it seemed that death was sartin' 
 
 In that fiery ambuscade. 
 Once the smoke riz up, a-showin' 
 
 Them as up the hill they clim, 
 An' ahead and still a-goin' 
 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 Git thar'? Wai', yer jest a screamin', 
 
 Nothin' could have stopped them men 
 Each one seemed a howlin' demon 
 
 Chargin' on a fiery pen. 
 Purty tough w'en next I found him, 
 
 Fur, with face all black an' grim, 
 Dead, with dead men all around him, 
 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 Friend o' mine? I reckon, sorter 
 
 Met him fust one winter's night 
 Lord! but wa'n't that storm a snorter 
 
 When I went fur Doctor White! 
 When I heard my wife a pleadin' 
 
 Me to come an* look at him, 
 Lyin' in her arms a-feedin' 
 
 Thar* was Jim. 
 
 [109] 
 
THE WOMANHOOD OF MAN 
 
 (To the man and the poem ex-Governor Adams, of Colo- 
 rado, pays this compliment : "It is a portrait you have thought 
 to idealize; instead, you have painted the heart picture of 
 Captain Jack. Unconsciously it is yourself that has been 
 caught in your poetical kodak.") 
 
 There is gold in every fiber 
 
 Of the Womanhood of Man; 
 It has ebbed and flowed in blood and tears 
 
 Since this old world began, 
 From the veins and souls of heroes 
 
 And of heroines, since the day 
 When women wept and Jesus died 
 
 To wash our sins away. 
 
 I am just an optimistic, 
 
 Reckless, broncho sort of chap; 
 Though I stand for peace and justice 
 
 I am always in a scrap; 
 But my ancestors were fighters 
 
 Since red warfare first began, 
 And my only saving grace is 
 
 In the Womanhood of Man. 
 
 I have prospected for treasure 
 
 In the gold lands of the West, 
 I have driven many a tunnel 
 
 In the mountain's rugged breast, 
 And I've found each little leader 
 
 From bedrock to surface pan 
 Was a mother-loaded magnet 
 
 From the Womanhood of Man, 
 
 [HO] 
 
I have sunk down to the bedrock 
 
 In a wayward brother's soul, 
 When the whispered name of "Mother" 
 
 Caused the God-sent tears to roll 
 From a seeming barren desert 
 
 Down the cheeks, all bronzed with tan; 
 It was God's assay for "color" 
 
 In the Womanhood of Man. 
 
 I have tested modest manhood 
 
 In the fiery front of war, 
 I have analyzed the metal 
 
 In the blood of many a scar, 
 And have found the lion-hearted, 
 
 Whole-souled hero of the clan 
 Was the optimistic product 
 
 Of the Womanhood of Man. 
 
 If you want to find the metal 
 
 That is twenty karats fine 
 You must prospect on the surface 
 
 Ere you sink to strike the mine, 
 But you'll find it in the tailings 
 
 If you'll test them with the pan 
 Find the gold of strenuous manhood 
 
 In the Womanhood of Man. 
 
 I would rather "face the music" 
 
 When the wild Apaches yell, 
 Rather face the hell of battle 
 
 Amid storms of shot and shell, 
 Than suppress the tears of gladness, 
 [111] 
 
Or of sadness, while I can 
 Realize they are the essence 
 Of the Womanhood of Man. 
 
 'Tis the womanhood of manhood 
 
 That is always reaching out; 
 It has been my lone companion 
 
 While on many a dangerous scout, 
 And wherever fate may place me 
 
 I shall do the best I can 
 To be worthy of the manhood 
 
 Of the Womanhood of Man. 
 
 OL' BILL REYNOLDS'S 'DOPTED BOY 
 
 We all looked down on the little cuss 
 When he come to school with the rest of us, 
 Just 'cause he war' an adopted boy, 
 From an orphan 'sylum in Illinoy. 
 He had no parents, leastwise he said, 
 Fur all he knowed both on 'em war dead 
 "Died 'fore I was born," he said to me, 
 Wen I chaffed him about his pedigree. 
 
 He didn't seem fur to have a bit 
 O' fightin' metal or spunky grit, 
 But tuk our slurs in a quiet way, 
 An' endured our torments day after day 
 Without so much as a sass-back word, 
 No matter how off'n or hard we spurred ; 
 The butt o' the scholar's fur wicked fun 
 War' ol' Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 [112] 
 
He larnt his lessons the teacher said, 
 Wen the term war over he'd be ahead 
 Of all us scholars, sartin an' shore. 
 If we didn't tend to our knittin' more. 
 An' w'en the examination come, 
 The Board o' Directors jes' struck us dumb 
 By givin' the prizes, every one, 
 To ol' Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 This made us wild, an' we up an' swore 
 We wouldn't go to that school no more 
 Unless the Directors 'd fix it so 
 That little reperbate couldn't go. 
 But afore the school tuk up we heard 
 That ol' Bill Reynolds somehow preferred 
 To send him into the city, whar' 
 A big, hifalutin' academy war'. 
 
 He come to Bill's on a visit twice, 
 Dressed up an' lookin' uncommon nice, 
 But never showed up on the village street, 
 Jes' like he was 'feared of us boys he'd meet. 
 'Twar a wise perceedin', fur none of us 
 'D associate with the nameless cuss 
 That had no pedigree mor'n the one 
 Of ol' Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 It sorter surprised us w'en some one read 
 A piece in the city paper 'at said 
 That Honer'ble Senator Blake had set 
 On him fur a West Point school cadet. 
 Ol' Bill moved East, an' we never heard 
 'Mongst all us boys not another word, 
 [113] 
 
Till the big Secession War'd begun, 
 Of ol' Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 Most of us ol' schoolfellers went 
 
 At the fust break-out of the devilment, 
 
 An' I reckon thar' wasn't a wilder cuss 
 
 Than me in that hull rebellion muss. 
 
 Dissipatin' an' playin' cards, 
 
 The scum o' the rigiment 'mong my pards 
 
 Never stopped fur a breathin' spell 
 
 In my reckless run fur the gates o' hell! 
 
 It seems like a nightmare lookin' back 
 A gamblin' quarrel a pistol's crack 
 A schoolboy comrade by my hand slain 
 A hand impelled by a rum-crazed brain. 
 The dread court-martial, my quick-drawn breath, 
 As I heard the words, "To be shot to death !" 
 The nameless terror that clung to me 
 As I peered o'er the brink of eternity! 
 
 My mother came, with her pale, sad face, 
 From our village home to our prison place 
 Came with the old-time glad voice hushed 
 Came with a heart my hand had crushed, 
 Kissed and embraced me as of yore, 
 Called me her darling o'er and o'er, 
 Humbly knelt by my side and prayed 
 That the stern hand of justice might be stayed. 
 
 Her face reflected her heart's keen pains 
 As she heard the ring o' my clankin' chains ; 
 Eyes that beamed love in the bygone years 
 
 [114] 
 
Were dulled with sorrow's most bitter tears. 
 Her hand on my burnin' head she laid, 
 And bad me pray as I never prayed; 
 As for me with tremblin' steps she went 
 With one last hope to the General's tent. 
 
