But you must rar'? It wouldn't take Derned much to break You and your bar.
Dead! Poor—little—Jim! —Why, there was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben,— No-account men: Then to take him!
Well, thar—Good-bye,— No more, sir,—I— Eh? What's that you say?— Why, dern it!—sho!— No? Yes! By Jo! Sold! Sold! Why you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-leggèd Jim!
BRET HARTE.
BANTY TIM.
[Remarks of Sergeant Tilmon Joy to the
White Man's Committee of Spunky Point, Illinois.]
I reckon I git your drift, gents— You 'low the boy sha'n't stay; This is a white man's country: You're Dimocrats, you say: And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, The times bein' all out o' jint, The nigger has got to mosey From the limits o' Spunky P'int!
Let's reason the thing a minute; I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat, too, Though I laid my politics out o' the way For to keep till the war was through. But I come back here allowin' To vote as I used to do, Though it gravels me like the devil to train Along o' sich fools as you.
Now dog my cats if I kin see In all the light of the day, What you've got to do with the question Ef Tim shall go or stay. And furder than that I give notice, Ef one of you tetches the boy, He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime Than he'll find in Illanoy.
Why, blame your hearts, jist hear me! You know that ungodly day When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped And torn and tattered we lay. When the rest retreated, I stayed behind, Fur reasons sufficient to me,— With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, I sprawled on that cursed glacee.