Lord! how the hot sun went for us, And broiled and blistered and burned! How the rebel bullets whizzed round us When a cuss in his death-grip turned! Till along toward dusk I seen a thing I couldn't believe for a spell: That nigger—that Tim—was a-crawlin' to me Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!
The rebels seen him as quick as me, And the bullets buzzed like bees; But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, Though a shot brought him once to his knees; But he staggered up, and packed me off, With a dozen stumbles and falls, Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, His black hide riddled with balls.
So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, And here stays Banty Tim: He trumped Death's ace for me that day, And I 'm not goin' back on him! You may rezoloot till the cows come home, But ef one of you tetches the boy, He 'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!
JOHN HAY.
DOW'S FLAT. 1856.
Dow's flat. That's its name. And I reckon that you Are a stranger? The same? Well, I thought it was true, For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view.
It was called after Dow,— Which the same was an ass; And as to the how Thet the thing kem to pass,— Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass.
You see this yer Dow Hed the worst kind of luck; He slipped up somehow On each thing thet he struck. Why, ef he'd straddled thet fence-rail the derned thing 'ed get up and buck.
He mined on the bar Till he couldn't pay rates; He was smashed by a car When he tunnelled with Bates; And right on top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States.
It was rough,—mighty rough; But the boys they stood by, And they brought him the stuff For a house, on the sly; And the old woman,—well, she did washing, and took on when no one was nigh.