 The ensuin' hour seemed a year to me 
 
 As I waited thar' in my misery. 
 
 The sentry with sympathetic face 
 
 Marched to and fro with a funeral pace. 
 
 O'er the face o' the sun there crept a cloud, 
 
 Filmy and white as a coffin shroud, 
 
 An' a raven on distant wooded slope 
 
 Seemed to croak the warnin' : "No hope, no hope !" 
 
 Down through the aisles o' the tented camp 
 Came a squad of guards with a tramp, tramp, 
 
 tramp. 
 
 Half dazed I marched 'mid the glistenin' guns, 
 Borne proudly by Union's blue-clad sons; 
 Marched to headquarters an' stood before 
 The great commander, whose broad brow wore 
 Undyin' laurels his skill had won 
 On a dozen fields 'neath the Southern sun. 
 
 My brain war* awhirl ! The events now seem 
 As the shadowy memories of a dream; 
 The smile o* my mother, sad but sweet, 
 As she sat on a stool at the General's feet. 
 I can see the General's courtly grace, 
 As he raised his eyes to my pallid face 
 "My boy, your mother's prayers have won; 
 You are pardoned by Reynolds's 'dopted son !" 
 [115] 
 
SANCTIMON'YUS IKE 
 
 An early-day inspiration and a truthful story that ended in 
 a necktie party. 
 
 His quiet ways an' honest look 
 
 Won all the diggin's at the start ; 
 His eyes seemed like an open book 
 
 In which we read his guileless heart. 
 He first showed up at Placer Mound, 
 
 Just after that big '80 strike, 
 An' unobtrusive loafed around, 
 
 All unconcarned and quiet like. 
 
 Some said he war' a millionaire 
 
 From Frisco, lookin' up a snap, 
 While others said he had the air 
 
 O' some revival gospel chap. 
 The boys soon tied him to the name 
 
 O' "Parson Sanctimon'yus Ike," 
 Just 'cause he played the pious game 
 
 So unconcarned an' quiet like. 
 
 He nursed the sick, spoke words o' cheer 
 
 To them as rassel'd with despair, 
 An' at the bed o' pain you'd hear 
 
 His low, sad voice in earnest prayer. 
 No matter whar' distress war' found, 
 
 You'd find this Sanctimon'yus Ike 
 Jes' like a angel movin' round, 
 
 So unconcarned an' quiet like. 
 
 One night the safe in which war' kep' 
 The dust o' ev'ry man in camp, 
 
 War' busted open while we slep', 
 
 By some mean, ornery, thievin' scamp. 
 [116] 
 
We tuk the trail amazin' quick, 
 An' soon foun' Sanctimon'yus Ike 
 
 Leadin' a pack-mule down the creek, 
 All unconcarned an' quiet like. 
 
 The stuff war' found, a jedge war' chose, 
 
 An' thar' beneath a jack-oak tree 
 The court convened, an' when it rose 
 
 We tuk the back trail quietly. 
 As up the moutain side we clim' 
 
 We tuk a backward glance at Ike 
 A-hangin' from a jack-oak lim', 
 
 All unconcarned an' quiet like. 
 
 THE LAST ROLL-CALL 
 
 With pallid face a soldier brave lay dying, 
 
 His life-blood dampening the Southern sod, 
 While all around him bleeding forms were lying, 
 
 With dim and death-touched eyes upturned to God. 
 On every side the battle roared and thundered, 
 
 And shot and shell with maddening shrieks flew by, 
 And many souls, from mangled bodies sundered, 
 
 Soared upward to the Master's camp on high. 
 
 "Here! Here!" the dying soldier eager muttered, 
 
 As passing 'comrade knelt above his form 
 And asked him what he wished if he had uttered 
 
 The call for help amid the battle's storm. 
 "Ah!" he replied, "I need no help from mortal 
 
 (And o'er his face a smile angelic came), 
 The roll is being called at Heaven's portal, 
 
 And I but answered when I heard my name." 
 
 [117] 
 
RATTLIN' JOE'S PRAYER 
 
 (Written from a Camp Fire Story, told by California Joe, 
 in the Black Hills in 1876. Monte Bill was Rattlin' Joe's 
 gambling partner. Both were raised by Christian mothers to 
 whom they were devoted, and who believed their boys were 
 bankers, which was true. They ran a Faro Bank. 
 
 Bill died, and just before he closed his eyes he said, "Joe, 
 I wouldn't mind passin' in my chips if I thought I could have 
 a Christian burial, so that mother might know I had a halle- 
 lujah send-off." With tears in his eyes Joe promised Bill 
 he should if it cost him his last scad; but there was not a 
 preacher within 200 miles, and not even a prayer-book could 
 be found. Rattlin' Joe did the best he knew how, saying, 
 "Pards, yer kin git good out o' anything, if ye put it to the 
 right use." Then he made a "prayer-book" out of a pack of 
 cards. The verses tell the rest of the story. 
 
 This poem Captain Crawford first recited in Henry Ward 
 Beecher's church, old Plymouth, Brooklyn, at a Ladies' Fair. 
 The Rev. Beecher smilingly pronounced it "most innocently 
 sacrilegious.") 
 
 'Twas the year eighteen hundred an' sixty, 
 
 One day in the bright month o' June, 
 When the angel o' Death from the diggings 
 
 Snatched "Monte Bill" known as McCune. 
 Wai', Bill war' a favorite among us, 
 
 In spite o' the trade that he had, 
 Which war' gambling but don't you forget it 
 
 He of 'en made weary hearts glad; 
 An', pards, while he lay in that coffin, 
 
 Which we hewed from the trunk of a tree, 
 His face war' as calm as a angel's, 
 
 An' white as a angel's could be. 
 
 An' thar's whar' the trouble commenced, pards, 
 Thar' war' no gospel sharps in the camps, 
 
 An' Joe said, "We can't drop him this way, 
 Without some directions or stamps." 
 [118] 
 
Then up spoke old Sandy McGregor: 
 
 "Look'ee yar, mates, I'm reg'lar dead stuck, 
 I can't hold no hand at religion, 
 
 An' I'm feared Bill's gone "in out o' luck. 
 If I knowed a darn thing about prayin' 
 
 I'd chip in an' say him a mass; 
 But I ain't got no show in the lay-out, 
 
 I can't beat the game, so I pass." 
 
 Rattlin' Joe war' the next o' the speakers, 
 
 An' Joe war' a friend o' the dead; 
 The salt water stood in his peepers, 
 
 An' these are the words as he said: 
 "Mates, ye know as I ain't any Christian, 
 
 An' I'll gamble the good Lord don't know 
 That thar' lives sich a rooster as I am; 
 
 But thar' once war' a time long ago, 
 When I war' a kid; I remember, 
 
 My old mother sent me to school 
 To the little old church round the corner, 
 
 Whar' they said I war' dumb as a mule. 
 An' I reckon I've nearly forgotten 
 
 Purty much all that ever I knew; 
 But still, if ye'll drop to my racket, 
 
 I'll show ye jist what I kin do. 
 
