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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.


By Bret Harte (1836–1902)

SAY there! P’r’aps

Some on you chaps

Might know Jim Wild?

Well,—no offense:

Thar ain’t no sense

In gittin’ riled!

Jim was my chum

Up on the Bar:

That’s why I come

Down from up yar,

Lookin’ for Jim.

Thank ye, sir! You

Ain’t of that crew,—

Blest if you are!

Money? Not much:

That ain’t my kind:

I ain’t no such.

Rum?—I don’t mind,

Seein’ it’s you.

Well, this yer Jim,

Did you know him?—

Jess ’bout your size;

Same kind of eyes;—

Well, that is strange:

Why, it’s two year

Since he came here,

Sick, for a change.

Well, here’s to us:


The h— you say!


That little cuss?

What makes you star’,

You over thar?

Can’t a man drop

’S glass in yer shop

But you must rar’?

It wouldn’t take

D— much to break

You and your bar.



Why, thar was me,

Jones, and Bob Lee,

Harry and Ben,—

No-account men:

Then to take him!

Well, thar, good-by—

No more, sir—I—


What’s that you say?

Why, dern it!—sho!—

No? Yes! By Joe!


Sold! Why, you limb,

You ornery,

Derned old

Long-legged Jim!