Poetry!—just look round you,—alkali, rock, and sage;
Sage-brush, rock, and alkali; ain’t it a pretty page!
Sun in the east at mornin’, sun in the west at night,
And the shadow of this ’yer station the on’y thing moves in sight.
Poetry!—Well now—Polly! Polly run to your mam;
Run right away, my pooty! By by! Ain’t she a lamb?
Poetry!—that reminds me o’ suthin’ right in that suit:
Jest shet that door thar, will yer?—for Cicely’s ears is cute.
Ye noticed Polly,—the baby? A month afore she was born,
Cicely—my old woman—was moody-like and forlorn;