T7 
 
 Utlfara. Nem ^ork 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1536.D55T7 
 
 3 1924 022 086 189 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022086189 
 
j^a^-^j^-/3^^^u^^c<:^' ^/^2)zr£^€. 
 
TRAMP 
 
 Poems of the West 
 
 [IIvIvUSTRATED] 
 
 -BY- 
 
 WILLIAM DbVERE. 
 
 THBSE POEMS ARE ESPECIALLY ADAPTED FOR PUBLIC READING 
 
 Illustrated by G. I^a Fayette, 
 
 From Original Designs by the Author. 
 
 TACOMA, WASH. 
 CromweivL Printing Company 
 1891. 
 
 e" 
 
Any person can secure a copy of this book by enclosing one 
 dollar to Harding & Co., Publishers, No. 229 Bowerj-^, New 
 York City. 
 

 
 ^^.^=~^ 
 
Bebicatoey. 
 

 'Twas 'way above the old San Juan that me and big Bud Beedles 
 
 Located — near the San Miguil — a camp we called "The Needles." 
 
 There wasn't many on us there, Tom Keene and Tim McCarty, 
 
 Cap Flagler, Riley lyambert, and I^ish Rowe made up the party 
 
 To celebrate a grand event, as ever you sot eyes on. 
 
 In Tommy Gretto's little tent, where he dispensed the pizen. 
 
 Jim Marshall' d been plugged up by some on us to go and send for 
 
 A bran new pianna fortay, and bring it up from Denver. 
 
 Zeb Taylor, a Missourian, as miserable a sinner 
 
 As ever crossed the Cimmaron, or posed as a "mule skinner," 
 
 Had brought the box from Silverton , right thro' in his freight wagon, 
 
 And we turned out to celebrate its advent, with ajag on. 
 
 Walt Fletcher, a darned lively cuss, as funny and as frisky, 
 
 Who at the best done nothing wuss than punish barb-wire whisky; 
 
 ■Clabe, Jones, Tom Hudson, Burrill Wade, Old Creek and Tommy 
 
 Tanner, 
 Was members of the committee, to welcome the Planner. 
 We all dropped into Gretto's tent, first one and then the t'other. 
 We put away one poultice, and then paralyzed another. 
 We opened up the box and we tore off the paper I'ning, 
 And there the new Planner stood, a-glistening and a-shining. 
 We sot it in the corner, just as tender as a brother. 
 And then we took another drink, and then — we took another. 
 
TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 9 
 
 And Walter Fletcher, lie remarked " as how he'd hate to say it, 
 We'd got an elephant, fornot a cussknow'd how toplayit." 
 Clabe Jones, allowed that "he would sing, if we could find a fakir." 
 But none of us dare touch the thing, for if we did, we'd break her. 
 AndBurrill Wade, he said that " bac;k in Maine he had a sister 
 That could play the Suannee River till 'twould knock us all a twister." 
 Lish Rowe allowed "he know'd a gal 'tcould play the 'Maiden's 
 
 Prayer' 
 Tin you could close your eyes and swar you'd climbed the 'Golden 
 
 Stair.' " 
 But just about this minute something happened, that I think 
 Would make Salvation Army saints swar off and take to drink, 
 Tom's tent front door blew open, and a figger hove in sight 
 That made each one of us to doubt if we was just all right. 
 A cuss, dressed in a canvass coat, a hat cut filagree, 
 A pair of pants, half-soled and heeled, a shirt d— d negligee. 
 His nose, like a peeled onion, a regular cherry red. 
 And eyes all bleared and bloodshot, seemed a bustin' from his head, 
 A regular mountain nomad, whom nobody knew in camp, 
 The ne plus ultra specimen of a biped called the tramp. 
 We looked at him, he looked at us, and this his gaze turned whar, 
 Six glasses of red licker stood, on Tommy Gretto's bar. 
 He landed one beneath his belt, just like a mornin' bracer, 
 And then another followed suit, wo't lyish Row'd call "a chaser," 
 Then, wiping off his lips with an old ragged, red bandanna. 
 He planked himself right down in front of Marshall's new planner. 
 None on us spoke, we held our breath, for just about a minute. 
 And when he hit them ivories we all knowed that he was in it. 
 He thundered off" Boulanger's March," you bet, it was a daisy, 
 And then he hit a reel that nigh knocked Tim McCarty crazy. 
 And then he run the gamut up to " Comin' Thro' the Rye," 
 And played " Stick to Your Mother, Tom," until he made us cry; 
 "The Gates Ajar" until I'd swear I heard the angels singin'. 
 Then with old "Johnny Get Your Gun" he sot the rafters ringin', 
 He played "The Song that Reached My Heart," till Burrill Wade 
 
 went loony, 
 He rattled " Playmates" off. and then switched to " Annie Rooney." 
 At handlin' Mendehlsson, you can bet he was a lily. 
 He resurrected "Wagner," and knocked old "Blind Tom" silly. 
 He played " The Sad Sea Waves" until you'd think you heard them 
 
 sob bin', 
 
TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. ii 
 
 And then he trilled that " Old Scotch Air" of "Won't You Tell Me, 
 
 Robin," 
 He swayed around the "Blue Danube" and "Old Waldtyfle" too, 
 Then "The Star Spangled Banner" and the old "Red, White and 
 
 Blue." 
 
 He wandered thro' "The Miserere," and thundered the "TeDeum." 
 Until I thought of " Hddie Pleiss" and Hank Cline's Colliseum. 
 
12 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 He played a skit from " Aida," that just woke up " Tommy Gretto," 
 Wtio hollered out " Bravissimo, Dacapo. Allegretto;" 
 He thuadered o'er the treble, wLth a rattle and a roar, 
 
 
 7^ 
 
 Co 
 
 ^1 
 
 I 
 
 We heard a crash, and like a flash, he vanished thro' the door. 
 
 We made a rush to stop him, but he vamoosed in a wink, 
 
 We stood a moment dumbfounded, and then — we took a drink. 
 
OF THE WEST. 13 
 
 The Needles camp is busted, " Burrell Wade's" in Kansas City, 
 " Tom Kane" sliot " Riley Lambert," and was "strangled," more's 
 
 the pity, 
 " Clabe Jones" is down in Mexico, a stealin' Texas meat. 
 And " Walter Fletcher's" writin' songs in Forty-seventh street. 
 " Cap. Flagler's" in Durango, I am dallying with the drama, 
 "Jim Marshall's" jumpin' corner lots, way down inOklohoma, 
 •' Ivish Rowe" he takes his Bourbon straight, when he goes on a bust, 
 " Tom Gretto's" out in 'Frisco, still looking for the dust, 
 "Old Creek" is up in Ogden, and the saints snared "Tommy 
 
 Tanner," 
 And a dance hall up in Rico captured Marshall's "New Planner." 
 
14 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 15 
 
 Alone, all alone, I sit in my room. 
 
 And shuffle, and cut, and deal ; 
 Sipping my wine, 'till its rich maroon, 
 
 A flame on my cheek I feel. 
 Only a face — like mine — in the glass, 
 
 That glares at mine thro' the smoke. 
 That winks at me, and bows as I pass. 
 
 Enjoying the silent old joke. 
 The ashes fall from my played-out cigar, 
 
 As, half asleep, in my chair, 
 I smile, as I think what fools men are 
 
 Who learn to play solitaire. 
 
 I'd sigh for a lip to touch the glass. 
 
 To sip the old nectar with mine, 
 The sound of a laugh, the thrill of a kiss, 
 
 To mingle with good old wine. 
 I'd play a game of the olden time. 
 
 When hearts were trumps with me ; 
 A man and a woman, he in his prime. 
 
 Bending his knee — but she — , 
 Well, never mind what she said to him, 
 
 Or the game she played him there ; 
 Or why he sits in the gas-light grim. 
 
 With his wine and solitaire. 
 
i6 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 Was she dark, or fair, blue eyes, 
 
 Brown hair? We'll call of hearts, the queen ; 
 I'll play it so, but fortune, I'll swear. 
 
 Will make the diamonds win. 
 I see her sometimes, her arm in his, 
 
 A sickly, wan smile on her face ; 
 And, I wonder, if ever she thrills at his kiss. 
 
 Or dreams of me in his place, 
 A tear rolls down my cheek in the wine, 
 
 A child calls low on the stair — 
 I'll throw up the cards, the game's played out, 
 
 I'm weary of solitaire. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 i7 
 
 Buy Roger ! Why, stranger, yer crazy, 
 
 Yer a little bit off yer kerbase ; 
 That dog is a regular daisy, 
 
 He's got the first place in the race. 
 He's travelled the kentry all over. 
 
 From Dodge City down to the sea. 
 An' thar ain't enough dust in yer trousers 
 
 To purchase old Roger from me. 
 
 Do ye know what he done? Well, I'll tell yer. 
 
 What, drink! I don't care if I do. 
 Straight pizen (here's how), but to sell yer 
 
 My dog, that's too cursed bran new. 
 When Big Ed Silk, that was my pardner, 
 
 Was runnin' a place in the mines. 
 An' grubbin' like blazes to keep up 
 
 His end, in some cursed hard times ; 
 
 We'd bin up all night in the dance hall. 
 
 An' closed up the shanty all hunk. 
 We'd took our last "ball" in the mornin' 
 
 An' each tumbled into his bunk ; 
 We'd forgot all our joy and our sorrow. 
 
 Each was snoozin' as sweet as a lamb, 
 Not a thinkin' of trouble to-morrow. 
 
 An' none on us carin' a d — n ; 
 
i8 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 When a racket wuz raised in the castle, 
 
 As if all the devils in hell 
 Had thundered around the old Bastile, 
 
 And dropped in upon us, pell mell ; 
 But I was so sleepy from boozin', — 
 
 For the licker'd got into my head, — 
 That I couldn't be woke from my snoozin' 
 
 Till Roger sprung onto the bed. 
 
 With a yell like the scream of a human 
 
 He tore off the clothes with a roar, 
 An' nailin' me right by the collar 
 
 He tumbled me on the floor. 
 I grabbed for my shooter — confound me, 
 
 I staggered. Die man, I'm no liar. 
 The roof an^ the walls all around me 
 
 War blazin' with seethin' red fire. 
 
 With a howl (like a wounded hyena) 
 
 He sprang through a hole in the wall, 
 An' I followed blindly behind him. 
 
