Out Where the West Begins

Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,

Out where the smile dwells a little longer,

That’s where the West begins;

Out where the sun is a little brighter,

Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,

Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, —

That’s where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,

Out where friendship’s a little truer,

That’s where the West begins;

Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,

Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing,

Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing, —

That’s where the West begins;

Out where the world is in the making,

Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,

That’s where the West begins;

Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,

Where there’s more of giving and less of buying,

And a man makes friends without half trying —

That’s where the West begins.

~ Arthur Chapman

Dance the Boatman

The boatman he can dance and sing 

And he's the lad for any old thing. 

Dance the boatman, dance! 

Dance the boatman, dance! 

He'll dance all night On his toes so light 

And go down to his boat in the morning. 

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Spends his money with the gals ashore! 

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Rolling down the Ohio!

From Louisville down the Ohio,

He's known wherever them boats do go,

Dance the boatman, dance! 

Dance the boatman, dance! 

He'll drink and dance and kiss them all,

And away in his boat in the morning,

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Spends his money with the gals ashore! 

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Rolling down the Ohio!

The girls all wait for boatman Bill,

For he's the one they all love still,

Dance the boatman, dance! 

Dance the boatman, dance! 

He'll buy them drinks and swing them high,

And leave in his boat in the morning.

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Spends his money with the gals ashore! 

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Rolling down the Ohio!

~ Anonymous

The Old Oaken Bucket

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view! 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew; 

The wide-spreading pond and the mill which stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well,— 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; 

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 

I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 

How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;— 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 

And now, far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 

As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

~ Samuel Woodworth

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Home - Thoughts from Abroad

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England—now! 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge— 

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 

~ Robert Browning

My Heart's in the Highlands

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 

The birth-place of valor, the country of worth! 

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer, 

A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe ---

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

Farewell to the mountains high-covered with snow, 

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below, 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, 

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods! 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer, 

A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe ---

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

~ Robert Burns

Up at a Villa --- Down in the City

(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality)

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, 

The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; 

Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! 

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! 

There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; 

While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. 

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull 

Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, 

Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! 

—I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. 

But the city, oh the city—the square with the houses! Why? 

They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! 

Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; 

You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; 

Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; 

And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. 

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 

'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: 

You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, 

And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. 

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; 

In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 

'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, 

The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell 

Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. 

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! 

In the shade it sings and springs: in the shine such foambows flash 

On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash 

Round the lady atop in her conch—fifty gazers do not abash, 

Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. 

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, 

Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. 

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, 

Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. 

Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, 

And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. 

Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the fever and chill. 

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: 

No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: 

You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 

By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; 

Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. 

At the post-office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot! 

And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. 

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, 

And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! 

Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and so, 

Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero, 

"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached, 

Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." 

Noon strikes,—here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart 

With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! 

Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. 

No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. 

But bless you, it's dear—it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. 

They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate 

It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! 

Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still—ah, the pity, the pity! 

Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, 

And the penitents dressed in white shirts a-holding the yellow candles; 

One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles. 

And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: 

Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; 

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

~ Robert Browning

Waltz Me Around Again, Willie

Willie Fitzgibbons, who used to sell ribbons,

And stood up all day on his feet,

Grew very spoony on Madeline Mooney,

Who’d rather be dancing than eat.

Each evening she’d tag him, to some dance hall drag him,

And when the band started to play,

She’d up like a silly and grab tired Willie,

Steer him on the floor and she’d say:

CHORUS:

“Waltz me around again, Willie, around, around, around,

The music is dreamy, it’s peaches and creamy,

Oh! don’t let my feet touch the ground.

I feel like a ship on an ocean of joy,

I just want to holler out loud, ‘Ship Ahoy!’

Waltz me around again, Willie, around, around, around!”

Willie DeVere was a dry goods cashier,

At his desk he would sit all the day,

Till his doctor advised him to start exercising,

Or else you will soon fade away.

One night this poor looney met Madeline Mooney,

Fitzgibbons, then shouted with joy,

“She’s a good health-regainer, you’ve got a great trainer,"

Just wait till she hollers, my boy. 

[Repeat chorus]

~ Will D. Cobb

Hometown Piece for Messrs. Alston and Reese

To the tune: 

"Li'l baby, don't say a word: Mama goin' to buy you a mocking-bird. 

Bird don't sing: Mama goin' to sell it and buy a brass ring."

"Millennium," yes; "pandemonium"! 

Roy Campanella leaps high. Dodgerdom

crowned, had Johnny Podres on the mound. 

Buzzie Bavasi and the Press gave ground;

the team slapped, mauled, and asked the Yankees' match, 

"How did you feel when Sandy Amoros made the catch?"

