THE KEERLESS PARD.

No, I’m a disappointed man,
  Though I’ve acted fer the best;
But I tell ye, stranger, what it is—­
  The Occident’s not the West.

Have I got the hang of the dialeck? 
  Ye’re nearer New York ner I
An’ ye’ve seen th’ latest litteracher
  This lingo’s laid-down by.

What is Bret Harte now givin’ us? 
  How’s the Colorado tongue? 
Bret wuz the pard that run the West
  When I wuz East—­and young;—­

That is to say, three months ago. 
  But now I must be grey,
Fer I’ve been out here so long I’ve lost
  The hang o’ the Western way.

Way down thar in the State o’ Maine,
  In mild Skowhegan town,
I pastured as a tenderfoot
  An’ the clerk o’ Storeclothes Brown.

Till I got to readin’ Roarin Camp
  An’ about that Truthful James,
Buffalo Bill an’ Bloody Gulch,
  An’ pistol-an’-poker games,

An’ the pleasure o’ shootin’ justices
  An’ sheriffs deeputies
An’ the oncomplainin’ public
  An’ the gineral mob likewise.

Then I—­wich my name is Dangerous Jake—­
  (Leastwise when took that way)
Sloped unappreciative Brown
  An’ follered the wake o’ day.

An’ here am I in Bismarck Jug! 
  Fer an inoffensive spree—­
Puttin’ some buckshot inter the leg
  Of a pagan-tail Chinee.

Wot is the good of our churches
  Ef the Mongol’s goin’ ter rule? 
An’ how kin ye shoot the redskin
  When they’re givin’ him beef and school?

What are the Rockies comin’ too? 
  Well, I’ve acted fer the best. 
But the only remark I’ve got to make, is—­
  The Occident’s not the West

THE BATTLE OF LAPRAIRIE. (1691.)

A BALLAD.

I.

That was a brave old epoch,
  Our age of chivalry,
When the Briton met the Frenchman
  At the fight of La Prairie;
And the manhood of New England,
  And the Netherlander true
And Mohawks sworn, gave battle
  To the Bourbon’s lilied blue.

II.

That was a brave old governor
  Who gathered his array,
And stood to meet, he knew not what
  On that alarming day. 
Eight hundred, amid rumors vast
  That filled the wild wood’s gloom,
With all New England’s flower of youth,
  Fierce for New France’s doom.

III.

And the brave old half five hundred! 
  Their’s should in truth be fame;
Borne down the savage Richelieu,
  On what emprise they came! 
Your hearts are great enough, O few: 
  Only your numbers fail,
New France asks more for conquerors
  All glorious though your tale.

IV.