10 15 20 25 Whar have you been for the last three years He were n't no saint them engineers Is all pretty much alike, One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill But he never flunked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had, To treat his engine well; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip, The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she would n't be passed. And so she come tearin' along that nightThe oldest craft on the line With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 5 10 The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And quick as a flash she turned, and made There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell, And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He weren't no saint, but at jedgment 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That would n't shook hands with him. 10 FRANCIS BRET HARTE SAN FRANCISCO From the Sea Serene, indifferent of Fate, 5 Thou sittest at the Western Gate; Upon thy heights so lately won Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, And scornful of the peace that flies Thou drawest all things, small or great, 15 20 O lion's whelp, that hidest fast I know thy cunning and thy greed, And all thy glory loves to tell Drop down, O fleecy Fog, and hide Her sceptic sneer, and all her pride! |