"I said to myself"—pitcher for all innings— 

"as I walked back to the mound I said, 'Everything's

getting better and better.' " (Zest, they've zest. 

" 'Hope springs eternal in the Brooklyn breast.' "

And would the Dodger Band in 8, row 1, relax 

if they saw the collector of income tax?

Ready with a tune if that should occur: 

"Why Not Take All of Me—All of Me, Sir?")

Another series. Round-tripper Duke at bat, 

"Four hundred feet from home-plate"; more like that.

A neat bunt, please; a cloud-breaker, a drive 

like Jim Gilliam's great big one. Hope's alive.

Homered, flied out, fouled? Our "stylish stout" 

so nimble Campanella will have him out.

A-squat in double-headers four hundred times a day, 

he says that in a measure the pleasure is the pay:

catcher to pitcher, a nice easy throw 

almost as if he'd just told it to go.

Willy Mays should be a Dodger. He should— 

a lad for Roger Craig and Clem Labine to elude;

but you have an omen, pennant-winning Peewee, 

on which we are looking superstitiously.

Ralph Branca has Preacher Roe's number; recall? 

and there's Don Bessent; he can really fire the ball.

as for Gil Hodges, in custody of first— 

"He'll do it by himself." Now a specialist versed

in an extension reach far into the box seats— 

he lengthens up, he leans, and gloving the ball defeats

expectation by a whisker. The modest star, 

irked by one misplay, is no hero by a hair;

in a strikeout slaughter when what could matter more, 

he lines a homer to the signboard and has changed the score.

Then for his nineteenth season, a home run— 

with four of six runs batted in—Carl Furillo's the big gun;

almost dehorned the foe—has fans dancing in delight. 

Jake Pitler and his Playground "get a Night"—

Jake, that hearty man, made heartier by a harrier 

who can bat as well as field—Don Demeter.

Shutting them out for nine innings—a hitter too— 

Carl Erskine leaves Cimoli nothing to do.

Take off the goat-horns, Dodgers, that egret 

which two very fine base-stealers can offset.

You've got plenty: Jackie Robinson 

and Campy and big Newk, and Dodgerdom again 

watching everything you do. You won last year. Come on.

~ Marianne Moore

A Poem on Table Manners, Used by a Shaker Community in 1868

We find of those bounties

Which Heaven does give,

That some live to eat,

And that some eat to live—

That some think of nothing

But pleasing the taste,

And care very little

How much they do waste.

Tho' Heaven has bless'd us

With plenty of food:

Bread, butter, and honey,

And all that is good;

We loathe to see mixtures

Where gentle folks dine,

Which scarcely look fit

For the poultry or swine.

We often find left,

On the same china dish,

Meat, apple-sauce, pickle,

Brown bread and minc'd fish;

Another's replenish'd

With butter and cheese;

With pie, cake, and toast,

Perhaps, added to these.

~ Anonymous

Bill Bailey, Won't You Please Come Home?

On one summer's day Sun was shining fine,

The lady love of old Bill Bailey was hanging clothes on de line

In her back yard, and weeping hard;

She married a B. and O. brakeman, Dat took and throw'd her down,

Bellering like a prune-fed calf, wid a big gang hanging 'round;

And to dat crowd, She yelled out loud:

Won't you come home, Bill Bailey, won't you come home?

She moans de whole day long;

I'll do de cooking, darling, I'll pay de rent;

I knows I've done you wrong;

'Member dat rainy eve dat I drove you out,

Wid nothing but a fine tooth comb?

I knows I'se to blame; well, ain't dat a shame?

Bill Bailey, won't you please come home?

Bill drove by dat door, In an automobile,

A great big diamond, coach and footman, hear dat big wench squeal:

"He's all alone," I heard her groan;

She hollered thro' that door, "Bill Bailey, is you sore?

Stop a minute; won't you listen to me? Won't I see you no more?"

Bill winked his eye, As he heard her cry: [Repeat refrain]

~ Hughie Cannon

Casey at the Bat

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—

We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—

“That ain’t my style," said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;

But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

~ Ernest Lawrence Thayer

The Big Rock Candy Mountains

One evening as the sun went down 

And the jungle fires was burning, 

Down the track came a hobo hiking. 

And he said, "Boys, I'm not turning, 

I'm headed for a land that's far away, 

Besides the crystal fountains, 

So come with me, we'll go and see 

The Big Rock Candy Mountains.” 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, 

There's a land that's fair and bright, 

Where the handouts grow on bushes, 

And you sleep out every night. 

Where the boxcars all are empty, 

And the sun shines every day 

On the birds and the bees, 

And the cigarette trees, 

And the lemonade springs 

Where the Bluebird sings 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains. 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains 

All the cops have wooden legs, 

And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth, 

And the hens lay soft-boiled eggs. 