 *'Now, I'll show you a prayer-book," said Joseph- 
 "Jist hand me them cards off that rack; 
 
 I'll convince ye that this are a Bible," 
 An' he went to work shufflin' the pack. 
 
 Then he spread out the cards on the table 
 An' began kinder pious like: "Pards, 
 [119] 
 
If ye'll jist cheese yer racket an' listen, 
 I'll show ye the prayer-book in cards! 
 
 "The ace, that reminds us o' one God, 
 
 The deuce o' the Father an' Son, 
 The tray, o' the Father and Son, Holy Ghost, 
 
 For ye see all them Three* are but One. 
 The four-spot is Matthew, Mark, Luke an' John, 
 
 The five-spot, the virgins who trimmed 
 Their lamps while it was light of the day, 
 
 An' the other five virgins who sinned, 
 The six-spot, in six days the Lord made the earth, 
 
 The sea an' the stars in the heaven; 
 He saw it war' good w'at He did, then He said, 
 
 'I'll jist take a rest on the seven/ 
 The eight-spot is Noah, his wife and three sons, 
 
 An' Noah's three sons had their wives ; 
 God loved the hull mob, so bid 'em embark 
 
 In the freshet He saved all their lives ; 
 The nine war' the lepers of Biblical fame 
 
 A repulsive an' hideous squad 
 The ten are the holy commandments which came 
 
 To us perishin' sinners from God. 
 The Queen war of Sheba in old Bible times, 
 
 The King represents old King Sol, 
 An' the knave, that's the devil, an' God if ye please, 
 
 Jist keep his hands off'n poor Bill. 
 An* now, lads, git down on yer bended knees 
 
 Till I draw, and perhaps I kin fill; 
 An' havin' no Bible, I'll pray on the cards, 
 
 Fur I've showed ye they're all on the squar', 
 An' maybe God'll cotton to all that I say, 
 
 If I'm only sincere in the pra'r. 
 
 [120] 
 
I'm lost on the rules o' yer game, but I'll ax 
 
 Fur a seat fur him back o' the Throne, 
 An' I'll bet my hull stack that the boy'll behave 
 
 If yer angels jist lets him alone. 
 Thar's nothin' bad 'bout him unless he gits riled 
 
 The boys'll all back me in that- 
 But if anyone treads on his corns, Lord, you bet 
 
 He'll fight at the drop o' the hat. 
 Jist don't let yer angels run over him, Lord, 
 
 Nor shut off all to once on his drink; 
 Break him in kinder gentle an' mild on the "start, 
 
 An' he'll give ye no trouble, I think. 
 An' couldn't ye give him a pack o' old cards, 
 
 To amuse himself once in a while? 
 But don't let yer angels chip in on his game, 
 
 'Cause he'll get right away with their pile. 
 An' now, Lord, I hope that ye've tuck it all in, 
 
 An' listend to all that I've said. 
 I know that my pray in' is jest a bit thin, 
 
 But I've done all I could fur the dead. 
 An' I hope I hain't troubled yer Lordship too much 
 
 So I'll cheese it by axin' agin 
 That ye won't let the knave get his grip on poor Bill; 
 
 That's all, Lord yours truly amen." 
 
 [121] 
 
AN OLD TRAPPER'S RELIGION 
 
 I ain't goin' ter preach ye a sermon, 
 
 Nor I ain't goin' ter sing ye a song, 
 An' I reckon as how ye won't think so 
 
 If I don't draw my story too long; 
 But I am jest from the church in the city, 
 
 Whar' I hear'n the ol' parson man tell 
 'Bout the psalm-singer's home up in Heaven, 
 
 An' the sinners' hot layout in Hell 
 
 An' I didn't at first understan' him ; 
 
 Ye see, I sot back near the door, 
 With my leg stuck 'way inter a tunnel, 
 
 An' my slouch layin' flat on the floor ; 
 But somehow his words sot me thinkin' 
 
 An' it worried me ever so long, 
 Tilf I dropped on the settled conclusion 
 
 That he drawed it a little too strong. 
 
 Sez he, ye must all git religion, 
 
 An' stay with the rules o' the church, 
 Or else on the great Day o' Judgment 
 
 Ye'll surely get left in the lurch. 
 Sez he, now's the day o' salvation, 
 
 Fur why do ye weaken an* wait? 
 Fly 'way from that trail strewed with pleasure, 
 
 'Cos it leads right direct to Hell's gate. 
 
 Then I ax'd myself, what is this racket 
 That he seems so dead earnest about? 
 
 Is it sittin' close up to the pulpit 
 To jine in the gineral shout ? 
 [122] 
 
Is it wearin' a face like a bean-pole, 
 
 Chippin' in with a lusty amen, 
 An' loafin aroun' in the temple 
 
 While the beggar lies sick in his pen? 
 
 Ar' these psalm-singin' nabobs religious, 
 
 'Cause they pray in a satin-lined box, 
 An' all the time durin' the preachin' 
 
 Keep plannin' their next steal in stocks? 
 Do they think they kin waltz into glory 
 
 Because they're mixed in with the flock? 
 Not much ! They'll git left on the margin, 
 
 For Christ will go down to bed rock. 
 
 O' course, they are looked on as Christians, 
 
 Tho' they gamble all week on the board, 
 They freely come down with the wherewith 
 
 To help on the cause of the Lord. 
 But I think at the last resurrection 
 
 They'll have nothin' but wildcat to sell, 
 An' instead o' the stockboard in heaven 
 
 They'll git points on a corner in hell. 
 
 Ar' they bound to take lodgin's with Satan, 
 
 That labor an* toil day by day 
 For yer gilt-edged Sunday professers 
 
 Like Duncan* on starvation pay? 
 Ar' they bound ter take lodgin's with Satan, 
 
 While Duncan, the deacon, steals all 
 
 *J. C. Duncan, manager of the Pioneer Bank of San 
 Francisco, who was a pillar of the church, and stole $2,000,000 
 from the depositors, and who denounced the honest prayer 
 of "Rattlin' Joe" as sacrilegious. 
 
 [123] 
 
An' pay with the sweat o' the poor man 
 The price of a sanctified stall? 
 
 Ar' they to be damned inter torment, 
 
 An' driv through unquenchable flames 
 'Cause the big book in front o' the pulpit 
 
 Don't happen ter show up their names? 
 Is the Devil a-goin' ter yank 'em 
 
 To his kingdom of fire below, 
 Jist 'cause they don't jine in their meetings, 
 
 An' work in the very same row? 
 
 In short, can't a man as lives honest, 
 
 An' don't take the devil inside 
 (Fur no man can be a good Christian 
 
 An' yet from his sideboard imbibe) ; 
 If he does every day by his neighbor 
 
 As he'd have that same neighbor to do, 
 Won't he fare jest as well at the clean-up 
 
 As if worth a million or two? 
 
