East and West: Poems Part 2

Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old smarty?

Oh, I mean you, old figger-head,--just the same party!

Take out your pensivil, d--n you; sharpen it, do!

Any complaints to make? Lots of 'em--one of 'em's _you_.

You! who are you, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' way?

Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say?

Look at it; don't it look pooty? Oh, grin, and be d--d to you, do!

But, if I had you this side o' that gratin', I'd just make it lively for you.

How did I get in here? Well, what 'ud you give to know?

'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go.

'Twasn't by hangin' round a spyin' unfortnet men.

Grin! but I'll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen.

Why don't you say suthin', blast you? Speak your mind if you dare.

Ain't I a bad lot, sonny? Say it, and call it square.

Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye. O guard! here's a little swell, A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to tell.

There, I thought that 'ud fetch ye. And you want to know my name?

"Seventy-Nine" they call me; but that is their little game.

For I'm werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand; And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land.

For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me; And the jury was bribed a puppos, and aftdrst they couldn't agree.

And I sed to the judge, sez I,--Oh, grin! it's all right my son!

But you're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be played upon!

Wot's that you got--tobacco? I'm cussed but I thought 'twas a tract.

Thank ye. A chap t'other day--now, look'ee, this is a fact, Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company, As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along's we.

No: I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that chap,-- Him standin' over there,--a hidin' his eves in his cap?

Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the pris'n fare; For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar ain't no where.

Perhaps it's his bringin' up; but he sickens day by day, And he doesn't take no food, and I'm seein' him waste away.

And it isn't the thing to see; for, whatever he's been and done, Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon.

For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn't the stamps, I guess, To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess.

And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I've been sorter free, Would--thank you! But, say, look here! Oh, blast it, don't give it to ME!

Don't you give it to me; now, don't ye, don't ye, don't!

You think it's a put-up job; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you won't.

But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn't even my pal; And if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall.

His Answer to "Her Letter."

Reported by Truthful James.

Being asked by an intimate party,-- Which the same I would term as a friend,-- Which his health it were vain to call hearty, Since the mind to deceit it might lend; For his arm it was broken quite recent, And has something gone wrong with his lung,-- Which is why it is proper and decent I should write what he runs off his tongue:

First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter To the end,--and the end came too soon; That a slight illness kept him your debtor (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon); That his spirits are buoyant as yours is; That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate (Which the language that invalid uses At times it were vain to relate).

And he says that the mountains are fairer For once being held in your thought; That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer Than ever by gold-seeker sought (Which are words he would put in these pages, By a party not given to guile; Which the same not, at date, paying wages, Might produce in the sinful a smile).

He remembers the ball at the Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, And the rose that you gave him,--that very Same rose he is treasuring now (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss, And insists on his legs being free; And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, Is frequent and painful and free);

He hopes you are wearing no willows, But are happy and gay all the while; That he knows (which this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style, And the same you will pardon),--he knows, Miss, That, though parted by many a mile, Yet were he lying under the snows, Miss, They'd melt into tears at your smile.

And you'll still think of him in your pleasures, In your brief twilight dreams of the past; In this green laurel-spray that he treasures, It was plucked where your parting was last; In this specimen,--but a small trifle,-- It will do for a pin for your shawl (Which the truth not to wickedly stifle Was his last week's "clean up,"--and _his all_).

He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not that I scorn to deny That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, In view that his fever was high; But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive.

And now, my respects, Miss, to you; Which my language, although comprehensive, Might seem to be freedom,--it's true.

Which I have a small favor to ask you, As concerns a bull-pup, which the same,-- If the duty would not overtask you,-- You would please to procure for me, _game_; And send per express to the Flat, Miss, Which they say York is famed for the breed, Which though words of deceit may be that, Miss, I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.

_P.S._--Which this same interfering Into other folks' way I despise; Yet if it so be I was hearing That it's just empty pockets as lies Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers, That, having no family claims, Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars, As is yours, with respects,

Truthful James.

Further Language from Truthful James.

(Nye's Ford, Stanislaus.)

(1870.)

Do I sleep? do I dream?

Do I wonder and doubt?

Are things what they seem?

Or is visions about?

Is our civilization a failure?

Or is the Caucasian played out?

Which expressions are strong; Yet would feebly imply Some account of a wrong-- Not to call it a lie-- As was worked off on William, my pardner, And the same being W. Nye.

He came down to the Ford On the very same day Of that lottery drawed By those sharps at the Bay; And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?"

I replied, "It is far, far from gay;

"For the camp has gone wild On this lottery game, And has even beguiled 'Injin d.i.c.k' by the same."

Which said Nye to me, "Injins is pizen: Do you know what his number is, James?"

I replied "7,2, 9,8,4, is his hand;"