 Each minnit' expectin' to fall. 
 Right thro' where the smoke was the thickest, 
 
 Barkin' loudly the whole of the way, 
 Went Roger ; I'll never forget it, 
 
 If I live till the great judgment day. 
 
 We'd just cleared the front, I an' Roger, 
 
 When in fell the roof with a crash, 
 That sounded as if "Hell's half acre" 
 
 Had tumbled upon us kermash ; 
 An' Roger was prancin' around me. 
 
 With a look jest ez much as to say, 
 " Ole man, if I hadn't hev found ye, 
 
 " The turn would come Jack Box, to-day." 
 
 Since then we've been pardners together. 
 
 Some days we get wheat, and some chaff, 
 But whether its chicken or feathers, 
 
 Old Roger's entitled to half 
 Ask Batt Masterson or Tom Daniels 
 
OF THE WEST. 19 
 
 If " Roge" knows the lay of the land. 
 He can find ev'ry Appache Tepee, 
 From Tombstone to the Rio Grande. 
 
 An' if " tenderfoot" should abuse Roger 
 
 When one of ' ' the gang' ' is in sight, 
 Take my word for it, stranger, that codger 
 
 Had better get ready to fight. 
 Not a place fiomthe worst to the finest, 
 
 A hotel, a shanty, or ranche. 
 From the San Juan down to Guymas, 
 
 But Roger hez got a Carte Blanche. 
 
 I've seen many friends in my travels, 
 
 Some friends whom the world would call game. 
 But the friendship of my old dog Roger 
 
 Would put all the others to shame. 
 They weaken when sorrow and trouble 
 
 Comes on you — they are not true blue. 
 But, stranger, right thar is a pardner 
 
 Who'll stick through it all staunch an' true. 
 
 So put up yer ' ' leather' ' thar, Ole Man, 
 
 An' hoist in some licker with me. 
 I've prospected from Butte, Montana, 
 
 Plum down thro' to old Sante Fe, 
 An' thar ain't a man in the whole kentry. 
 
 No matter how much he would give. 
 Could purchase my dog thar, old Roger, 
 
 (Here's to yer) as long as I live. 
 
TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 
 
 From Deadwood ? well, yes sir, I reckon ; I've been just a year on 
 
 the tramp, 
 Not missin' a railroad excitement, or skippin' a good mining camp, 
 I've sampled the country all over, and took in the " diggins" all 
 
 'round, 
 And at last I've fetched up with the " Webfeet" way down here on 
 
 old Puget Sound. 
 
 Yes, Deadwood is dead, sure enough, sir; as we say — " Too dead 
 
 for to skin" — 
 And there's not an old timer remainin', except a few stiffs that's 
 
 snowed in. 
 But there was a time in that country, when everyting was in full 
 
 bloom. 
 When licker was sold for a quarter a throw, and minin' was all on 
 
 the boom. 
 
 It was just about then that Tom Miller was grinding his little 
 
 "Show Mill," 
 With that partner of his, Billy Nuttall, that the knowing ones called 
 
 "Ivanky Bill;" 
 It was thar, in their " show shop" one Sunday, that I heard a quaint 
 
 sermon begun — 
 The preacher " an old reformed gambler," and the text he gave out, 
 
 "The Prod Son." 
 
TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 23 
 
 The Prodigal Son was intended to call all these sinners to God, 
 But the Preacher want partial to diction, so he just cut it down to 
 
 "The Prod." 
 He remarked that the " Gospel shark" dealin' this game is not 
 
 present to-day, 
 And he asked me to ' ' shuffle a hand up so all of you suckers could 
 
 play." 
 
 " And right here," he continued, "this racket's a new game to me 
 
 in this town. 
 So just play it through; there's no limit; you'll never be told to 
 
 take down. 
 You will find in the big book there somewhere just where I don't 
 
 know yet myself — 
 For at home we had one of them volumes, but we kept it laid up on 
 
 the shelf — 
 
 But you'll find the ' Prod Son' was a ' Young Kid' whose ' OleMan' 
 
 was pretty well heeled, 
 He had plenty of ' stuff' in his ' leather, ' and long horns and 
 
 sheep in his field. 
 It occurred to the kid that he'd tackle the old man for his little bit. 
 And then he would pack up his grip sack and quietly get up and git. 
 
 He asked the old man just to give him a portion of what he had got. 
 And he wouldn't stay home there a waitin' till Death opened up a 
 
 'jack pot'; 
 Aud the old man did give him his divy right down to an old postage 
 
 stamp, 
 And the kid hollered ' over the river' , and ducked for the first mining 
 
 camp. 
 
 And he gathered ' the gang' all around him, all the boys and girls he 
 
 could see. 
 And every one on em' got ' loaded,' and they had a great blow out 
 
 and spree, 
 They played the thing up to the limit, and took in each snoozer and 
 
 bloke. 
 Until they had run all the gamut, and the 'Prod Son' of course he 
 
 was broke. 
 
 The Good Book don't say, nor does history state, the game that he 
 played in that place, 
 
24 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 But it's safe to suppose, my itinerant lambs, that ' his Prodship' got 
 
 steered agin brace. 
 Be that as it may, it just bust him, and sent him right down to the 
 
 dogs. 
 And the very next thing that we hear of the ' Prod', he is livin' on 
 
 husks with the hogs. 
 
 It occurred to him then that his racket was hardly a one that coul d 
 
 win, 
 So he thought he'd go back to the old man, and try to blow him in 
 
 agin. 
 Now perhaps some on you unbelievers don't think that he welcomed 
 
 his son, 
 You may think he unchained the bull-dog, and just double-shotted 
 
 the gun. 
 
 But he didn't ; he just killed a yearling to feed this durned ungrate- 
 ful scamp, 
 
 And he bought him the best sheeney suit of new clothes to be 
 found in the whole minin' camp. 
 
 And he got up a blow-out and shindy, and everything went off 
 slam bang. 
 
 He invited the boozers and snoozers, the hobps and all of the gang ; 
 
 And the wine and the whisky flowed freely and they danced 'till 
 
 the gray break of day. 
 And the ' Prod Son' stood solid again boys, and further the Good 
 
 Book don't say." 
 Just then a big gambler, uprising, remarked, "Now, my friend, by 
 your leave. 
 
 There's a part of that old ' Prod Son' racket, that I cannot hardly 
 
 believe ; 
 For there ain't in this camp a two-dealer, or man that will shake 
 
 chuck-a-luck. 
 If a sucker goes broke agin either, they won't give a case for his 
 
 chuck, 
 So that place in your sermonizing which says, ' He went down to 
 
 the dogs, 
 ' And when he was needing a squarer, he had to eat husks with the 
 
 hogs.' 
 
OF THE WEST. 25 
 
 Don't seem to me just orthodoxy, and unless you say you was 
 
 was there, 
 I don't mind telling you cold, pard, you're yam isn't on the dead 
 
 square." 
 The preacher just strrightened himself up, and said, ' ' Then you 
 
 think that I'm preachin' a lie." 
 And a forty-five cracked in a minute, and the big gambler's turn 
 
 came to die. 
 There were many old "blood purifiers" and " expectorators of lead 
 
 around." 
 And when quiet was shortly restored some fifteen or twenty were 
 
 dead. 
 
 Then the preacher resumed, "Thar' 11 be preachin' next Sunday, 
 
 at just 10 o'clock. 
 We're goin' to run scripture teachin', right thro' here from soda 
 
 to hoc. 
 My text is the first Lord's commandment, and this is the rule I've 
 
 laid down, 
 To run this game easy and quiet, if I kill every sucker in town." 
 
26 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 27 
 
 AN OLD gambler's SOLILOQUY ON A DIRTY CARD. 
 
 Mud -Stained and torn, upon the sidewalk lying, 
 Stripped of the beauty of your regal parts, 
 
 Yet still the old whirl of fortune's wheel defying, 
 I find this mom — the tattered queen of hearts. 
 
 Where now (I wonder) are your old companions, 
 
 The fifty- one inseparable friends — 
 In beer saloons, or Rocky Mountain canons. 
 
 At sea, or at the earth's remotest ends ? 
 
 Ivike Israel's tribe, they're tossed about and scattered. 
 Even the very kings might prove unclean. 
 
 But you, old queen of hearts, tho' mud-bespattered, — 
 Every moment prove yourself a queen. 
 
 Who knows ^ut sometimes jeweled fingers shuffled 
 The pack in which you held a solid place ; 
 
 Who knows what placid tempers you have ruffled 
 At whist, by trumping an obtrusive ace. 
 
28 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 And whea the higher honors all were hoarded, 
 And you were queen indeed of all the pack, 
 
 How proudly did you take the last trick boarded, 
 How like a woman did you win the Jack ! 
 
 And then, how fondly was your face regarded 
 By him who first beheld the crimson blush 
 
 Of you, when he had doubtingly discarded 
 A spade, and drawn to hearts to "fill a flush." 
 
 And then they say that cards are Evil's marrow. 
 And card players sometimes commit a sin. 
 
 But you, old girl — yes, you, when turned to faro, 
 You sometimes caused ' 'stack of blues to' ' win. 
 
 I might recall the evenings blythe and merry 
 We passed beneath the sparkling chandelier ; 
 
 You played high up with rouge et noir and sherry, 
 But you dropped at last to pinochle andbeer. 
 
 And then, ah ! well, no sermon need I utter, 
 Knough to know you lost your winning arts, 
 
 And poor and helpless sank into the gutter 
 I,ike many other luckless queen of hearts. 
 
OF THE WEST. 29 
 
 A man up a tree, overlooking a scene, on a border of meadow land 
 
 so fair, 
 Where the fragrant scent of the clover green its incense gave to the 
 
 balmy air! 
 Beneath was a brooklet, sparkling bright, stealing away neath the 
 
 golden gleam 
 Of sunlight, till far away to the right it broadened to lake ot silver 
 
 sheen. 
 
 Upon its brink, neath the lurid sun, his face upturned to its burning 
 
 rays, 
 lyies a debauchee, from whose face Old Rum had erased the traces of 
 
 brighter days, 
 His hair unkempt, his clothing torn, his face the hue of the fire aglow. 
 And an empty bottle beside his form, tells of ruined hopes of the 
 
 long ago. 
 