 The churches are good institutions; 
 
 I like to hear good preachers tell 
 'Bout Christ an' the good o' religion, 
 
 But they ought to preach temperance as well; 
 'Cause rum's the stronghold o' the devil, 
 
 An' a man as drinks don't always win, 
 'Cause he never kin keep hisself level, 
 
 Since rum is a cuss and a sin. 
 
 But I tell ye, a man as lives honest, 
 If he never hears tell o' the church, 
 
 Kin jest be as happy hereafter, 
 An' roost on a heavenly perch, 
 [124] 
 
We're all in the way o' temptation, 
 Thar's no one who's free from all sin, 
 
 But Christ won't go back on us poor folks, 
 If we do jest the best that we kin. 
 
 THE TRUE STORY OF MARCHING THROUGH 
 GEORGIA 
 
 We never found a chicken that could roost out of our 
 
 reach, 
 We seldom had a chaplain that could find the time to 
 
 preach, 
 
 We never saw a soldier pass a shirt hung out to bleach, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 Oh, how we used to toil along right through the 
 
 swamps and bogs, 
 
 And how the ladies blushed at our dilapidated togs, 
 And how we showed our bravery assassinating hogs, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 When charging on a chicken roost the rebel girls cried 
 "Shame!" 
 
 And said our actions would disgrace the soldiers' hon- 
 ored name ; 
 
 They came at us with clubs and dogs, but we got there 
 
 just the same, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 When coming in from foraging sometimes we would 
 
 get caught, 
 The Colonel then would paw the ground and swear 
 
 he'd have us shot, 
 
 [125] 
 
And then he'd eye our captured fowls and fine us half 
 
 we'd got, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 When ordered up some earthwork or some battery to 
 
 take, 
 I've seen some heavy charges that caused the earth 
 
 to quake; 
 They were nothing to the charges the sutlers used to 
 
 make, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON 
 
 (This poem was first recited by the author at Henry Ward 
 Beecher's Church, Old Plymouth, Brooklyn, N. Y.) 
 
 Hold on ! . Hold on ! My goodness, you take my 
 'breath, my son, 
 
 A-firin' questions at me, like shots from a Gatlin' gun! 
 
 Why do I wear this eagle an' flag an* brazen star, 
 
 An' why do my old eyes glisten when somebody men- 
 tions war? 
 
 An' why do I call men "Comrade," an' why do my eyes 
 grow bright 
 
 When you hear me tell your grandma I'm going to 
 Post tonight? 
 
 Com* here, you inquisitive rascal, an' set on your 
 granddad's knee, 
 
 An' I'll try an' answer the broadsides you've been 
 a-firin' at me. 
 
 [126] 
 
Away back there in the sixties, long time afore you 
 
 were born, 
 The news come a-flashin' to us, one bright an' sunny 
 
 morn, 
 That some of our Southern brothers, a-thinkin', no 
 
 doubt, 't war' right, 
 Had trained their guns on our banner, an' opened a 
 
 nasty fight; 
 The great big guns war' a-boomin', an' the shot flyin' 
 
 thick an' fast, 
 
 An' troops all over the Southland were rapidly bein' 
 
 massed, 
 An' a thrill went through the nation, a fear that our 
 
 glorious land 
 Might be split an' divided an' ruined by mistaken 
 
 brother's hand. 
 
 Lord! but wa'n't there excitement, an' didn't the boys' 
 eyes flash! 
 
 An' didn't we cuss our brothers for bein' so foolish 
 an' rash! 
 
 An' didn't we raise the neighbors with loud an' con- 
 tinued cheers 
 
 When Abe sent out that document a-callin' for volun- 
 teers ! 
 
 An' didn't we flock to the standard when the drums 
 began to beat 
 
 An' didn't we march with proud step along the village 
 street ! 
 
 An* didn't the people cheer us when we got aboard the 
 cars, 
 
 With the flag a-wavin* o'er us, an* went away to the 
 wars! 
 
 [127] 
 
I'll never forget your grandma as she stood outside o' 
 
 the train, 
 Her face as white as a snowdrift, her tears a-fallin' 
 
 like rain 
 She stood there quiet and deathlike, 'mid all o' the 
 
 rush and the noise, 
 For the war was a-takin' from her her husband and 
 
 three brave boys 
 Bill, Charley and little Tommy just turned eighteen, 
 
 but as true 
 
 An* gallant a little soldier as ever wore the blue ; 
 It seemed almost like murder fur to tear her poor 
 
 heart so, 
 But your grandad couldn't stay, baby, an' the boys war' 
 
 determined to go. 
 
 The evenin' afore we started she called the boys to her 
 
 side 
 An' told 'em as how they war' always their mother's 
 
 joy an' pride, 
 An', though her soul was in torture, an' her poor heart 
 
 bleedin' an' sore, 
 An' though she needed her darlings, the country needed 
 
 them more. 
 She told 'em to do their duty, wherever their feet 
 
 might roam, 
 An' to never forget in battle their mother was prayin' 
 
 at home, 
 An' if (an' the tears nigh choked her) they should 
 
 fall in front o' the foe, 
 She'd go to the blessed Savior an' ax Him to lighten 
 
 the blow. 
 
 [128] 
 
Bill lays an' awaits the summons 'neath Spottsylvania's 
 sod, 
 
 An' on the field of Antietam Charley's spirit went back 
 to God, 
 
 An' Tommy, our baby Tommy, we buried one star- 
 lit night 
 
 Along with his fallen comrades, just after the Wilder- 
 ness fight. 
 
 The lightnin' struck our family tree, an' stripped it of 
 every limb, 
 
 A-leavin' only this bare old trunk a-standin' alone an' 
 grim. 
 
 My boy, that's why your grandma, when you kneel to 
 the God you love, 
 
 Makes you ax Him to watch your uncles, an' make 'em 
 happy above. 
 
 That's why you sometimes see her with the tear-drops 
 
 in her eyes; 
 That's why you sometimes catch her a-tryin' to hide 
 
 her sighs; 
 That's why at our great reunions she looks so solemn 
 
 an* sad; 
 That's why her heart seems a-breakin' when the boys 
 
 are jolly an' glad ; 
 That's why you sometimes find her in the bedroom 
 
 overhead, 
 Down on her knees a-prayin', with their pictures laid 
 
 out on the bed; 
 That's why the old-time brightness will light up her 
 
 face no more, 
 Till she meets her hero warriors in the camp on the 
 
 other shore. 
 
 [129] 
 
An' when the great war was over, back came the vet- 
 erans true, 
 With not one star a-missin' from that azure field of 
 
 blue; 
 An' the boys, who on field o' battle had stood the fiery 
 
 test, 
 Formed posts o' the great Grand Army in the North, 
 
 South, East an' West. 
 Fraternity, Charity, Loyalty, is the motto 'neath which 
 
 they train, 
 Their object to care for the helpless an' banish sorrow 
 
 an' pain 
 From the homes o' the widows an' orphans o' the boys 
 
 who have gone before, 
 To answer their name at roll-call, in God's Grand 
 
 Army corps. 
 
