"Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light; At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and bright; 'Ah!' said he, 'you have forgotten the New Uniform tonight!

Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock tonight!'

'And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I . . . .

Doctor-did you hear a footstep? Hark!-God bless you all! Good-by!

Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when

I die,

To my son-my son that's coming, he won't get here till I die!

"Tell him his old father blessed him--as he never did be

Till the Union... See! it opens!"

Father! speak once more!"

"Bless you!"—gasped the old gray Sergeant. And he lay and said no more!

Byron Forceythe Willson [1837-1867]

JIM BLUDSO OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE

WALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
Becase he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit

Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three year

That you haven't heard folks tell

How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren't no saint,-them engineers
Is all pretty much alike,-

One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And another one here, in Pike;

A keerless man in his talk, was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row,
But he never flunked, and he never lied,-

I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had,—

To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river;

To mind the pilot's bell;

And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,—

A thousand times he swore

He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last,-

The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. And so she come tearin' along that night The oldest craft on the line

With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,

And quick as a flash she turned, and made

For that willer-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out,

Over all the infernal roar,

"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat
Jim Bludso's voice was heard,

And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smoke-stacks fell,—

And Bludso's ghost went up alone

In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint,-but at jedgment
I'd run my chance with Jim,

'Longside of some pious gentlemen

That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,

And went for it thar and then;

And Christ ain't a going to be too hard

On a man that died for men.

John Hay [1838-1905]

LITTLE BREECHES

I DON'T go much on religion,

I never ain't had no show;

But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,
On the handful o' things I know.
I don't pan out on the prophets

And free-will, and that sort of thing,-
But I b'lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along,—
No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight,—
And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker,
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart's store;

I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started,-
I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near.

At last we struck hosses and wagon,
Snowed under a soft white mound,
Upsot, dead beat,—but of little Gabe
No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me
Of my fellow-critter's aid,—

I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out,
And me and Isrul Parr

Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in, and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white;

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,

"I want a chaw of terbacker,

And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he get thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm.
They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And fotching him to his own,

Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around the Throne.

John Hay [1838-1905]

THE VAGABONDS

We are two travelers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog.-Come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye!
Over the table,-look out for the lamp!-

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank-and starved-together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, Sir, I never drink;
Roger and I are exceedingly moral,-
Aren't we, Roger?-See him wink!—

Well, something hot, then-we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too,-see him nod his head?
What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,—
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master!

No, Sir!-see him wag his tail and grin!

By George! it makes my old eyes water!—

That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!