 And the brooklet sang its merry song, and the wind in the bottle 
 
 moaned plaintively. 
 And they held a debate upon right and wrong, with ' ' the man up 
 
 the tree' ' as the referee. 
 
 "Is it right, ' ' asked ^e brook in a gurgling voice, ' ' for you to 
 bring ruin upon the world? 
 
 Is it right to murder and then rejoice, over innocent souls to perdi- 
 tion hurled? 
 
30 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THB WEST. 31 
 
 Is it right to punish the trusting wife ? is it right to pour from your 
 
 tempting mouth 
 The subtle poison that numbs the life and sears the heart with its 
 
 burning drouth ? 
 
 Is it right to deluge in blood and woe, all human kind with your 
 
 flowing bowl? 
 Is it right to people a hell below, to kill the body — to damn the soul? 
 Is it right to strangle the innocent child, is it right to lie, to deceive, 
 
 to betray? 
 Is it right the trusting heart to beguile, and then sing on in your 
 
 doleful way? 
 
 Just look at me," purled the Uttle brook, " As I gather strength 
 
 from the clouds above. 
 And along my path (if you'll deign to look), you will find but 
 
 gladness, but joy, and love, 
 I have brightened the heart that you made sad ; reinstated manhood , 
 
 by you defiled ; 
 I have cleansed and made the poor soul glad, and have saved the 
 
 life of the wife and child. 
 
 I have quenched the thirst of the fire-parched tongue that uttered 
 
 curses from knowing you ; 
 And for years my praises have been sung by friends of humanity , 
 
 good and true. 
 While you have murdered and ruined and bled all men who have 
 
 chanced to come your way, 
 A laurel crown I have wove for my head — now, old bottle, pray 
 
 what have you to say?" 
 
 And the wind blowed through the bottle's mouth with a quavering 
 
 wail, and a weird hum. 
 As the simoon blows from the arid South, chanting a mournful 
 
 requiem. 
 "It is true that you smile in the glistning spray, and sleep in the 
 
 glacier's glinting side. 
 That you gurgle and laugh on your winding way, and a poor old 
 
 bottle like me deride. 
 You scintillate in the dewdrop's glow, you oscillate in the heaving 
 
 sea, 
 But with all this (to one who knows) you're a little bit of a Pharisee.. 
 
32 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 My boasting friend, did you think it right, when you destroyed a 
 
 thriving world, 
 When you arose in all of your might, and down to destruction all 
 
 mankind hurled ; 
 When for forty days, and for forty nights, you were tossing old Noah 
 
 on his little raft. 
 Do you think the old fellow thought it was right ? do you think he 
 
 was glad ? do you think he laughed ? 
 
 And the sailors' wife, with her trusting child, when her husband 
 
 sailed with his gallant crew. 
 Whom you submerged 'neath your billows wild, was she any the 
 
 better for knowing you ? 
 And, in later days when the Johnstown flood burst on the world 
 
 with its mad'ningroar. 
 Have you ever told how that innocent blood shall blacken your 
 
 record evermore ? 
 
 Do you tell that in every glass that's filled, from the boiling spring 
 or the lakelet blue, 
 
 There are animalcule — that will surely kill millions of people, good 
 and true — 
 
 That the Microbe's germ is in every drop, that destruction lurks in 
 j'our silver wave, 
 
 That no power on earth can your ravage stop, and there's no pro- 
 tection except the grave ? 
 
 It's all very well," the old bottle whined, " upon your neighbors a 
 
 watch to keep, 
 But we'd have enough to do, you will find, if each one about his 
 
 own door sweep." 
 
 And the brook danced on to the heaving sea, and the bottle chanted 
 
 its old see-saw. 
 And "the man up a tree," the reteree," just smiled, and decided 
 
 the fight a draw. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 33 
 
 The time was four o'clock, an autumn twilight ; 
 
 The scene (we'll say) a corner grocery store, 
 With bar-room in the rear, which 'neath the gaslight, 
 
 Shows blear-eyed visages, perhaps a score ; 
 Old Jabez Bell, and red-nosed Charley Warner, 
 
 Ike Biggs, Jim Craine, and Ebenezer Cobb, 
 And old " Bud Jones, the I^ush," sat in the corner, 
 
 While Jabez ordered 1' booze for all the mob." 
 
 Each filled his. glass brimful and running over. 
 
 With rum or whiskey, beer or old Tom gin, 
 When from the street in front the grocery store 
 
 A weary-looking child came sadly in. 
 Hushed was the jest, the ribald toast unuttered, 
 
 For e'en these men, so reckless, rough and wild. 
 Had children of their own, and Jabez muttered : 
 
 " Hush ! Cheese it ! Horace, wait upon the child.' ' 
 
 " Good evening. Sis ; how is your ailing mother?" 
 
 The boy inquired, with kindly voice and meek. 
 "She's better thanks ;" and tears she tried to smother 
 
 Came slowly coursing down her faded cheek ; 
 " Give me a penny bun, a little butter, 
 
 A nickel's all that mamma has to give. 
 But give me all 5/ou can," she faintly uttered, 
 
 " Poor, darling mamma she must eat and live." 
 
 "All right," the cheery grocery boy responded, 
 
 "Sit down and rest you ; never mind, don't cry ; 
 You're tired to death, jj^ou're all worn out with watching, 
 
34 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 35 
 
 I'll get them in the twinkling of an eye." 
 '"Oh, thanks !" And nickel pressed 'twixt thumb and finger, 
 
 She leans her weary head back on the seat, 
 And while the boy with scanty parcel lingers, 
 
 The tired eyes close, and she is fast asleep. 
 
 While (peering from the smoky bar-room) weeping. 
 The motley crowd of whiskey-drinkers stand. 
 
 At the angelic face upturned and sleeping 
 
 So sound, the nickel clutched within her hand. 
 
 Yes, tears are coursing from bleared eyelids steady, 
 
 Such men are not the worst in all our land, 
 And often drunkards' hearts are ever ready 
 
 To help the needy ones with willing hand. 
 And ' ' even as ye give to these' ' came ringing 
 
 Down thro' the fumes of whiskey, gin and wine, 
 " Ye do it also unto me," 'tis bringing 
 
 A mother's teaching of the olden time. 
 
 " Hush, boys," saidjabez, "while we stand here drinkin'. 
 
 And tossing all our cash behind the bar — 
 Look at that little angel thar, I'm thinkin' 
 
 That we can use our money better thar. 
 Mere's my old beaver — there's a dollar starter — 
 
 Cuss me, I'm snivelling like a snide old mufi" — 
 Here, Iky Biggs, Jim Craine, Bud Jones, be smarter ; 
 
 Go down into yer jeans, dig np the stufi"." 
 
 Down went each hand and quickly dropped the ready. 
 
 Old Jabez chuckled, "Here's five 'plunkers' cold — 
 Hist, boy ! Come here. Walk softly. Hush ! be steady , 
 
 Take in this silver, give us five in gold. 
 Now all keep quiet, don't ye breathe or whisper, 
 
 And I'll walk easy, so the floor won't squeak ; 
 Ike Biggs, don't sneeze, or any of ye lisp, or 
 
 Ye'll wake the kid before I make the sneak." 
 
 Old Jabez tip-toed softly toward the sleeper. 
 
 And takes the nickel with unsteady hand, 
 Replacing there the gold piece, ' ' Nothing slicker 
 
 Could e'er be done," he whispered, "in the land." 
 But hush, she turns her head and softly mutters, 
 
36 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 ^•^ 
 
OF THE WEST. 37 
 
 "Give|us this day our daily bread." " It seems 
 She's praying in her sleep," Jim Filkins utters, 
 " Keep still ! What is she saying in her dreams." 
 
 The blazing sun sank in the amber olden. 
 
 And fell athwart the sleeper's lovely face, 
 And tinged the shimmering hair with ripples golden. 
 
 Forming a picture that a world might grace ; 
 The tears are stealing slowly down the faces 
 
 Of these rough men, almost ashamed to weep; 
 Old Jabez whispers, " Boys, let's drink to brace us," 
 
 And starts the sleeper from her troubled sleep. 
 
 She looks ! behold ! the nickel's lett her fingers, 
 
 Replaced by gold, the like was never seen ; 
 " Oh, see !" she cries (while shade of doubt still lingers), 
 
 " See what the angels brought me in my dreams. 
 Dear mamma said that if I prayed I never 
 
 Would fail to get my wish ; and on that seat 
 I prayed to God for help for starving mamma, 
 
 And see, the angels brought it in my sleep." 
 
 " Fill up a basket, fill it overflowing. 
 
 With all the goodies you have in the store. 
 And bring it for me please, I must be going. 
 
 To make dear mamma happy now once more. 
 And when I kneel tonight in holy prayer, 
 
 And humbly ' pray the lyord my soul to keep,. 
 I'll say a word tor every angel there. 
 
 Who heard my prayers while I was asleep.'" 
 
38 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 '• Vs-ive -op' 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 39 
 
 The Judge was a Christian and played on the square, 
 
 But he figured the cards pretty close ! 
 He could call off your hand every time to a pair, 
 
 And lay down a "full" when he chose. 
 
 The Colonel could play a more difficult game, — 
 
 I don't mean to say he would cheat, 
 But he held the top card when the big betting came. 
 And some hands that couldn't be beat. 
 
 Coming home from Chicago the two chanced to meet — 
 They were very old friends — on the cars ; 
 
 And as neither the other at poker could beat, 
 They played euchre, five points, for cigars. 
 
 The cards ran along pretty evenly, too. 
 Till the Judge turned a moment his head. 
 
 When the Colonel, in shuffling, slipped the deck through 
 And the Judge cut a cold one instead. 
 
 Twas euchre, of course ; but the Judge was amazed 
 
 When he lifted four kings in a lump ; 
 But the Colonel, not seeming a particle dazed, 
 
 Turned up a red queen for a ttump. 
 
 ' ' You say — do you pass. Judge ?" the Colonel called out ; 
 
 " l/ook here." said the limb of the law, 
 " I've mighty queer cards ; if you're in for a bout, 
 
 Well play this one hand out at draw." 
 
40 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 4r 
 
 The Colonel considered, and wriggled his neck — 
 
 "I, too, have a very odd hand; 
 If you'll give me that queen from the top of the deck, 
 
 We'll play out the cards as they stand." 
 