There the farmers' trees are full of fruit, 

And the barns are full of hay, 

Oh I'm bound to go 

Where there ain't no snow, 

And the rain don't fall, 

And the winds don't blow 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains. 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains 

You never change your socks, 

And the little streams of alcohol 

Come a-trickling down the rocks. 

There ain’t no short handled shovels, 

No access, spades, or picks, 

And I’m bound to stay 

Where they sleep all day, 

Where they hung the Turk 

That invented work 

In The Bog Rock Candy Mountains. 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, 

All the jails are made of tin, 

And you can walk right out again 

As soon as you are in. 

Where the brakemen have to tip their hats, 

And the railroad bulls are blind, 

There’s a lake of stew, 

And a gin lake, too, 

You can paddle all around ‘em 

In a big canoe 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

~ Anonymous

Sweet Betsey from Pike

Oh don't you remember sweet Betsy from Pike,

Who crossed the wide prairie with her lover Ike,

With two yoke of oxen, a big yellow dog,

A tall Shanghai rooster, and one spotted hog?

CHORUS:

Singing, goodbye, Pike County, farewell for awhile,

We’ll come back again when we’ve panned out our pile,

Singing tooral lal, looral lal, looral lal lay,

Singing tooral lal, looral lal, looral lal lay,

One evening quite early they camped on the Platte.

'Twas near by the road on a green shady flat.

Where Betsy, sore-footed, lay down to repose --

With wonder Ike gazed on that Pike County rose.

Their wagon broke down with a terrible crash

And out on the prairie rolled all sorts of trash

A few little baby clothes, done up with care

'Twas rather suspicious, though all on the square.

The Shanghai ran off, and their cattle all died;

That morning the last piece of bacon was fried;

Poor Ike was discouraged and Betsy got mad,

The dog drooped his tail and looked wondrously sad.

They stopped at Salt Lake to inquire of the way,

Where Brigham declared that sweet Betsy should stay;

But Betsy got frightened and ran like a deer

While Brigham stood pawing the ground like a steer.

They soon reached the desert where Betsy gave out,

And down in the sand she lay rolling about;

While Ike, half distracted, looked on with surprise,

Saying, "Betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes."

Sweet Betsy got up in a great deal of pain,

Declared she'd go back to Pike County again;

But Ike gave a sigh and they fondly embraced,

And they traveled along with his arm round her waist.

They suddenly stopped on a very high hill,

With wonder looked down upon old Placerville;

Ike sighed when he said, and he cast his eyes down,

"Sweet Betsy, my darling, we've got to Hangtown."

Long Ike and Sweet Betsy attended a dance;

Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants;

Sweet Betsy was dressed up in ribbons and rings;

Says Ike, "You're an angel, but where are your wings?"

A miner said, "Betsy, will you dance with me?"

"I will, you old hoss, if you don't make too free.

But don't dance me hard, do you want to know why?

Doggone ye, I'm chock full of strong alkali."

This Pike County couple got married, of course

But Ike became jealous, obtained a divorce

And Betsey, well satisfied, said with a shout

"Goodbye, you big lummox, I'm glad you backed out."

~ Anonymous

 

The Cowboy's Lament

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,

As I walked out in Laredo one day,

I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen,

Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay.

"Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,

Play the Dead March as you carry me along;

Take me to the green valley, there lay the sod o'er me,

For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy'--

These words he did say as I boldly stepped by.

"Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,

I am shot in the breast and I know I must die.

"Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin,

Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song.

Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me,

For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"My friends and relations they live in the Nation,

They know not where their boy has gone.

I first came to Texas and hired to a ranchman.

Oh I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing,

It was once in the saddle I used to go gay

First to the dram-house and then to the card-house,

Got shot in the breast and I am dying to-day.

"Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin,

Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall.

Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,

Put roses to deaden the sods as they fall.

"Then swing your ropes lowly and rattle your spurs lowly,

And give a wild whoop as you carry me along,

And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me,

For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"Oh bury beside me my knife and six-shooter,

My spurs on my heel, as you sing me a song,

And over my coffin put a bottle of brandy

That the cowboys may drink as they carry me along.

"Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water

To cool my parched lips,' the cowboy then said;

Before I returned his soul had departed,

And gone to the round-up, the cowboy was dead.

We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,

And bitterly wept as we bore him along;

For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome,

We all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong.

Where men lived wrong, in the desert's maw,

And hell was nothing to shun;

Where they burien 'em neat, without preacher or sheet,

And writ on their foreheads, crude but sweet,

"This Jasper was slow with a gun."

~ Anonymous