We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in and seen them huddled thar,
So warm, and sleepy, and white,
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,
“I want a chaw of terbacker,
And that’s what the matter of me.”
How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that storm;
They jest stooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And fotching him to his own,
Is a durned sight better business
Than loafing around the Throne.
FLYNN OF VIRGINIA.
BY BRET HARTE.
Didn’t know Flynn—
Flynn of Virginia—
Long as he’s been ’yar?
Look’ee here, stranger
Whar hev you been?
Here in this tunnel
He was my pardner,
That same Tom Flynn—
Working together,
In wind and weather,
Day out and in.
Didn’t know Flynn!
Well, that is queer.
Why, it’s a sin,
To think of Tom Flynn—
Tom, with his cheer;
Tom, without fear—
Stranger, look ’yar!
Thar in the drift,
Back to the wall,
He held the timbers
Ready to fall;
Then in the darkness
I heard him call:
“Run for your life, Jake!
Run for your wife’s sake!
Don’t wait for me.”
And that was all
Heard in the din,
Heard of Tom Flynn—
Flynn of Virginia.
That lets me out
Here in the damp—
Out of the sun—
That ’ar derned lamp
Makes my eyes run.
Well, there—I’m done.
But, sir, when you’ll
Hear the next fool
Asking of Flynn—
Flynn of Virginia—
Just you chip in,
Say you knew Flynn;
Say that you’ve been ’yar.