 " Agreed," said the Judge, for he saw at a glance 
 
 The Colonel had one of two things — 
 A full, or four queens, and he hadn't a chance 
 
 To rake down the pot from four kings. 
 
 The Judge chipped with fifty ; the Colonel came back ; 
 
 The Judge answered him with a raise; 
 Of the bets the two made I could never get track, 
 
 But they piled up, like gals in a chaise. 
 
 At last says the Judge, "Here, I'm hunting no more — 
 
 Four kings ; reach us over that pot." 
 " Hold on," says the Colonel, " I, too, have found four. 
 
 And they're four little aces I've got." 
 
 The Judge took the cards and looked over them well. 
 Fetched a breath from his trousers' waistband — 
 
 " Well, what I'd like to know just now is, what in h — 1 
 The queen had to do with that hand." 
 
42 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 '^«»'/c 
 
 -^orf friyHct^^r" 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 43 
 
 Yes, sir, I'm back in Missouri. 
 
 What did I come here for ? 
 Why, stranger, I've been away, dy yer see. 
 
 Since the days of the border war — 
 Since the days when I^ane and Jennison, 
 
 And Quantrell's work was done — 
 Since the days when the brand of the outlaw 
 
 Was put on Missouri's son. 
 
 Wrong? Well, I reckon; but, tell me. 
 
 Did you ever feel the smart 
 Of a feudal border warfare, that just 
 
 Tore the strings from your heart. ' 
 If your wife, your mother and children 
 
 Were murdered in dead of night, 
 Would you crouch down like a horse-whipped cur, 
 
 Or would you stand jip and fight ? 
 
 You've never been thar, stranger, an' 
 
 I trust that you never may; 
 But if you were, I reckon you'd do 
 
 The same as they did that day. 
 
44 
 
 TRAMPjPOEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 45 
 
 An' if I'm not much mistaken. 
 
 I could mention some well- known names, 
 If they'd tell the truth, could say 
 
 A word in defense of Jesse James. 
 
 But that's nothing to do with the subject, 
 
 Now long years may heal the pain. 
 An' you've asked me what has brought 
 
 Me back to see the old home again ? ' 
 Thar's one a waitin' here close by, 
 
 Her old face streamin' with tears, 
 A longin' to kiss the boy she ain't seen 
 
 For nigh onto thirty years. 
 
 An' when I shall clasp her within these 
 
 Arms, an' fondle her silver hair; 
 When I shall thrill at her lovin' kiss. 
 
 An' list to her mother's prayer; 
 When I shall pillow her head on 
 
 My heart and gaze in her tearful eye, 
 An' hear her jest say, " God bless you my boy," 
 
 I'm ready — right thar — to die. 
 
 An' I'll be thar, stranger, /'// be thar, 
 
 As sure as you see the light, 
 I'll see her before the sun shall 
 
 Set in the west to-morrow night, 
 An' I'll kiss the tears from her dear old eyes. 
 
 An' I'll smooth her locks of snow. 
 An' I'll tell her I'm sorry for all I've wrought 
 
 Of misery, trouble and woe. 
 
 For there isn't a furrow upon her brow, 
 
 Or a thread in her silver hair, 
 There isn't a line of sorrow there now 
 
 That I haven't traced it there. 
 There isn't a pain in her dear old heart. 
 
 Or a cloud on her earthly joy. 
 And there isn't a twinge or a sting or a smart, 
 
 But has come from her wayward boy. 
 
46 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 And I'm going back to tell her, 
 
 That I'm sorry for all I've done, 
 I am going to ask a pardon 
 
 For a long lost wandering son. 
 I'll ask her to give me her blessing, 
 
 And forgive me for all her pain, 
 And then I will kiss her a last farewell 
 
 And go out in the world again. 
 
 » 
 
 I'll say, "howdy" to "Charley Bassett," 
 
 An' some more of the boys I know, 
 An' I may go an' see " Hitt Ritchie" 
 
 An' " Ben Ullman" in old St. Jo. 
 But I've answered your question, stranger, 
 
 In a bluff, off-handed way, 
 An' now let's go in an' irrigate, 
 
 An' I'll quit yer, an' say good day. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 47 
 
 TO MEUTENANT-GOVEROR LAUGHTON. 
 
 Thar wuz Si, thar wuz Hi, thar wuz Alic and Dan; 
 
 Martha, Symanthy, Matilda and Fan, 
 
 Eliza, Mirandy, an' Flora an' Belle, 
 
 An' they all got along most uncommonly well, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
 Somehow or 'nother Ike never could work, 
 Didn't cotton to nothin' exceptin' to shirk. 
 All of Sprague's boys an' his gals had some spunk, 
 An' he bragged that none on 'em nobody could skunk, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
 Thar wuz Si, could split rails, an' Dan he could mow. 
 Thar wuz Alic could harvest, an' Hi he could hoe; 
 Martha, Matildy an' Fan could spin yarn 
 An' every one on 'em could work on the farm, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
 So old Sprague allowed how as Ike wuz no good , 
 He wouldn't fetch water, he couldn't split wood; 
 He'd hide in the barn an' be readin' a book — 
 You could find all the others whenever you'd look, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
48 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 Mother Sprague she would scold, an' old Sprague, he would cuss, 
 An' swear Ike must work, or must go an' do wuss. 
 Fur he wam't goin to harbor a book readin' drone. 
 An' they all had to work to help keep up the home. 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
 T =^^<' 
 
 So Ike packed his budget an' bid 'em good bye ! 
 An' he started for town with a tear in his eye — 
 An' old Sprague ■ allowed of the city he'd tire, 
 As all of the gals and boys sot 'round the fire, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike, 
 
 Wal 'twas more'n five years after Ike had lit out. 
 No one ever hearn of what he wuz about. 
 Some 'lowed he wuz dead, some believed him in jail; 
 An' no one once doubted in all things he'd fail, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 The gals they all married; the boys settled down. 
 Some on 'em kept farmin', an' some moved to town. 
 Old Sprague an' his wife they wuz left all alone; 
 Each one of their children had moved to their home, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike.. 
 
 49 
 
 v'> 
 
 
 One day Sprague wuz readin' about a big ball 
 To welcome a Senator at the town hall. 
 His name it wuz Sprague— S-P-R-A-G-U-E; 
 An' bethought of all men of that name that could be; 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
50 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 51 
 
 But he made up his mind, if it cost him a leg, 
 That he'd see that great man that the papers called Sprague. 
 So he harnessed old Bess, into town he wuz whirled, 
 A-thinking of all of the Spragues in the world : 
 
 'Ceptin' lie. 
 An' when he walked into the door of the hall. 
 An' saw all the big bugs dressed up for the ball. 
 He crowded along this great statesman to see, 
 Ole Sprague liked to fainted, fur who should it be ? 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
 ' ' My boy ! my poor Ike, ' ' ole Sprague hollered out loud. 
 The Senator elbowed his way through the crowd, 
 An' he hugged the ole man just the minit he spoke. 
 An' all the fine folks thought the thing was a joke, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
 That night Ike he told his ole mother an' dad 
 
 Of all of the ups an' the downs that he'd had. 
 
 How he'd worked an' bought books, how he'd study an' read. 
 
 An' no one once thought he would ever succeed, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
 Ike's got just as fur as he ever can climb. 
 He sits up in the senate, an' draws his per diem. 
 All the rest of Sprague's boys an' his gals jog along. 
 But none of 'em's mentioned in story or song, 
 
 'Ceptin' Ike. 
 
52 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 53 
 
 A Parson and a Gambler got in a tangle on the increase of crime, 
 
 and how souls could be wrecked, 
 While "The Man Up a Tree" didn't mix in the wrangle, but 
 
 listened, and thought about cause and effect. 
 Each one seemed wrapped up in his own small dominion, and neither 
 
 the other's shortcomings could see, 
 And each one was righteous, in his own opinion; at least so it looked 
 
 to " The Man Up a Tree." 
 
 "|You admit," said the Parson, "that gambling is vicious, that it 
 
 leads to suicide, lying and vice, 
 That playing at cards is at all times pernicious; that its ultimatum 
 
 by no means is nice. 
 While true Christianity, pure and undying, ennobles the earth with 
 
 its lesson of love, 
 And all its disciples, with each other vieing, befitting themselves for 
 
 the mansions above." 
 
 " Yes> true Christianity, on the dead level, is a mighty good game 
 
 when its played on the sq.uare. 
 But once in a while you will find that the devil ensconses himself in 
 
 the ' I/Ookou±'s high chair,' 
 
54 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 r^^^/l 
 
 /^i 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 -\ 
 
 cb 
 
OF THE WEST. 55 
 
 ■The barefooted Savior in charity's labor, I always admired for his 
 
 hatred of pelt, 
 And this nice little game about loving your neighbor, why don't you 
 
 ' stand pat' on that. Parson, yourself?" 
 
 "" I do," said the parson, " I do love my neighbor; I preach the good 
 
 tidings that God is all love; 
 I send it abroad by my own loving labor, as Noah from the ark sent 
 
 the carrier dove, 
 ' Be kindly intentioned one toward another with brotherly love' is 
 
 my favorite text, 
 And ' love one another,' we do this, my brother, no matter how sorely 
 
 our souls may be vexed." 
 
 ' ' Of course ' Old John Rogers' was burned for affection, and ' Old 
 Michael Servitus' killed just for love. 
 
 While 'Joan of Arc' was another selection, in 'paving your way to 
 the mansions above.' 
 
 ' John Wycliffe,' 'John Huss,' and poor old 'Sara Dyer,' and ' Scot- 
 land's young queen,' was accursed by 'John Knox,' 
 
 And those ' Salem witches' you burned with slow fire — pray was it 
 for love that their turn come 'Jack-Box?' " 
 
 •" Oh, well," said the parson, "mistakes injudicious are made in all 
 
 lands, in old age and in youth." 
 " I know," said the gambler, "but it is pernicious to 'copper the 
 
 turn,' that is known as plain truth. 
 Don't play 'single out'— give each man his opinion; in each of our 
 
 paths there's a big stumbling block, 
 But truth soars above us, on shadowy pinions, so let's play it out, 
 
 right from ' soda to hoc' 
 
 We're each of us gamblers, while I may play poker, and you have 
 
 your Bible, your sermon and 'guff,' 
 I may win my money by ' hiding the joker,' while on human defects 
 
 you can ' get in your bluff. ' 
 We're both non-producers, and instead of giving a thing to this 
 
 world it is our little plan 
 To calculate how we can make a living, upon the defects of our dear 
 
 brother man. 
 
