The Prospector
I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight, A-purpose to revisit the old claim. I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate, And the lads who once were with
My Future
“Let’s make him a sailor,” said Father, “And he will adventure the sea.” “A soldier,” said Mother, “is rather What I would prefer him to be.” “A lawyer,” said Father, “would please me, For
The Gramaphone At Fond-Du-Lac
Now Eddie Malone got a swell grammyfone to draw all the trade to his store; An’ sez he: “Come along for a season of song, which the like ye had niver before.” Then Dogrib,
Tranquillity
This morning on my pensive walk I saw a fisher on a rock, Who watched his ruby float careen In waters bluely crystalline, While silver fishes nosed his bait, Yet hesitated ere they ate.
The Front Tooth
A-sittin’ in the Bull and Pump With double gins to keep us cheery Says she to me, says Polly Crump” “What makes ye look so sweet. me dearie? As if ye’d gotten back yer
Spanish Women
The Spanish women don’t wear slacks Because their hips are too enormous. ‘Tis true each bulbous bosom lacks No inspiration that should warm us; But how our ardor seems to freeze When we behold
Days
I am a Day. . . My sky is grey, My wind is wild, My sea high-piled: In year of days the first In misery. . . Oh pity me! I am a Day
Mike
My lead dog Mike was like a bear; I reckon he was grizzly bred, For when he reared up in the air Ho over-topped me by a head. He’d cuff me with his hefty
The Trapper's Christmas Eve
It’s mighty lonesome-like and drear. Above the Wild the moon rides high, And shows up sharp and needle-clear The emptiness of earth and sky; No happy homes with love a-glow; No Santa Claus to
Maids In May
Three maids there were in meadow bright, The eldest less then seven; Their eyes were dancing with delight, And innocent as Heaven. Wild flowers they wound with tender glee, Their cheeks with rapture rosy;
The Bread-Knife Ballad
A little child was sitting Up on her mother’s knee And down down her cheeks the bitter tears did flow. And as I sadly listened I heard this tender plea, ‘Twas uttered in a
Trees Against The Sky
Pines against the sky, Pluming the purple hill; Pines. . . and I wonder why, Heart, you quicken and thrill? Wistful heart of a boy, Fill with a strange sweet joy, Lifting to Heaven
Hobo
A father’s pride I used to know, A mother’s love was mine; For swinish husks I let them go, And bedded with the swine. Since then I’ve come on evil days And most of
The Wistful One
I sought the trails of South and North, I wandered East and West; But pride and passion drove me forth And would not let me rest. And still I seek, as still I roam,
Poor Poet
‘A man should write to please himself,’ He proudly said. Well, see his poems on the shelf, Dusty, unread. When he came to my shop each day, So peaked and cold, I’d sneak one