 An' that's why we wear these badges, the eagle an' flag 
 
 an' star, 
 Worn only by veteran heroes who fought in that bloody 
 
 war; 
 An' that's why my old eyes glisten while talkin' about 
 
 the fray, 
 An' that's why I call men "Comrade" when I meet 'em 
 
 every day; 
 An' that's why I tell your grandma, "I'm goin' to 
 
 Post tonight," 
 For there's where I meet the old boys who stood with 
 
 me in the fight. 
 An', my child, that's why I've taught you to love an' 
 
 revere the men 
 
 Who come here a-wearin' badges, to fight their bat- 
 tles again. 
 
 [130] 
 
For they are gallant heroes who stood 'mid the shot 
 
 an' shell, 
 An' followed the flying colors right into the mouth 
 
 o' hell; 
 They are the men whose valor saved this land from 
 
 disgrace an' shame, 
 An' lifted her back in triumph to her perch on the 
 
 dome o' fame ; 
 An' as long as you live, my darling, till your pale lips 
 
 in death are mute, 
 When you see that badge on a bosom, take off your hat 
 
 and salute, 
 An' if any old vet should halt you, an' question you why 
 
 you do, 
 
 Just tell him you've got a right to, for your grand- 
 dad's a comrade, too. 
 
 WHEN BILL COME HOME 
 
 Hold 'im? No. A yoke o' steers 
 
 Couldn't hold that boy o' mine, 
 Wen the call fur volunteers 
 
 Come a-ringin' down the line. 
 Patriotism, strong an' pure, 
 
 Hit 'im like a burstin' bomb 
 Said he'd be a gin'ral, sure, 
 
 Wen he come home. 
 
 Course his mother up an' cried, 
 Jes' as any mother would 
 [131] 
 
Ef her only joy an' pride 
 
 Went away, perhaps fur good, 
 
 But he knocked her reasonin' 
 Inter sort o' honeycomb 
 
 Sed he'd make her smile ag'in 
 Wen he come home. 
 
 Off he marched, an' I suppose 
 
 No one in the regiment 
 Looked so fine in soger clothes 
 
 As our Bill the day he went. 
 Neighbors 'lowed he'd turn out bad, 
 
 But we told 'em how we'd show'm 
 Wat a noble boy we had 
 
 Wen Bill comes home. 
 
 Got a letter now an' then 
 
 Tellin' how he got along, 
 How he thought o' mother w'en 
 
 Tempted fur to do a wrong. 
 "An'," sed she, "you'll shout so loud 
 
 That you'll shatter Heaven's dome, 
 'Cause you'll feel so monstrous proud 
 
 Wen Bill comes home." 
 
 'Mong his letters thar' was one 
 
 More'n all the rest, perhaps, 
 Pleased us, fur he's said he'd won 
 
 A leftenant's shoulder straps 
 Fur his bravery in a row 
 
 Down in Georgy, front o' Rome 
 Said we'd hold our heads up now, 
 
 Wen he come home. 
 
 [132] 
 
Purty soon the papers said 
 
 That fur conduct o' some sort, 
 Owin' to the way he led 
 
 Of his sogers 'gin a fort, 
 Some affair was read out loud 
 
 Makin' of him "Captain" Bloom 
 "Lor' !" we said, "Won't we be proud, 
 
 Wen Bill comes home." 
 
 Then the news went o'er the land 
 
 O' that great Atlanta fight, 
 An' we couldn't understand 
 
 Why our William didn't write. 
 Neighbors tried to lift us out 
 
 O' the orful cloud o' gloom 
 Sed they'd come an' help us shout, 
 
 W'en Bill come home. 
 
 Coffin in the baggage car, 
 
 Black as ever black could be. 
 All the neighbors standin' thar', 
 
 Pityin' of wife an' me 
 Meetin' of our darlin' boy 
 
 Jes' to put 'im in the tomb, 
 Give us sorrow, 'stead o' joy, 
 
 W'en Bill come home. 
 
 [133] 
 
NOT A SIN TO LIE THAT WAY 
 
 The old vets now will often sit, and tell their loving 
 
 wives 
 Of many stirring incidents that crossed their soldier 
 
 lives 
 The marches, camps and sieges, the battles hard they 
 
 fought, 
 And how they stood up gallantly amid the storms of 
 
 shot; 
 But raids on chicken rendezvous they'll swear they 
 
 never made, 
 
 Nor ever helped assassinate a hog in Southern glade, 
 Nor ever "beat" the sutler when they drew their 
 
 monthly pay 
 And seem to think it not a sin to lie that way. 
 
 They'll talk of great privations they were called on to 
 endure, 
 
 And how they'd laugh at hardships which their "kick- 
 ing" couldn't cure 
 
 The beating rains, the driving snows, and many a dire 
 distress 
 
 They will relate in sentences of glowing vividness. 
 
 They'll scowl with indignation at a hint of how they 
 shirked, 
 
 And how the many "soldier" games successfully they 
 worked ; 
 
 They never dodged guard duty, but were always 
 prompt, they'll say, 
 
 And seem to think it not a sin to lie that way. 
 
 [134] 
 
They'll tell of how from blanket beds their truant 
 thoughts would roam 
 
 Unto the dear, good, loyal girls they left in distant 
 home, 
 
 And how their martial hearts would throb with rap- 
 ture at the thought 
 
 Of sweethearts' loving welcome when the battles all 
 were fought. 
 
 Just hint to one that he was sweet on some fair South- 
 ern girl, 
 
 He'll shake his head emphatic, and his lip will scornful 
 curl; 
 
 He'll say that to his own love he was loyal every day, 
 
 And seems to think it not a sin to lie that way. 
 
 With faces tinged with sorrow as memory takes them 
 
 back, 
 They'll tell of pangs of hunger when the rations would 
 
 get slack, 
 
 And how the corn from mules they'd filch, so desper- 
 ate did they grow, 
 While staring in starvation's face in chase of Southern 
 
 foe. 
 And then, with look of innocence, they'll tell of many a 
 
 raid 
 Their more ungodly comrades on the big plantations 
 
 made, 
 But raiding was a crime which at their own doors 
 
 didn't lay 
 
 They seem to think it not a sin to lie that way. 
 
 [135] 
 
JIM'S LETTER 
 
 I sat on the crest on the mountain high 
 
 Overlooking Jorando's plain; 
 A mocking-bird sang in the woods close by 
 
 In a glad and sweet refrain, 
 And the doves were cooing among the trees, 
 
 And the deer browsed at my feet, 
 With the sweet o wild flowers perfuming the breeze 
 
 It was Nature in Nature's retreat. 
 
 And my heart just danced to the songbird's tune, 
 
 And forgotten was every care, 
 And it seemed that balmy and flowery June 
 
 Instead of the Winter was there, 
 And I rolled on the ground and laughed and sang 
 
 In a joyous and glad refrain, 
 Till the deer ran off and the old woods rang, 
 
 And the echo came back again. 
 
