Saint Abe and His Seven Wives. Buchanan Robert Williams

      "There was a time, and no mistake,

      When thet same ranche down in the brake

      Was pleasanter a heap to me

      Than any sight on land or sea.

      The hosses knew it like their master,

      Smelt it miles orf, and spank'd the faster!

      Ay, bent to reach thet very spot,

      Flew till they halted steaming hot

      Sharp opposite the door, among

      The chicks and children old and young;

      And down I'd jump, and all the go

      Was 'Fortune, boss!' and 'Welcome, Joe!'

      And Cissy with her shining face,

      Tho' she was missus of the place,

      Stood larfing, hands upon her hips;

      And when upon her rosy lips

      I put my mouth and gave her one,

      She'd cuff me, and enjy the fun!

      She was a widow young and tight,

      Her chap had died in a free fight,

      And here she lived, and round her had

      Two chicks, three brothers, and her dad,

      All making money fast as hay,

      And doing better every day.

      Waal! guess tho' I was peart and swift,

      Spooning was never much my gift;

      But Cissy was a gal so sweet,

      So fresh, so spicy, and so neat,

      It put your wits all out o' place,

      Only to star' into her face.

      Skin whiter than a new-laid egg,

      Lips full of juice, and sech a leg!

      A smell about her, morn and e'en,

      Like fresh-bleach'd linen on a green;

      And from her hand when she took mine,

      The warmth ran up like sherry wine;

      And if in liquor I made free

      To pull her larfing on my knee,

      Why, there she'd sit, and feel so nice,

      Her heer all scent, her breath all spice!

      See! women hate, both young and old,

      A chap that's over shy and cold,

      And fire of all sorts kitches quick,

      And Cissy seem'd to feel full slick

      The same fond feelings, and at last

      Grew kinder every time I passed;

      And all her face, from eyes to chin,

      Said *'Bravo, Joe! You're safe to win!'

      And tho' we didn't fix, d'ye see,

      In downright words that it should be,

      Ciss and her fam'ly understood

      That she and me would jine for good.

      Guess I was like a thirsty hoss

      Dead beat for days, who comes across

      A fresh clear beck, and on the brink

      Scoops out his shaky hand to drink;

      Or like a gal or boy of three,

      With eyes upon a pippin-tree;

      Or like some Injin cuss who sees

      A bottle of rum among the trees,

      And by the bit of smouldering log,

      Where squatters camp'd and took their grog

      The night afore. Waal!" (here he ground

      His teeth again with savage sound)

      "Waal, stranger, fancy, jest for fun,

      The feelings of the thirsty one,

      If, jest as he scoop'd out his hand,

      The water turn'd to dust and sand!

      Or fancy how the lad would scream

      To see thet fruit-tree jest a dream!

      Or guess how thet poor Injin cuss,

      Would dance and swear, and screech and fuss,

      If when he'd drawn the cork and tried

      To get a gulp of rum inside,

      'Twarn't anything in thet theer style,

      But physic stuff or stinking ile!

      Ah! you've a notion now, I guess,

      Of how all ended in a mess,

      And how when I was putting in

      My biggest card and thought to win,

      The Old One taught her how to cheat,

      And yer I found myself, clean beat!"

      Joe Wilson paused, and gazed straight down,

      With gritting teeth and bitter frown,

      And not till I entreated him

      Did he continue, – fierce and grim,

      With knitted brow and teeth clench'd tight.

      "Along this way one summer night,

      Jest as I meant to take the prize,

      Passed an Apostle– dern his eyes!

      On his old pony, gravel-eyed,

      His legs a-dangling down each side,

      With twinkling eyes and wheedling smile,

      Grinning beneath his broad-brimm'd tile,

      With heer all scent and shaven face.

      He came a-trotting to the place.

      My luck was bad, I wasn't near,

      But busy many a mile from yer;

      And what I tell was told to me

      By them as were at hand to see.

      'Twam't every day, I reckon, they

      Saw an Apostle pass their way!

      And Cissy, being kind o' soft,

      And empty in the upper loft,

      Was full of downright joy and pride

      To hev thet saint at her fireside —

      One of the seventy they call

      The holiest holy – dern 'em all!

      O he was 'cute and no mistake,

      Deep as Salt Lake, and wide awake!

      Theer at the ranche three days he stayed,

      And well he knew his lying trade.

      'Twarn't long afore he heard full free

      About her larks and thet with