Thar is my ole gal, ’n’ the kids, ’n’ the rest o’ my live-stock;
Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there’s a griddle-cake br’ilin’
Fer the two of us, pard—and thar, I allow, the heavens
Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.
Stranger, nowhere else I don’t take no satisfaction.
Gimme my ranch, ’n’ them friendly old Shanghai chickens—
I brung the original pair f’m the States in eighteen-’n’-fifty—
Gimme them, and the feelin’ of solid domestic comfort.
Yer parding, young man—
But this landscape a kind