 Then a shot rang out and a bang ! bang ! bang ! 
 
 And my heart leaped again with joy, 
 And I laughed once more till the old woods rang, 
 
 For I knew it was Harry, my boy. 
 Then near to my side on his foaming mare 
 
 He stopped, and I held my breath; 
 His face was the picture of cold despair, 
 
 And as white as the face of death. 
 
 "Speak out! Great God, don't look like that, 
 With your white face dusty and grim!" 
 
 Then he said, as he raised his broad-rimmed hat, 
 "Here's a letter from Corporal Jim." 
 [136] 
 
And he stole away to a tree close by, 
 
 With his head drooping low on his breast; 
 
 I knew it was death by the tear in his eye 
 Jim's letter must tell the rest. 
 
 The blood in my veins seemed its course to retrace, 
 
 And the song-birds of Heaven were still, 
 An eclipse came over the sunny face 
 
 Of that joyous and gladsome hill. 
 All nature seemed hushed as I held in my hand 
 
 That message from comrade of mine, 
 And I can't explain and I don't understand, 
 
 But somehow it started the brine. 
 
 With eager eyes and with trembling hand 
 
 I gazed for an instant, and then 
 My heart stood still ; the writing I scanned 
 
 Was from one of God's own noblemen. 
 The seal was broken and the mist arose 
 
 In my eyes while I read it out: 
 "Who'll champion us now, God only knows, 
 
 Since Logan is mustered out.'- 
 
 Oh, comrades of mine, he was dearer to me 
 
 Than the wealth of my Western wild. 
 And the soft, balmy breeze and the doves on the tree 
 
 Seemed to moan, while I wept like a child. 
 Yes, boys, and I want you to understand 
 
 What I say I will never take back, 
 And I thought it was noble and brave and grand 
 
 To cry for a hero like Jack. 
 [137] 
 
To cry in the wildwood when no one was near, 
 
 Save my boy, and he joined me, you bet, 
 For a child of a soldier to Jack was most dear, 
 
 And his grave with their tears will keep wet. 
 And who, if not I, should inscribe to the name 
 
 Of that hero now gone to his rest, 
 A song from the wildwood, the mountain and plain 
 
 For "Black Jack" was a son of the West. 
 
 Our great Alexander, our mightiest chief 
 
 Every heart-throb that beat in his breast 
 Was the music that chimed in his heart for relief 
 
 For our widows and orphans distressed. 
 Sincere in his friendship, from trickery free, 
 
 With honesty's stamp on his face, 
 And we ask as we bow to Heaven's decree, 
 
 "Lord, raise up a man in his place." 
 
 A man whom the comrades can love and revere, 
 
 A soldier and statesman combined, 
 Upright in deportment, unconscious of fear, 
 
 Yet modest and gentle and kind. 
 A man who stood with us on many a field, 
 
 When the shots wildly shrieked in the air, 
 A man whose convictions never would yield 
 
 A duplicate Jack, as it were. 
 
 [138] 
 
SLEEP, SOLDIER, SLEEP! 
 
 A MEMORIAL DAY SONG 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep! Thy warfare is o'er, 
 War's dread alarums shall wake thee no more; 
 Sleep, calmly sleep, 'neath the flowery sod, 
 Waiting the reveille sounded from God. 
 Over thy resting-place bright flowers we twine, 
 Gratitude's emblems on loyalty's shrine. 
 Fruits of thy valor we gratefully reap: 
 Union and Liberty Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Beautiful flowers of spring 
 Loving hands hither bring, 
 Sacred thy memory ever we'll keep, 
 Sweetly and peacefully sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 Rest, soldier, rest! Thy peace thou hast earned 
 On the red fields where the battle fires burned; 
 Rest, sweetly rest, for a-weary wert thou 
 Winning the laurels which circled thy brow. 
 Soon will the trumpeter wake thee again, 
 Sounding Assembly on Heaven's bright plain; 
 There with thy comrades in realms of the blest, 
 Through all eternity, rest, sweet rest. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Beautiful flowers of spring 
 
 Loving hands hither bring, 
 
 Sacred thy memory ever we'll keep, 
 
 Sweetly and peacefully sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 [139] 
 
THE GALLANT SEVENTY-NINTH 
 
 ANNUAL REUNION AND FORTY-NINTH ANNIVERSARY, MAY 13, IQIQ. 
 
 THE SOLDIER SONS O' SCOTLAND 
 
 When the call to the red fields of warfare was ringing, 
 
 When the cry that our flag was degraded went forth, 
 When the news of the firing on Sumter went winging 
 
 Through throbbing wires over the land of the North, 
 The blood of true patriots burned at the story, 
 
 Strong hands were all eager to grapple the guns, 
 And quickly to rise in defense of Old Glory 
 
 Were legions of Scotland's brave, brawny young 
 sons. 
 
 Their own native Scotia they loved with devotion, 
 
 They cherished the mem'ry of war chiefs of old; 
 Their love for their heroes was deep as the ocean; 
 
 From childhood they'd read of Scotch warriors bold, 
 And when in the land they'd adopted their valor 
 
 Was called to the test when the flag was assailed, 
 They sought the red fields, and no cowardly pallor 
 
 O'erspread their flushed faces; their hearts never 
 quailed. 
 
 And nobly they fought on the red fields of battle 
 
 Where death sang its terrible, madd'ning refrains ; 
 'Mid roaring of cannons and musketry's rattle 
 
 The war-blood of Scotland coursed hot through their 
 
 veins. 
 They fought for the life of the flag floating o'er them 
 
 In shot-riddled wildwood, in field and in glen, 
 And gray serried ranks that stood battling before them 
 
 Reeled oft 'neath the fire of the Cameron men. 
 
 [140] 
 
O! sons of the land of the thistle and heather, 
 
 Brave Cameron Highlanders, proud ye should be 
 When thus you assemble as comrades together 
 
 To rehearse the brave deeds of your war history. 
 Though gray be your heads with time's frosting, I'll 
 warrant 
 
 You yet feel as young as when warriors bold, 
 For mind what I tell you, 'tis really abhorrent 
 
 To think a true Scotchman could ever grow old. 
 
 Now, fill up your glasses and toast your braw cronies, 
 
 Drink health to your Spence and the auld Scotian 
 
 Baird, 
 A cup for Joe Stewart, and mind ye, no ponies, 
 
 But brimming full goblets, for true he's a laird. 
 And drink to yersel's, every laddie amang ye, 
 
 And see that ye leave no wee drap in the cup, 
 And down a wee bit for the song I have sang ye, 
 
 If ye think in your hearts it is worthy a sup. 
 