5 6 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 This world is a good one, my dear Christian brother, if every man 
 
 does what he thinks is just right. 
 All men are created to play on each other, and no man should stand 
 
 in another man's light ; 
 Of God's holy love, of the Christian's bright heaven, you claim to 
 
 know all of these good things you teach, 
 While I am imbued with a little weak leaven, and only can practice 
 
 just what I can preach." 
 
 And each went his way on his life's mission; to " the man up a 
 
 tree" they were both lost to sight, 
 Who mused over the basis of each proposition; and thought that both 
 
 Parson and Gambler were right. 
 If each one in this world would "love one another" and neither 
 
 the other's shortcomings could see, 
 'Twould all be "case equal" to man and his brother — at least so it 
 
 looks to "the man up a tree." 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 57 
 
 A THEATRICAL AGENT'S STORY. 
 
 [Note. — This story is told by an agent to an actor when he calls for his 
 letters at the office.] 
 
 So you read my "Not in the Programme," eh? 
 
 You liked it? Oh, of course. 
 Profesh could understand its points. 
 
 And I fancy some are worse. 
 'Twas a true story, badly told, my boy, 
 
 More like a novel old. 
 But it winds up good, and that's the 
 
 Bright side of the story told.. 
 
 Here's two letters and a card 
 
 That came for you to-day. 
 I hope they bring good news, my boy , 
 
 With an opening, right away. 
 So while you break the seals and read, 
 
 I'll write this "ad" up here. 
 I wish that " biz" would pull up a bit. 
 
 For things look devilish queer. 
 
 There was poor Jim Rhodes, the heavy man, 
 He was in here twice last night; 
 
 But that piece ain't on at the Standard - 
 If it was, he'd be all right. 
 
58 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 And tliere's La Dieux, she's been here too; 
 
 It's tough with her, poor soul; 
 An invaHd mother at home to nurse, 
 
 And no wealth to get food or coal. 
 
 Theatrical agencies are no good, 
 
 Why ! two or three years ago, 
 When I went in the biz, graft was immense. 
 
 But it's different now, you know. 
 I've got more people booked, my boy, 
 
 Than could play a week in a year. 
 And fill each minstrel hall and 
 
 Each variety theatre here. 
 
 What! kicking again? Well, what's up now? 
 
 Bad news — I see it plain. 
 From Shelby, eh, and Stetson, too. 
 
 " No opening — write again." 
 The same old story, you say. Oh, pshaw L 
 
 See here, what would you do 
 If you had a wife and kids to feed 
 
 And no snap for a month or two ? 
 
 Why, bless you, I knew a poor fellow once,. 
 
 It was only a year or two — 
 Just give me a light while I fill the old pipe. 
 
 And I'll tell the story for you. 
 There's nothing doing at all to-daj^, 
 
 So we'll just chat awhile. 
 And then we'll take a skip down town 
 
 And indulge in a friendly smile. 
 
 It was only a year or two ago. 
 
 As I have said before. 
 When " Tony" was on the Bowery, 
 
 And Karl Klein, he kept next door; 
 While Poole was down at the Comique, 
 
 And things with us were fair, 
 I was sitting, one morning early. 
 
 Right here in this very chair. 
 
OF THE WEST. 59 
 
 When a fellow I knew — an actor, too, 
 
 Not one who deals in cheek. 
 Or one of those Talma'd Romeos 
 
 For six and a half per week. 
 But a scholar and a gentleman — 
 
 Came in at that very door, 
 With a woe-begone and weary look 
 
 I never saw before. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter, George ?" I said, 
 
 For I noticed, right away, 
 That something had gone wrong with him ; 
 
 "You're looking glum to-day; 
 Wife and the kids all well, I hope." 
 
 He smiled a ghastly smile. 
 But I noticed a sharp twitching 
 
 Of the under lip the while. 
 
 " Come in, old man, come in," I said; 
 
 "I've half an hour to spare, 
 I want to chat about the times — 
 
 Be seated — have a chair. 
 The postman will be in here soon; 
 
 His calls of late, it seems, 
 Are like Pat Rooney's serial tales. 
 
 Quite ' few and far between.' 
 
 " What's that ? 'Twas Campbell wrote that 
 
 But then, of course, you know 
 That plagiarists are cheeky chaps — 
 
 At least I find them so; 
 Originals are not so thick 
 
 Just at this very time 
 As Beautiful Snows, authors, or 
 
 The poets who wrote ' Crime.' " 
 
 He studied and then asked me 
 
 If "I'd anything to do 
 For him." He hadn't worked a tap 
 
 For near a month or two. 
 
6o 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 6i 
 
 And when bespoke of the folks at home. 
 
 I pledge my word to you 
 It kind of made me weaken. 
 
 But what was I to do ? 
 
 I told him to drop in again 
 
 In perhaps a day or so, 
 And something might turn up — of course 
 
 To brace him up, you know. 
 But I noticed something curious > 
 
 In the look of his bright eye. 
 And when I said good-afternoon, 
 
 He answered me, " Good-by." 
 
 When he'd gone out I turned my thoughts 
 
 To business right away, 
 I had some correspondence 
 
 With customers that day. 
 But somehow — it's d— d funny, 
 
 I scarce can tell you why — 
 Instead of ending with "Truly Yours," 
 
 I'd wind up with " Good-by." 
 
 Did 5'ou ever have a feeling 
 
 That things wasn't just in place 
 A kind of idea that your 
 
 " Nut had got off its ' cabase'?" 
 Well, so it was with me that day, 
 
 No matter how I'd try 
 To keep from thinking how George looked 
 
 When he said to me, " Good-by." 
 
 It was no use — I " piked" around, 
 
 I couldn't do a thing; 
 I couldn't read, I couldn't write, 
 
 I couldn't talk or sing. 
 So I put on my hat and coat, and 
 
 Said I to myself, 
 "■' I'll go 'cross town and hunt George out 
 
 And I'll spare him a little wealth." 
 
62 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 63, 
 
 No Brother De Witt Talmage said that 
 
 Actors never could 
 Sneak in at the gate of heaven 
 
 Or do a bit ot good. 
 But De Witt, he ain't acquainted yet, 
 
 For I know some of the boys 
 Who do a good thing once in a while 
 
 And don't make any noise. 
 
 But that's nothing to my story and 
 
 De Witt is not my style; 
 You let him alone and he'll come home, 
 
 I reckon, after awhile. 
 If he don't — why, I sha'nt worry, for he 
 
 Would not go in 
 To " the little church round the corner," 
 
 If you or I "cashed in." 
 
 Well, to proceed: I went 'cross town, to 
 
 A place perhaps you know, 
 A tenement house in Chrystie Street, 
 
 In a place called " lyover's Row." 
 I climbed up three long flights of stairs, 
 
 And at last I reached the door, 
 And I knocked, with a dread feeling 
 
 I never felt before, 
 
 I knocked again, no answer came, 
 
 I listened — all was still, 
 And over my whole being there crept 
 
 A deathly chill. 
 I called aloud — the neighbors came — 
 
 We bursted in the door; 
 We entered, and the man I sought 
 
 Was kneeling on the floor. 
 
 His wife and little children were 
 
 Stretched upon the bed, 
 And close beside their wasted forms 
 
64 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 This actor kneeling^dead. 
 Dead of a broken heart, because 
 
 That wife and little babes 
 Had starved in this great city, 
 
 With no friendly hand to aid. 
 
 "Dead of a broken heart" — good God ! 
 
 Can such things ever be. 
 In this great heaving, throbbing world. 
 
 And no one there to see ? 
 They say, old man, that there is One 
 
 Who " notes the sparrow's fall," 
 Whose loving eye is ever on the 
 
 Sinner, saint and all. 
 
 There was a postal card beside him 
 
 T stooped and picked it up. 
 It told the old, old story — 
 
 It had overrun the cup; 
 For on one side I read the actor's 
 
 Residence and name. 
 And on the other were these words, 
 
 " No opening — write again." 
 
 A little ray of sunshine stole 
 
 Athwart the attic floor, 
 L,ighting the tear-stained faces of 
 
 The neighbors round the door. 
 Gilding the silken tresses of the 
 
 lyittle folks he loved. 
 Alike unto a messenger from 
 
 That bright home above. 
 
 They'd gone away from us, old man, 
 
 Up to that good old home, 
 Up to the One who bade us 
 
 "Suffer little ones to come;" 
 To that bright land where there's no more 
 
 Of sorrow, care and pain. 
 To a manager who never said, 
 
 " No opening — write again." 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 65 
 
66 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 I am only a barnacle, pardner, 
 
 A barnacle on this world 
 Tossing about in trouble, 
 
 On the sea of reliance hurled, 
 A regular Fillus Nullis; 
 
 A nameless, floating wraith. 
 Knowing, believing nothing, 
 
 Existing, I reckon, on faith. 
 
 But it tries that faith a little 
 
 When I see a Pharisee 
 " Whitewashed," I believe they call it, 
 
 To ape what he cannot be; 
 Holding his pompus head up 
 
 Nothing but froth and sham, 
 A grandiloquent way, that seems to say: 
 
 " Make room for the great I am." 
 
 I go to the sanctuary, 
 
 That is when the' 11 let me in. 
 And there I hark to the gospel shark 
 
 Dissecting religion and sin. 
 And I think of the gospel teaching 
 
 Of peace, good will to man, 
 And I wonder they don't " cut loose on that" 
 
 And not harp on ' ' you be dam. ' ' 
 
OF THE WEST. 67 
 
 They don't seem to think the religion 
 
 Of Christ is good enough; 
 They don't " render unto Csesar," 
 
 They've "all of them out for the stuff," 
 They'll say that " He walked barefooted." 
 
 Was poor, and all of that; 
 That we should not worship Mammon, 
 
 And then they will pass the hat. 
 
 They'll tell us about the great Unseen, 
 
 'Till you'll think they have seen it too. 
 They'll tell us about the great Unknown, 
 
 And make us believe it is true; 
 They'll say that they're telling the very truth. 
 
