So you've kem 'yer agen,
And one answer won't do?
Well, of all the derned men
That I've struck, it is you.
O Sal! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin' round 'yer
in the dew.

Kem in, ef you WILL.
Thar,--quit! Take a cheer.
Not that; you can't fill
Them theer cushings this year,--
For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they don't make
such men about 'yer.

He was tall, was my Jack,
And as strong as a tree.
Thar's his gun on the rack,--
Jest you heft it, and see.
And YOU come a courtin' his widder! Lord! where can that critter,
Sal, be!

You'd fill my Jack's place?
And a man of your size,--
With no baird to his face,
Nor a snap to his eyes,
And nary--Sho! thar! I was foolin',--I was, Joe, for sartain,--don't

Sit down. Law! why, sho!
I'm as weak as a gal.
Sal! Don't you go, Joe,
Or I'll faint,--sure, I shall.
Sit down,--ANYWHEER, where you like, Joe,--in that cheer, if you
choose,--Lord! where's Sal?

More verses by Francis Bret Harte