 And drink ye in silence to those who are missing 
 
 Since last ye fell in for your annual feed, 
 And think, as the cups to your lips you are pressing, 
 
 Of Martin and Ogle and brave Jamie Reid, 
 Of Elliott, Anchor, Lamont, who have left ye, 
 
 Of good Comrade Clifford, the last one to fall ; 
 Though death of the boys in the flesh has bereft ye, 
 
 Their memory will live till the last bugle call. 
 
 [Hi] 
 
A HAPPY HIT 
 
 Everybody shuck their heads, 
 
 In a doobious sort o' way; 
 Talked about folks makin' beds 
 
 Into which they'd have to lay, 
 All because young Marcus Pike 
 
 Sorter sidled up to me, 
 An' because I acted like 
 
 I war' summat fond o' he. 
 
 Sister Marthy raved an' tore, 
 
 Said I would disgrace our name; 
 Brother William ripped an' swore, 
 
 Father acted fur from tame. 
 Mother didn't seem to keer, 
 
 Fur she acted quiet like, 
 Jes' as ef she had no fear 
 
 That I'd marry Marcus Pike. 
 
 Marthy had a strappin' beau, 
 
 Clerkin' in Si Allen's store, 
 Six foot tall an' seemed ter know 
 
 Everything the clothes he wore 
 War the best Si Allen kep' 
 
 In his place, an' Marthy thought 
 That his millingtary step 
 
 Marked the hero to the dot. 
 
 Marthy war' the oldest, an' 
 Tol' me I had much to learn, 
 
 An' I'd better hoi' my han' 
 Till I got a beau like her'n. 
 [142] 
 
But their oppersition jes' 
 
 Seemed ter make me like him more, 
 An' I done my level best 
 
 His affection to secure. 
 
 When the bloody war bruk out 
 
 Mark jes' couldn't stay ter hum, 
 An' I heerd 'm whoop an' shout, 
 
 Follerin' the fife an' drum. 
 When he come ter say goodbye 
 
 I kep' vowin' through my tears, 
 I'd have none but him ef I 
 
 Hed to wait a million years. 
 
 Marthy's feller said he guessed 
 
 War'd not agree with him 
 That the fire that moved the rest 
 
 War a sorter sudden whim. 
 So right in the store he stuck, 
 
 Spite o' what the neighbors said 
 That he didn't have the pluck 
 
 Fur to face the rebel lead. 
 
 Well, all through them bloody years 
 
 I war true as death to Mark, 
 An' I calculate my tears 
 
 Would a-floated Noah's ark. 
 Marthy's feller married her, 
 
 An' she allus kep' a sayin' 
 I war jes' a donkey fur 
 
 All my weepin' an' my prayin'. 
 
 But at last the fight was o'er, 
 An' amid the people's cheers 
 [H3] 
 
An' a anvil's deaf'nin' roar, 
 An' us wimmin's joyful tears* 
 
 Back come Marcus an' the rest, 
 An', not carin' who war' seeing 
 
 I jes' hugged 'im to my breast, 
 Prouder than a royal queen. 
 
 How the years have seemed to fly 
 
 Since I wed my soger boy; 
 He seems proud o' me, an' I 
 
 Seem to swim in ceaseless joy. 
 An' I reckon Marthy sees 
 
 That I made a happy hit 
 Mark is Jestis o' the Peace 
 
 Her ol' man is clerkin' yit. 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY 
 
 JUST US FEW 
 
 Just us few, boys in blue, 
 
 Gathered together today, 
 Where comrades sleep and women weep, 
 
 Scattering flowers of May. 
 
 Just us few, boys in blue, 
 
 Old boys in blue and gray, 
 Thinking of days, Sumter ablaze, 
 
 We marched to the war away. 
 
 Just us few, me and you, 
 
 Tommy and Billy and Jay, 
 Here with the dead, who fought and bled, 
 
 Awaiting the judgment day. 
 [144] 
 
Just us few, hark, tattoo 
 
 Attention, comrades! I say, 
 Soon 'twill be taps, brush up your traps, 
 
 Rest for the Blue and Gray. 
 
 OUR MARTYRED DEAD 
 
 (The following poem was read by the author at the tomb of 
 General E. D. Baker, on Decoration Day, 1879.) 
 
 Soldiers, comrades, gather round me, 
 
 List the story I will tell 
 Of a noble, gallant soldier 
 
 One who loved our flag so well. 
 Here he sleeps beneath the daisies, 
 
 Here, anear the ocean broad, 
 Near the great Pacific's murmur, 
 
 He is resting 'neath the sod. 
 
 Oh, the brave; methinks I see him 
 
 Charging, leading, sword in hand, 
 With the courage of a Custer, 
 
 At the head of his command. 
 Onward! upward! rally comrades! 
 
 See the rebels giving way ! 
 Ah! Ball's Bluff, you had a martyr 
 
 When our Baker fell that day. 
 
 While we gather 'round his ashes, 
 
 Comrades far beyond the plain 
 Send a tribute to his mem'ry 
 
 From the Post that bears his name. 
 Baker Post, in Philadelphia 
 
 Boys who joined him in the fray 
 Bade me tell you how they loved him, 
 
 And I speak for them today. 
 [145] 
 
DECORATION DAY 
 
 Comrades, our Nation is thinking today 
 
 Of her glorious salvation, and counting the cost 
 
 Of the men who are sleeping beneath the cold clay 
 
 The noble, the gallant, and brave, that we lost, 
 
 That we lost! Yet how fondly we cherish their 
 
 names, 
 
 How eager to tell of the deeds they have done, 
 Their actions so brave, that their glory and fame 
 Are pictured and told in the battles they won! 
 
 Let our Nation rejoice, then, 'mid sorrow today 
 Let our soldier hearts beat with the love of the free; 
 While the widows and orphans are kneeling to pray, 
 Great God of the. Universe, humbly to Thee, 
 And we who have safely returned from the fight, 
 Would ask Thee, most humbly, dear Father, again, 
 To watch o'er our actions, that we, by Thy might, 
 May show that our comrades have not died in vain. 
 
 Dear comrades, the widow has come; stand aside 
 Let her kneel by the tomb, unresponsive forever, 
 Where moulders the arm of the true and the tried; 
 Her guard and protector, till war bade them sever. 
 Stand aside, boys, she comes, as she'll come all the 
 
 years, 
 With a wreath, lovely wreath, all bespangled with 
 
 tears, 
 
 And a prayer, Heavenly Father, when this life is done, 
 Reunite us in Heaven with loved Washington. 
 
 The orphan has come, boys ; let him have a place 
 To look at the orator straight in the face, 
 
 [146] 
 
To listen once more, hear recounted the story, 
 For his sire was a soldier, and shared in the glory; 
 And he, too, will vow on each thirtieth of May, 
 His love for our Union ; God bless him ! we say. 
 
 The patriot is here and the statesman has come, 
 
 The actor, the student, yea, every one; 
 
 The dwellers in palace, and hovel so plain, 
 
 All, all have done honor to those who were slain. 
 