 They would scorn to tell a lie, 
 But what can they know ot the great "To Be, " 
 
 Any more than you or I ? 
 
 An agnostic? No, sir! I reckon 
 
 That I know that I am on earth, 
 And that's about all that I have known 
 
 Since the hour that gave me birth, 
 But I've faith that such a barnacle 
 
 Can find a place that's blest, 
 ' ' Where the wicked cease from troubling 
 
 And the weary are at rest," 
 
 I've been shook by the hand by the fellow 
 
 That calls me "Jones" or " Brown;" 
 I have tackled " Bunco" and "T. and B," 
 
 And each sure thing game in town; 
 I have " represented" in real estate; 
 
 Been scorched by the insurance flame, 
 'Till, pardner, I think that this wonderful world 
 
 Is only a confidence game. 
 
68 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 ^e^: 
 
OF THB WEST.. 
 
 63, 
 
 Thlr 
 
 
 Now, as everyone knows from historic fibs, 
 That Kve was built up out of Adam's spare ribs, 
 And he was weak-minded, I think it was "snide" 
 To tackle poor Adam upon his weak side. 
 
 For he had a fair birthright and lease of the land, 
 And his title was perfect through forest and strand; 
 But a deep scheme was laid his sweet wife to ensnare^. 
 Which ruined them both, but 'twas very unfair. 
 
 Now you see, when Satan from Heaven was hurled 
 Into darkness and blazes, he heard of the world, 
 And new beings created, so said he " I'll see 
 If the spirit I've fought with can keep one from me." 
 
 So he left right away without changing his clothes. 
 And landed on earth with his bundle of woes; 
 And as the old cuss any semblance could take, 
 He crawled under the fence in the guise of a snake. 
 
 Then they all got together and laid out a plan 
 
 To play a mean game on an innocent man; 
 
 And permit me to say, ere the rest is uniurled, 
 
 'Twas the meanest thing yet on the face of the world.. 
 
 Now the world-maker knew that old Adam was quick 
 To see through a scheme and discover a trick, 
 And He said so to Satan, but Satan replied, 
 " Just get me some apples, the rest I'll provide." 
 
70 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 71 
 
 So the job was put up with some apples and yarn, 
 Draped up in festoons, on the side of a barn. 
 With a notice in English, for salvation's sake, 
 " Don't collar these apples — be ware of the snake !" 
 
 The apple man left; blooming Eve came along 
 Rehearsing one of Ned Harrigan's songs, 
 When the villaincus snake rose up out of the grass 
 And whispered ' ' M3' darling, I wont let you pass. ' ' 
 
 He showed her the fruit shining bright in the sun. 
 And murmered, "My dear, would you like to have one ?" 
 " I would that," said Eve, "and although they ain't mine 
 I'd nail one you bet, but I'm onto the sign." 
 
 ' ' Oh ! nonsense, ' ' says Snakey, ' ' that sign is too thin, 
 I won't hurt you my girl; if you want one sail in." 
 So she (in her innocence) took down a few 
 Of the dangerous things — I don't blame her, do you? 
 
 Now, you see, pretty Eve went on singing along. 
 And never once thought she had done any wrong; 
 And she hadn't, but Snakey soft muttered, " My girl. 
 This nice apple fake will put things in a whirl." 
 
 The snake was just like the rest of his class 
 And he acted his part of the snake in the grass; 
 But his part was less wicked, less basely put in. 
 Than to make her for goodness, and swamp her in sin. 
 
 When the apple man came and he missed half his fruit. 
 He ground down the grass with the heel of his boot; 
 And he swore by Jehosephat, Adam should pay 
 Eor the apples his blushing young bride stole away, 
 
 " I am terrible hot, I will go for his nibs. 
 And see if this Adam allows his spare ribs 
 To bum in this garden the same as New York ! 
 I'll bottle this couple and shove in the cork. 
 
 Now Adam and Eve were just watking along; 
 He never once thought he had done a thing wrong. 
 And he never suspected,— poor honest galoot— 
 'Till the apple man histed the cuss with his boot. 
 
72 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 
OF THE WEST. 73 
 
 Old Adam went up fifty feet in the air, 
 And came down right away, just to see who was there. 
 And where he'd just rolled in the comforts of life, 
 Stood the great apple dealer in front of his wife. 
 
 Then the applist grabbed him right quick by the snout 
 And said, " Bully boy, this ere game is played out; 
 Your wife steals my apples, you don't pay your rents." 
 And he hoisted poor Adam right over the fence. 
 
 Next he lit upon Uve, seized her pretty round arm. 
 He paused, she was handsome, he gazed on her charms; 
 " Aint you 'fraid I will throw you right after your mate?" 
 " Let her go slow," said Eve, " I'll go out by the gate." 
 
 She walked from the place richly dressed in her skin, 
 And the airs she put on, oh, you couldn't begin. 
 To imagine the style, for 'twas used by the peck. 
 And her pretty blond head set so cute on her neck. 
 
 That's the way with these women, they'll have the last word, 
 Though their efforts are hopeless, their reasons absurd. 
 But they tantalize man and they fill him with joy. 
 Though it springs from the heart with no baser alloy. 
 
 They'll hang their dear heads in a soft, dreamy way. 
 And half close an eye, just as much to say, 
 " Perhaps you do love me. Oh ! Well I don't care; 
 I know that I'm lovely, but touch if you dare. 
 
 Now, this is too bad, and you can't blame a chap, 
 If temptation should lead him right into the trap; 
 Because (like those apples that old Eve scooped in) 
 She wants to be stole, so it can't be a sin. 
 
 When Eve got outside she found Ad where he lit. 
 Said he " Missus Wife we've been ordered to git. 
 Just pack up them trunks and we'll take the next train, 
 And this Garden won't see our dear faces again." 
 So she went to her trunk and put on a new dress. 
 The balance of baggage went by Adam's Express; 
 And they went out to Denver the very next day 
 And bought pools at the pool room, as I have heard say. 
 
74 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 75 
 
 Now as angels were put at the gate of the farm 
 To guard the new tenants and keep them from harm, 
 It has yet to be answered, must yet be explained. 
 How the devil got in there and set up his reign. 
 
 Then why did the apple-man go on that way. 
 With those big mellow apples te lead Eve astray ? 
 He knew that sh'd steal them, if not closely hid. 
 And he needn't have gone to extremes as he did. 
 
 'Twas the first earthly crime— he'd no business to do it. 
 For all human nature hereafter must rue it; 
 But one thing is certain, it surely will teach 
 That nothing is private where woman can reach. 
 
 And her dear little fingers must touch everything. 
 And her wits are as restless as birds on the wing. 
 And there's no batch of secrets, great, mighty or small. 
 But her dear little bosom will pant for them all; 
 
 How many strange notions these creatures will take. 
 And what jobs she'll put up without help from the snake-. 
 And if letters lie 'round that are written to man; 
 She'll read 'em, my boy, if she possibly can. 
 
 Then they hung their nice apples right out in plain sight. 
 With Satan to watch them, which doesn't look right; 
 And the Lord should never have made Adam at all. 
 Or else hung his old apples outside of the wall. 
 
 L 'EN VOIE. 
 
 For instance, a child is inside of a fence, 
 A bull pup outside with the worst of intents; 
 You open the front gate and let in the pup. 
 And then blame the kid for getting chewed up. 
 
 ^1 p 
 
 .4 
 
 wmi 
 
76 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 w -sy^ 
 
 ^'^^li CVfijCOflT f{0<^'f<I^P 
 
 ^.ac^^'^-i^"^"" 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 77 
 
 A PARODY. 
 
 " Oh the snow, that beautiful snow," 
 
 That flies in your face, wherever you go, 
 
 That's twisted and whirled in some "dizzy" old street 
 
 Till it blinds your poor eyes, and freezes your feet. 
 
 It's all very fine, that " beautiful snow," 
 
 If 5'ou've cash in j='Our pocket, and somewhere to go. 
 
 But the poet was born in summer, I know, 
 
 That finds something pretty in " beautiful snow." 
 
 ' ' Beautiful, " is it ? Humph ! ' ' Beautiful snow, ' ' 
 When " it falls on a sinner, nowhere to go." 
 It seems to me, now (I'm a practical man, 
 I'm no love-sick damsel or innocent lamb, 
 Therefore I cannot be expected, you know, 
 To stand on my head about " beautiful snow")— 
 It seems to me, now, that this sucker should go 
 And bury himself in his " beautiful snow." 
 
78 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 " Beautiful" is it, eh ? — " beautiful suow," 
 
 The thermometer just ten degrees below, 
 
 Your overcoat " hocked," not a centin your " kick," 
 
 And "beautiful snow" till you can't see a brick 
 
 In the sidewalks, around in some "tart " country town, 
 
 And that "beautiful snow" is still coming down. 
 
 Why, if I had a room with a fire all aglow, 
 
 I could envy the " crank" who wrote " Beautiful Snow." 
 
 " Beautiful snow from the heaven above. 
 
 Pure as an angel, gentle as love." 
 
 I wish they would keep it in heaven, not throw 
 
 So much down on earth of that ' ' beautiful snow. ' ' 
 
 Gentle as love? how can they say so; 
 
 Seehow it sticks, it never will go. 
 
 March, April and May may come and may go. 
 
 And still we'll be blessed with d d "beautiful snow." 
 
OF THE WEST, 
 
 79 
 
 TO MY FRIEND, GEORGE THATCHER. 
 
 Draw up a chair " Thatch," I'll tell you a story, 
 
 That happened in " Philly" some twenty years since. 
 And though not pertaining to splendor or glory, 
 
 I'll vouch for the truth, if that will you convince. 
 It won't? Well no matter. I know I'm a liar 
 
 On particular subjects, but here I have proof, 
 That I can at least come a little bit ' 'nigher' ' 
 
 Than Gaylord or Tom Granger can to the truth. 
 
 This happened in times when the minstrels were minstrels. 
 
 They sat a first part in the old fashioned way; 
 And they didn't have acrobats, statues and Arabs, 
 
 And only two end men, like Old Walter Bray. 
 I^ike the time when you sang " Old Black Joe" with a chorus, 
 
 And the ballads with sweetness and music were rife; 
 And we wound up the show with a " Ghost in a Pawn Shop," 
 
 It knocks the new fangled ones, you bet your life. 
 
