THE BLOOMIN' FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH.
IT war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower,
They know'd him on Poker Flat;
He'd gouged a few down Gilgal way,
But no one complained o' that.
He scored his stiffs[7] on the heft of his knife—
Forty I've heern 'em say;
It might have been more—Bob kept his accounts
In a loosish sorter way.
Bob warn't a angel ter look at,
And the Bible it warn't his book;
He swore the most oaths that war swor'd in the camp,
Or blarmedly I am mistook;
But he warn't a outen-out bad 'un,
And he'd got a heart you could touch;
And he never draw'd iron[8] on boy or man
As didn't pervoke him much.
And you can't say fair as drinking
War counted among his sins;
For at nary a sittin' would he put down
More nor fifteen whisky skins.
But one day we was drinkin' and jawin',
Round Haggarty's bar, and I fear
That Haggarty riled him, bein' so slow,
So he jist sliced off Haggarty's ear.
Then Haggarty went for him savage,
Instead of a-holding his jor;
And Bob went for his 'leven-inch knife,
And scatter'd Hag's scraps on the floor.
One of Hag's friends then drew upon Bob,
And shot Joe Harris instead;
And I take it the bar floor got at last
'Bout knee-deep in red.
But when the fun was over in there,
Bob ran a-muck in the street;
And he speared and potted each derned cuss
As he chanced to meet.
And quiet folks shut up their doors—
They thought it safer, you see—
All but a man with his wife and child,
That was settin' down to tea.
Into their parlour rushed Bloomin' Bob,
To that father and mother's surprise:
Jobb'd his bowie through one, and took
The tother between the eyes.
Then he clutched the innocent slumb'rin' babe,
Jist meanin' to knock out its brains;
But at that moment there reach'd his ear
Some long-forgotten strains.
* * * *
Some soft and touching music this,
Music solemn and sweet,
Played by a common organ-man
Down at the end of the street.
And it went straight home to the digger's heart,
And he did not squelch the child,
But lay it down in its little cot,
And rocked the same—and smiled!
Talk soft! They say the angels
That night smole down on Bob;
And a sorter radiant halo
Gleamed brightly round his nob.
I can't swear to all this for certain,
And it do seem a queerish start;
But I won't set by and hear none o' you say
Bob hadn't a tender heart!
———♦———
C. Wolfe's Ode.
Since Part VII. appeared, containing the parodies on the above, a correspondent has kindly sent the following, which recently appeared in a Durham newspaper:—