Poem by Francis Bret Harte

”Jim”

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?
Jes’ ’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:
    Eh?
The h--- you say!
    Dead?
That little cuss?

What makes you star’,
You over thar?
Can’t a man drop
’s glass in yer shop
But you must r’ar?
  It wouldn’t take
  D----d much to break
You and your bar.

    Dead!
Poor--little--Jim!
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--
    Eh?
What’s that you say?
Why, dern it!--sho!--
No?  Yes!  By Joe!
    Sold!

Sold!  Why, you limb,
You ornery,
    Derned old
Long-legged Jim.

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