 Let the blossoms of May bow their heads o'er each 
 
 grave, 
 
 And breathe balm of sweetness all over the brave, 
 And lilies, pure lilies, with roses so red, 
 Be strewn in bright wreaths on the graves of the dead, 
 While tears of the widows and orphans like dew 
 Are mingled with flow'rets of red, white and blue. 
 
 And now as these heroes lie sleeping beneath 
 The Stars and the Stripes, the flowers and the wreath, 
 We think of the trenches dug after the fight, 
 When wrapped in their blankets at dead of the night, 
 We buried in hundreds, yea, thousands, the braves 
 Who fell in the battle ; no mark o'er the graves 
 Save that simple inscription, just one word alone, 
 You read it with awe, and pronounce it "Unknown." 
 And today the four hundred thousand who fell, 
 The wife, and the mother, and sister, will tell, 
 Oh, how generous, how loyal, how noble and true, 
 They died for our Union, for me and for you! 
 
 Our Union still lives. They have not died in vain, 
 And today we've adorned their low graves once again ; 
 But these flowers, and the hands that have strewn them 
 today, 
 
 [147] 
 
In death will soon languish and all pass away, 
 And these monuments, too, so majestic and grand, 
 Will crumble to dust. Yet our Union will stand 
 And that is their monument, ours, too, as well, 
 Who fought by the side of the noble who fell ; 
 Who suffered in cabin, in camp, and in field, 
 And swore by yon flag that we never would yield 
 Till that flag, lovely flag, dearest flag of the free, 
 Should float, boys, in triumph, for you and for me. 
 
 And here as we gather today 'neath the Stars, 
 We look upon comrades with crutches and scars, 
 And sleeves, empty, sleeves, hanging loose by their side, 
 The boys who survived 'mid the thousands who died. 
 And yet do they murmur? No, no! nor complain. 
 "Each man owed a part, when the war-god held reign, 
 And we have but acted our part in the strife, 
 And gave but a limb, while the dead gave a life." 
 Oh, comrades, how hallowed the ground where they 
 
 sleep 
 
 Where the widows and orphans are kneeling to weep 
 O'er the brave who have fallen in skirmish and fight, 
 Protecting that flag and the cause that was right! 
 
 And yet we have still a great duty to do 
 
 Work on, loyal hearts, until death's last tattoo 
 
 Shall lull us to rest 'neath the flag of the free, 
 
 Till awakened by angels with sweet reveille, 
 
 And the boys who have gone, and whose marching 
 
 is o'er, 
 Are all waiting for us up on Canaan's bright shore. 
 
 [148] 
 
THE GRAY AND THE BLUE IN DOMESTIC 
 
 LIFE 
 
 (This poem first appeared in The Daily Herald, El Paso, 
 Texas, December 17, 1895.) 
 
 A Yankee youth a boy in blue 
 Served as a soldier brave and true, 
 And when the bloody strife had closed 
 To hasten home felt indisposed. 
 Some hinted that he did not dare 
 To face some ugly rumors there 
 To put the matter very mild, 
 The oats he'd sown were very wild. 
 So when the fearful war was done, 
 He cast away his Springfield gun, 
 And settling in a Southern State, 
 Began to hustle for a mate. 
 He found a widow one whose lord 
 Had fallen by a Yankee sword, 
 Or by a Yankee bullet sent 
 From Union lines on mischief bent. 
 His tones were soft as tuneful lute 
 When he began to press his suit, 
 And she, grown tired of loneliness, 
 Soon whispered a decisive "Yes." 
 They married were, and for awhile 
 Each face just glittered with a smile 
 No bickerings, no hot turmoil, 
 But all was smooth as flowing oil. 
 One day, while in a cranky mood, 
 He let fall an assertion rude 
 About his late opponents, and 
 She all too quickly "called his hand." 
 [149] 
 
Her Southern blood boiled up, until 
 She seemed just mad enough to kill, 
 And with a haughty toss of head, 
 She shook a wifely fist and said: 
 The valiant men who wore the gray 
 Were good as he was, any day; 
 And if she in the future heard 
 Another spiteful, slurring word 
 About the Southern soldiers true, 
 She'd cook his bacon p. d. q. 
 Well, very often after that 
 They had a somewhat lively spat, 
 And it was very easy guessed 
 He always came out second best. 
 Their frequent quarrels soon became 
 A matter of reproach and shame, 
 For neighbors heard of every muss 
 And talked about them scandalous. 
 He swore he'd never yield, and she 
 Was just as firmly set as he. 
 He called her an old rebel crank, 
 She titled him a sneaking Yank, 
 And while she claimed the men in gray 
 Were far the bravest, he would say 
 They couldn't hold a candle to 
 The valiant men who wore the blue. 
 When they had been a short year wed, 
 He kissed her cheek one day and said, 
 "My dear, we never can agree 
 On such a question, for, you see, 
 You are of loyal Southern brand 
 While I'm a son of Yankeeland. 
 [150] 
 
By argument, my darling wife, 
 We'll live in never-ending strife. 
 Of war, let's call for a cessation, 
 And settle it by arbitration. 
 Let Nature be the judge, and we 
 Abide by Nature's wise decree. 
 You've told me I must soon prepare 
 To greet a little baby heir, 
 And I am longing for the day 
 When in your arms I'll see it lay. 
 Now, darling, let us end our strife 
 And try to live a peaceful life, 
 By each agreeing to a scheme 
 To end this dark domestic dream. 
 We will not mention war again 
 Till darling baby comes, and then, 
 If it's dear little eyes are gray 
 I'll be a rebel from that day; 
 But should they happen to be blue 
 Then you must be a Yankee true." 
 She quick agreed. He kissed her cheek 
 And promised he would never speak 
 Another harsh or unkind word 
 Till Umpire Nature should be heard. 
 Their lives ran smooth as polished glass 
 Till the expected came to pass, 
 And prouder man ne'er wore a head 
 Than he, when, with imperious tread, 
 The doctor led him in to see 
 The increase in his family. 
 His face was wreathed with smiles until 
 The sunshine from it seemed to spill 
 [151] 
 
In liquid brightness to the floor, 
 
 As entered he her chamber door. 
 
 He hastened quickly to her side, 
 
 And in most cheery accents cried, 
 
 "The judge has spoken. Which one wins?" 
 
 She pointed to a pair of twins, 
 
 And then he saw to his dismay 
 
 One's eyes were blue, the other's gray. 
 
 He gazed with ever widening eyes, 
 
 His bosom rent with blank surprise, 
 
 Until his wife in tender voice, 
 
 Said: "Hubby, darling, let's rejoice 
 
 At this great blessing God has sent 
 
 Our peace will never more be rent 
 
 With such rebellious talk from me, 
 
 For I can very plainly see 
 
 These pretty little cherubs here 
 
 Are "but the fruits of Union, dear. 
 
 When we began our bitter fight 
 
 Which turned our day to starless night, 
 
 Had I seceded, 'pon my word, 
 
 This thing would never have occurred 
 
 From this day forward, ever more, 
 
 You'll find me Union, to the core." 
 
 [152] 
 
.B 
 
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