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