ANONYMOUS

Johnny's Team

I think of all the galloping,
   The trotting, fast and hard,
That I have seen in town or park,
   On track or boulevard,

No horses ever pawed the air,
   Or plunged about and ran,
Taking the bit between their teeth,
   As those of Johnny's can.

What color are they? sorrel? roan?
   Chestnut, or dapple grey?
Excuse me, but 'tis difficult
   To know just what to say.

I'm not enough a horseman to
   Have learned their phrases yet;
But one, I think, is yellow blonde,
   The other a brunette.

Where is their stable? do they have
   A manger and a stall?
One has his room with Johnny, one
   Rooms just across the hall.

They're not such very patient steeds,
   For both are apt to cry;
I heard them, too, today at lunch,
   Quarrel about their pie.

But still, they're very spirited,
   To neigh and prance and run,
And make for Johnny, when he drives,
   Plenty of work and fun.

October 16, 1881

A Piazza Tragedy

The beauteous Ethel's father has a
Newly painted front piazza,
       He has a
       Piazza;
When with tobacco juice 'twas tainted,
They had the front piazza painted,
       That tainted
       Piazza painted.

Algernon called that night, perchance,
Arrayed in comely sealskin pants,
       That night, perchance,
       In gorgeous pants;
Engaging Ethel in a chat
On that piazza down he sat,
       In chat
       They sat.

And when an hour or two had passed,
He tried to rise, but oh, stuck fast
       At last
       Stuck fast!
Fair Ethel shrieked, "It is the paint!"
And fainted in a deadly faint,
       This saint
       Did faint.

Algernon sits there to this day,
He cannot tear himself away;
       Away?
       Nay, nay,
His pants are firm, the paint is dry,
He's nothing else to do but die;
       To die!
       O my!

January 26, 1883

Utah

Bowed was the old man's snow-white head,
   A troubled look was on his face,
'Why come you, sir?" I gently said,
   "Unto this solemn burial place?"

"I come to weep a while for one
   Whom in her life I held most dear,
Alas her sands were quickly run,
   And now she lies a sleeping here."

"Oh, tell me of your precious wife,
   For she was very dear, I know,
It must have been a blissful life
   You led with her you treasure so?"

"My wife is moldering in the ground,
   In yonder house she's spinning now,
And lo! this moment may be found
   A driving home the family cow;

"And see, she's standing at the stile,
   And leans from out the window wide,
And loiters on the sward awhile,
   Her forty babies by her side."

"Old man, you must be mad!' I cried,
   "Or else you do but jest with me;
How is it that your wife has died
   And yet can here and living be?

"How is it while she drives the cow
   She's hanging out the window wide,
And loiters, as you said just now,
   With forty babies by her side?"

The old man raised his snowy head,
   "I have a sainted wife in heaven;
I am a Mormon, sir, he said,
   "My sainted wife on earth are seven."

March 10, 1882

Death of the Cow-boy

How strong the cow-boy is in death,
   How strives he with the reaper grim!
   How writhes each sturdy, supple limb,
What life is in each dying breath!
His eyes have still the haughty gleam,
   The flash of mingled pride and scorn,
   They had at early yester' morn,
   When he saw us and we saw him,
Come plunging through the swollen stream
   And drive his heifers from our corn.

Oh, who hath done this dreadful deed,
   Hath in an evil moment slain
   This dashing hero of the plain,
This idol of the mount and mead?
Oh, hath some jealous Indian chief
   Waylaid this warrior of the ranch?
   Or hath some envious churl, perchance,
   Conceiving honest combat vain,
Wrought all this tragedy and grief,
   By shooting ere he could advance?

He died as cow-boys died before;
   A bottle struck him on the head,
   He tottered, stumbled, fell and bled
A quart or two upon the floor.
'Twas Biddy Looney struck the blow
   That caught him just above the ear,
   He'd kissed her once and called her dear
And then (in sorrow breathe it low)
   He'd scorned her pleading cry for beer!

December 10, 1881

Untitled

A beautiful young man at Saguache,
Once courted the charming Miss Sauche,
   But when she was wed
   To another, he said,
"My life is a horrible bauche."

August 24, 1881

Untitled

In Leadville a certain girl's bonnet
Has four yards of ostrich plumes on it,
   While her sister, poor thing,
   Wears a red rooster wing,
And that is the cause of this sonnet.

August 25, 1881

Untitled

A dashing young cow-boy named Gus
Got involved in a serious muss,
   With a party named Berringer,
   And drawing his derringer
He tapped him for laudable pus.

November 13, 1883