FREE BOOKS

Author's List




PREV.   NEXT  
|<   47   48   49   50   51   52   53   54   55   56   57   58   59   60   61   62   63   64   65   66   67   68   69   70   71  
72   73   74   75   76   >>  
s generous and brave though he may not behave Like your dudes, who are so melancholy. _Anonymous._ BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch, 'Tis said--an' we know who 'tis-- "Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch, An' uses us in his biz." Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss, An' you'd sure admit that's right, If you happened--an' unbeknown to us-- Around, of a Sunday night. Th' week-day manners is stowed away, Th' jokes an' the card games halts, When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to play A toon--an' it ain't no waltz. It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight, It delves through th' toughest crust, It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight, Till we've got ter sing--er bust! With pipin' treble the kid starts in, An' Hell! how that kid kin sing! "Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin," He leads, an' the rafters ring; "Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue," We shouts it with force an' vim; "Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"-- That's puttin' it up to Him! We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z, But many a time an' oft When ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me," Our hearts gets kinder soft. An' we makes some promises there an' then Which we keeps--till we goes to bed,-- That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men What ain't no saints, as I said. _Percival Combes._ A COWBOY RACE A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail, A long roll of hoofs,--and the earth is a drum! The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come! A rollicking, clattering, battering beat; A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet; A swift-swirling dust-cloud--a mad hurricane Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane; Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun! _J. C. Davis._ THE HABIT I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown; I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone; From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,-- For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. I settled down quite frequent, and I says, sa
PREV.   NEXT  
|<   47   48   49   50   51   52   53   54   55   56   57   58   59   60   61   62   63   64   65   66   67   68   69   70   71  
72   73   74   75   76   >>  



Top keywords:

saints

 

fiddle

 

centaurs

 
rollicking
 
rhythmical
 

thunder

 

galloping

 

battering

 
clattering
 

prairies


COWBOY
 

passel

 

promises

 

coursers

 

rattle

 

Combes

 

Percival

 

PATTERING

 
Antone
 

Frisco


Portland

 

bummed

 

settled

 

frequent

 

tossing

 

kinder

 

Hurrah

 

swarthy

 

hurricane

 

steeds


gauntlet

 

swirling

 
subdue
 

happened

 

unbeknown

 

Around

 

Sunday

 
begins
 
stowed
 

manners


melancholy

 
Anonymous
 

SUNDAY

 

generous

 
behave
 
branch
 

things

 

shouts

 

passions

 

manfully