 A lot of the old boys have "cashed in" and left us, 
 
 Dan Bryant, Nelse Seymour, Bill Manning, Ned Fox; 
 But we still have Dave Reed, Billy Birch, Charley Howard, 
 
8(. 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 
 
 ;--liv^.i_^'^2;fi/^f= 
 
 Vi--£ — 4^^ 
 
 woe s^"^t i" -^c<u 
 
OP THE WEST. 8i 
 
 Ned Gooding, Dan Emmett and you — "old time rocks." 
 What, digressing? Oh, yes. Well, you can't blame a fellow. 
 
 When he thinks of old-timers who once had the call, 
 It makes an " old jay" feel exceedingly mellow, 
 
 Well, now for the story, and then for "a ball." 
 
 As I said before, there were times when the minstrels 
 
 Depended on talent, not crowd or display. 
 A party was playing in old Philadelphia, 
 
 A " bang-up house" too, now they had, by the way. 
 The first part was going as smooth as a whistle. 
 
 Each song was a hit, from the tambo to bones. 
 And each in the house with attention just bristled. 
 
 When the tenor struck in on "The Old Folks at Home." 
 
 The first verse was finished, the chorus had ended. 
 
 The interlude played and the second begun; 
 The music and voice so delightfully blended, 
 
 When through the front door came the form of a man. 
 A tall and gaunt figure, in black, rather seedy. 
 
 With hair falling back from a brow clear and white; 
 He drank in each strain with an.ardor so greedy, 
 
 While his face fairly beamed with angelic delight. 
 
 The audience looked, but the stranger ne'er heeded. 
 
 His soul was wrapped up in the sweet melody. 
 But he looked like a phantom that only just needed 
 
 A key note to touch him and let him go free . 
 All through the whole song, from beginning to chorus, 
 
 He stood like a statue and drank in each strain. 
 And as the last cadence of music died oe'r us. 
 
 He faltered, "Please, gentlemen, sing it again" 
 
 He stepped to the tront, and he made explanation : 
 
 "I'm an old minstrel man," were the words that he said, 
 " I trust you will pardon this strange interruption. 
 
 But I learned that old story from my mother, now dead. 
 I know that the ladies and gents will excuse me. 
 
 When I tell them it calls up old pleasures and pains. 
 And you, my old pard, will not surely refuse me, 
 
 I appeal to the audience; sing it again." 
 
S2 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 e 
 
 ,o C;., 
 
 iMfep""' 
 
 
OF THE WEST. 83 
 
 You know how an audience is. Such a furore ! 
 
 And clapping of hands, cheers and waiving of fans; 
 No artist could have scored a heartier encore, 
 
 'Till the prelude was finished. The song was began: 
 " Way down upon the Suwanee River," 
 
 Soft came the words of the " Far, faraway," 
 " Dar's whar my heart goes turning ever," 
 
 Then the next line, " Whar de ole folks stay," 
 
 All throHgh the song the strange minstrel had listened, 
 
 While seated in front with his head on his breast, 
 And on either eyelid a pearly tear glistened, 
 
 A tribute, perhaps, to his mother at rest. 
 And as the quartette opened out in the chorus, 
 
 A hush of attention hung over the throng. 
 And a flood of sweet melody seemed floating o'er us. 
 
 For the stranger himself joined the boys in the song. 
 
 " All the world's sad and dreary," his voice rang out clearly, 
 
 " Everywhere I roam;" how the house seemed to thrill 
 As the strange singer warbled " How my heart grows weary," 
 
 High over the others, and then all was still. 
 I have heard that old song sang by many a fellow. 
 
 But the way that he sang it I never can tell; 
 It seemed like the dying white swan's song so mellow. 
 
 Or the oriole's ringing note heard in the dell. 
 
 There was no applause, the effect was too holy, 
 
 The hearers were spellbound, it dampened their zest; 
 As the last lingering note to the dome rose slowly. 
 
 The strange singer's head sadly sank on his breast. 
 They touched him. No answer. They gathered around him, 
 
 And kind friendly hands raised the stranger's gray head. 
 And he sat with a halo of glory around him. 
 
 The old wandering minstrel sat smiling there— dead 1 
 
TRAMP POEMS 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 85 
 
 H^ 
 
 [Note. — The reply of a Tramp to au Editor.^-who liad said in his'local 
 column that a Tramp came into town.] 
 
 " A tramp came into town ? Well, yes, I guess that's true, 
 ' Twould change a saint to a sinner, the times that I've gone through. 
 This world's chuck full of trouble, and some get more'n their share. 
 And when I get to thinking, I can't keep back a tear. 
 
 There is no man so hardened, but somewhere in his heart 
 There's a cord that's mighty tender, that will make a tear-drop start. 
 There is no pool so muddy, but what (a crystal drop) 
 If you only stir it deep enough, will send a bubble up. 
 
 Kind words will do the business, and they cost so little too, 
 To me it's very singular, those that get 'em are so few. 
 But folks don't follow scripture, their hearts all sot on pelf, 
 The've got no love for a neighbor, but lots of it for themself 
 
 This world's a billiard table, the corners mighty sharp, 
 
 And the poor man's bound to hit 'em. no matter though he's smart. 
 
 But when you've lot's of money you can easily get through. 
 
 You can kinder mass the balls, you know, and cushion the angles to. 
 
 While those who's poor and ignorant have got to bear the yoke. 
 You can laugh at their condition, but old top, it ain^t no joke. 
 But this airn't all there is, though— why, it's nothing but a dream. 
 And you are only a little boat that's floating down the stream. 
 
86 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 And when your voyage is ended, and you've run your craft ashore, 
 Don't you know, with all your money, you must mingle with the 
 
 poor ? 
 Why, certainly, you must, Friend " Quad," assure as you are born, 
 For that money won't avail you on that resurrection morn. 
 
 As like as not some poor old tramp will whisper in your ear, 
 " In life you didn't know me, but there's no distinction here." 
 And when the books are balanced, and you of cash bereft. 
 Perhaps the tramp will take the right, while you will take the left. 
 
 If every tramp and millionaire wore his crimes upon his brow, 
 Do you suppose they'd walk the^e streets as bold as they do now? 
 Ah ! no, I rather reckon not, but on the other hand, 
 The style of hats would change too quick, with wide brims in 
 demand. 
 
 Well, good-bye, take care of yourself, I guess we'll meet again. 
 And when we do, you bet your life, we'll meet as different men. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 87 
 
 ^jmy^i^^mf-^.. 
 
 [Note;. — Hey Rube is the war-cry with a Circus which calls every man 
 to the scene of action. 
 
 'Twas just about ten years ago, 
 Too early yet for ice or snow, 
 Thro' bounteous Texas coming down, 
 A circus with a funny clown, 
 
 "Hey Rube." 
 
 The boys warn't feeling very well, ^ t 
 
 The reason why I cannot tell, " "^ 
 
 And as they " made" each little town 
 They whispered (when the "gawks" came 'round) 
 
 "Hey Rube." 
 
 It'b but a little phrase, 'tis true, 
 Its meaning well each "fakir" knew, 
 And e'en the weakest heart was stirred 
 At mention of that magic woid, 
 
 "Hey Rube." 
 
 " They'll eat you up in this 'ere town. 
 The boys'll tear you circus down." 
 Thus spoke a man with hoary head, 
 The " main guy" winked and softly said, 
 
 "Hey Rube." 
 
 They gathered 'round, about two score, 
 I am not sure but there were more, 
 Red-hot and eager for the fray, 
 The boys all thought, but didn't say, 
 
 "Hey Rube." 
 
TRAMP POEMS 
 
 The ball was opened, like a flash. 
 Above the battle's din and dash, 
 As thunderbolt hurled from the sky, 
 Rang long and loud the battle-cry, 
 
 "Hey Rube." 
 
 'Twas but a moment — in they went. 
 Each man on life and death intent. 
 They periled there both life and limb, 
 'Twas wonderful to hear them sing, 
 
 " Hey Rube." 
 
 'Twas finished, the smoke rolled away. 
 As clouds before the sun's bright ray. 
 That Texan chivalry were gone — 
 They couldn't sing that circus song, 
 
 "Hey Rube " 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 "Gawks," "guys" and "Rubes," another day. 
 
 When e'er a circus comes your way, 
 
 And you arespilein for a " clitn," 
 
 Be sure they haven't learned to sing, 
 
 "Hey Rube." 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 89 
 
90 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 We oughtn't a dun it. It wasn't jest right, 
 But wen he dropped inter ther Camp on that night, 
 Some one on the gang made a quiet remark 
 'T he wasn't a miner 'rwasn't a shark. 
 
 But he looked kinder susp'shus. 
 
 H'ed legs all the world like a Sandy Hill crane 
 An' his head wuz bare-footed, denotin' no brain; 
 He wuz wearin' dude clothes, an' had on striped socks, 
 An' over his shoulder he'd slung a black box 
 
 That looked kinder susp'shus. 
 
 He throwed down two bits on Lem Givison's bar. 
 An' asked fur a Key West Estrellar cigar; 
 An' then he sot-down in the corner to rest, 
 An' he pushed that black box right in front of his breast,. 
 Which looked kinder susp'shus. 
 
 An' arg'ment riz about " round table stud," 
 Which looked ez if it might hev ended in blood. 
 Each man bed hiz eye right on the other one. 
 An' every man thar hed hiz han' on hiz gun. 
 
 An' it looked kinder susp'shus. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 91 
 
92 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 The room wuz so still, you could hear a watch tick, 
 When that feller's black box gin a sharp, sudden click, 
 An' ten "forty-five's" opened out with a roar, 
 An' the remnants were scattered around on the floor, 
 An' it looked kinder susp'shus. 
 
 We buried the pieces, all that we could see. 
 Out thar in the gulch, by that old pi'non tree, 
 With a card from his pocket, — its stickin' thar yet — 
 "Snap Kodak Artist, Gazootville Gazette," 
 
 An' it looks kinder susp'shus. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 93 
 
94 
 
 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 
 ^ §$mk^i^^ f^^^f^ 
 
 [Note. — This story is told by the manager of a small theatrical troupe 
 to the printer, who brings in a proof of programme for correction.] 
 
