And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell, -
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren't no saint,--but at jedgment
I'd run my chance with Jim,
'Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, -
And went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard
On a man that died for men.
LITTLE BREECHES.
I don't go much on religion,
I never ain't had no show;
But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,
On the handful o' things I know.
I don't pan out on the prophets
And free-will, and that sort of thing, -
But I b'lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.
I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along, -
No four-year-old in the county
Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Peart and chipper and sassy,
Always ready to swear and fight, -
And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
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