Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to her rider, Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing, And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat and a driftin' to thunder!
Would ye b'lieve it? that night that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita, Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping: Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, Just as she swam the Fork,—that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita.
That's what I call a hoss! and—What did you say!—Oh, the nevey? Drownded, I reckon,—leastways, he never kem back to deny it. Ye see the derned fool had no seat,—ye couldn't have made him a rider; And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses—well, hosses is hosses!
Bret Harte.
BAY BILLY.
'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,— Perhaps the day you reck, Our boys, the Twenty-Second Maine, Kept Early's men in check. Just where Wade Hampton boomed away The fight went neck and neck.
All day the weaker wing we held, And held it with a will. Five several stubborn times we charged The battery on the hill, And five times beaten back, re-formed, And kept our column still.
At last from out the centre fight Spurred up a General's Aid. "That battery must silenced be!" He cried, as past he sped. Our Colonel simply touched his cap, And then, with measured tread,