 Good morning to you again. So, you've brought the proof, then, eh I 
 " Macbeth, Mr. Hubert Villiers." Well, tTiat's better, I must say. 
 What will you have ? Hot whiskey ? Right! What, ho, there, 
 
 Polly, my dear ! 
 Two fours of Irish warm for me and this other gentleman here. 
 
 Not half bad tipple, is it, my boy? 'Taint often I drink from 
 
 choice, 
 But I fancy a drop of old Irish warm softens and mellows the voice. 
 You liked my Claude last night, you say ? Well, its fairish they all 
 
 allow; 
 But I'm getting a little too old and fat for this lover business now. 
 
 Ah, well, I mustn't complain, I suppose. I can stick to the heavy 
 
 line. 
 And I've got a few "balls" put by, my boy, in that old stocking 
 
 of mine; 
 But mind you, with a company, near twenty strong, or quite, 
 If business is slack, its a tightish fit, when it comes to salery night. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 95 
 
96 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 See some queer things ? Us travelling folk — well, yes, that's really 
 
 true; 
 Why, 'twas only here, an hour ago, sitting, and waiting for you, 
 I was thinking over a curious thing, you might have heard, no 
 
 doubt, 
 Which shows how the real thing, after all, beats acting out and out. 
 
 Of course, it's true, for it all took place under my eyes, you know. 
 
 lyCt's see, 'twas down at Rochester, about two years ago. 
 
 The old woman and I was sitting down in the lodging, one day, to 
 
 tea. 
 When a servant told me a lady had called, and wanted to speak to 
 
 me. 
 
 Well, show her up here, I said, for I thought 'twas one of our girls 
 
 looked round 
 To ask me something about that night; but I was wrong, I found. 
 For there entered (blushing up to her eyes, shrinking, tremulous, 
 
 coy), 
 A lady I'd never seen before, with a charming little boy. 
 
 A beautiful blonde she was, not more than two-and-twenty, or so. 
 
 With witching eyes of a lustrous brown; but, ah ! how full of woe. 
 
 And she and the boy were dressed in black, and she wore — in a 
 mournful mood, 
 
 On her flaxen hair, that was tinged with gold — the weeds of widow- 
 hood. 
 
 She took the old chair I gave her, and spoke in a low, sweet voice — 
 You could see that she was a lady born, she seemed so gentle, so 
 
 nice. 
 She had "some knowledge of the stage, as an amateur," she said. 
 And " could I give her something to do, to find her and her boy in 
 
 bread?" 
 
 " Oh, that's how the old thing works," I thought; " well, may be I 
 
 might do worse; 
 If she only acts as well as she looks, she'd nicely line my purse." 
 So I took good stock of her as she sat with the boy beside her chair. 
 And stroked, with dainty tremulous hand, his bonny golden hair. 
 
OF THE WEST. 
 
 97 
 
98 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 Bit by bit, her story came out; 'long back her mother had died, 
 
 And left her (an only child) to be her father's joy and pride; 
 
 He was in the law, and thought to be rich, and was held in high 
 
 repute, 
 But then he died a ruined man, and left her destitute. 
 
 Then the only relative she had — an old aunt — who was well to do, 
 Had taken her in, and found for her a wealthy suitor too. 
 But she loved some other, a sailor chap, who, like herself, was poor; 
 And when they married, this haughty aunt had fired them both out 
 door. 
 
 She " was very happy at first," she said, and her voice grew soft and 
 
 low, 
 But then she'd "lost her husband too, he was drowned four months 
 
 ago; 
 His ship went down and all were lost, and now (in her need and 
 
 care) 
 She'd no one left in all the world, but that little fellow there." 
 
 Here she dropped her head, poor girl, and her voice got choked with 
 
 sighs, 
 (D — n that smoke, how it gets in a fellow's throat and eyes). 
 She finished her tale. She " felt at first all stunned and dazed," she 
 
 said, 
 ' ' And even to think of aught but him, seemed treachery to the 
 
 dead." 
 
 But, bye and bye, for the sake of her boy, now doubly precious and 
 
 dear. 
 She'd nerved herself too look beyond' to the future that seemed so 
 
 drear. 
 She thought of a governess' place at first, but then they would have 
 
 to part. 
 And to give up that little fellow now would almost break her heart. 
 
 Little by little the things had gone, to meet her daily need. 
 
 Till the home, too, had to be given up, and all seemed lost indeed. 
 
 Then she thought of how she loved the stage, in the happy long 
 
 ago. 
 And how well she played, as an amateur — at least they told her so. 
 
OF THE WEST. 99 
 
 She stopped at all the theatres, but 'twas still the same old tale — 
 
 A novice had no chance at all where even vetereans fail; 
 
 Then some one had told her to come to me, and she'd travelled here 
 
 to-day, 
 To see if I could "put her on" in however a humble way. 
 
 I should find her "quick and willing," she said, in all I wanted 
 
 done. 
 And all she asked was lodging and food for her and her little one; 
 She'd "nothing left but her wedding ring, and one old half a crown, 
 And then there was only the workhouse if — " well, here she quite 
 
 broke down. 
 
 Now, the parsons sometimes gives it to us bad actors hot. 
 
 But what ?'er our faults may be, my boy, we're not a hard-hearted 
 
 lot; 
 And my old woman, sitting there with the little "kid" on her knee. 
 And — this d — d crying business always gets over me. 
 
 The amount of it was, we put her on as a " super," so to speak. 
 And found her board and lodging with us, and a dollar or two a 
 
 week; 
 She helped the old woman in various ways, and she did it nicely, 
 
 too. 
 And we sent her on, in little parts, where she hadn't much to do. 
 
 But a quicker study I never saw; there was something better, 
 
 higher — 
 You could see she was an actress born — the woman had passion, fire. 
 She took with the public from the first, what with that sweet, young 
 
 face. 
 And passion and power, and we gave her soon our leading lady's 
 
 place. 
 
 Now, some of our girls were jealous like when they saw her taking 
 
 the lead. 
 And used to sneer at her crape and ring and mutter, ' ' Humph ! 
 
 missus, indeed." ' 
 
 But she was so gentle, obliging, meek, this soon wore off, it did. 
 And they all of them got to love her at last, and to almost worship 
 
 the "kid." 
 
100 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 She seemed transformed with passion and power whenever she went 
 
 on the stage, 
 And "Missus Mowberry," as she was called, came to be quite the 
 
 rage; 
 She'd only to show herself for cheers to thunder out, and I^or ! 
 She was always good for three encores of a night, and sometimes 
 
 more. ' 
 
 One night I happened to be in front when she was extra fine, 
 'Twas in " East I,ynne," and she'd just come on with the boy — as 
 
 Madame Vine. 
 She's supposed (as the Lady Isabel) to have wronged her husband 
 
 and fled, 
 But comes back — disguised as a governess — after he thinks she's 
 
 dead. 
 
 She'd got to the crowning scene of all, where the mother longs to 
 
 stretch 
 Her arms to her boy, but has to check and school herself, poor 
 
 wretch! 
 And the house was hushed with pity and awe when I saw her stare 
 
 and start. 
 And struggle, and turn as white as death, and put her hand to her 
 
 heart. 
 
 I followed her eyes and down in front, in the parquette, pale and 
 
 thin, 
 Was a tall young chap — in a sailor dress — who had only just 
 
 dropped in. 
 He sprang to the stage and^ bounded on — well, you can guess the 
 
 rest — 
 He was husband, she his wife, and she fainted on his breast. 
 
 I thought for a moment the people thought 'twas part of the play 
 
 forsooth. 
 But her story, you see, had got whispered about, and they easily 
 
 guessed at the truth; 
 And then ! don't talk of a scene, my boy, such cheers I never heard; 
 I thought that roof would have fallen in, I did, upon my word. 
 
OP THE WEST. 101 
 
 Of course the curtain had to be dropped, and I whispered to the 
 band, 
 
 To "strike up something," and hurried back at once, you under- 
 stand — 
 
 To find her just coming to, poor soul, with the girls all crying 
 there. 
 
 And the sailor, with her hand in his, kneeling beside the chair. 
 
 And the little ' ' kid' ' clinging to them — Oh ! what a tableau 'that 
 
 would have been; 
 'Twould have made the fortune of any piece to have brought in such 
 
 a scene. 
 I've come to look at it now, you see, in a sort of professional light. 
 But that night I was nearly as weak as the women were, or quite. 
 
 His story was short — his ship was lost, and 'twas thought that all 
 
 were drowned, 
 But he and some other " guy" clung to a spar and were picked up 
 
 safe and sound; 
 Then he took a turn in the diggings, and there good luck came thick 
 
 and fast. 
 And he'd come back rich, to find her gone, bijt they'd met at last — 
 
 at last. 
 
 Then her story was told, how good I'd been, and all the rest, dear 
 
 heart; , 
 
 Do you know, she would insist on going again to finish that part. 
 So I went to the front myself old boy, and I told the people all. 
 And, upon my soul, I thought this time the old root would surely 
 • fall. 
 
 When she came on again, such a deafening thunder of cheers. 
 
 Men waving their hats like mad, women and "kids" in tears; 
 
 I thought of the night they say "Keene" set all England's heart 
 
 astir; 
 "Sir, the pit rose at me." he said; well, so it did at her. 
 
 She seemed inspired, so grand she was, so passionate, true and 
 
 warm; 
 From the first time she opened her mouth she took the old house by 
 
 storm; 
 Three times we had her on at the end, and I shall never forget 
 
I02 TRAMP POEMS 
 
 How he had to come to the front himself — I can see and hear 
 them yet. 
 
 A bonny couple they were, my boy, to see them together then — 
 That d — d smoke has gone and got into my eyes again! 
 He dropped me a hundred, for a "bowl," for all the boys next day; 
 And she bought me a nice little diamond ring — bang up to the 
 knocker, eh? 
 
 They've got a nice little place up town, where they're living in 
 
 style, you know; 
 There's a knife and fork there for all good ones, too, whenever they 
 
 want to gO; 
 It ain't so very long ago, some two or three weeks or more. 
 Since the old woman and I were up for a week, and were treated 
 
 "bang up to the door." 
 
 I had their story put in a play, and it answered pretty well. 
 But, bless your heart, it wasn't a patch on the genuine article. 
 Well, good day for the present, "old pard," if you won't have any 
 
 more. 
 Don' t you forget about those bills — Good on ye. Au revoir! 
 
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