Pike County Ballads | Page 3

sassy,
Always ready to swear and
fight, -
And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker
Jest to keep his
milk-teeth white.
The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart's store;

I went in for a jug of molasses
And left the team at the door.
They
scared at something and started, -
I heard one little squall,
And
hell-to-split over the prairie
Went team, Little Breeches and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie!
I was almost froze with skeer;
But we
rousted up some torches,
And searched for 'em far and near.
At last
we struck hosses and wagon,
Snowed under a soft white mound,

Upsot, dead beat,--but of little Gabe
No hide nor hair was found.
And here all hope soured on me,
Of my fellow-critters' aid, -
I jest
flopped down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch-deep in the snow, and
prayed.
. . . .
By this, the torches was played out,
And me and Isrul Parr
Went off
for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.
We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at
night.
We looked in and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and
sleepy and white;
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,

As
peart as ever you see,
"I want a chaw of terbacker,
And that's what's
the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that
storm;
They jest scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe
and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And fotching him
to his own,
Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around
The Throne.
BANTY TIM.
REMARKS OF SERGEANT TILMON JOY TO THE WHITE
MAN'S COMMITTEE OF SPUNKY POINT, ILLINOIS.
I reckon I git your drift, gents, -
You 'low the boy sha'n't stay;
This
is a white man's country;
You're Dimocrats, you say;
And whereas,
and seein', and wherefore,
The times bein' all out o' j'int,
The nigger
has got to mosey
From the limits o' Spunky P'int!
Le's reason the thing a minute:
I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too,

Though I laid my politics out o' the way
For to keep till the war was
through.
But I come back here, allowin'
To vote as I used to do,

Though it gravels me like the devil to train
Along o' sich fools as you.
Now dog my cats ef I kin see,
In all the light of the day,
What
you've got to do with the question
Ef Tim shill go or stay.
And
furder than that I give notice,
Ef one of you tetches the boy,
He kin
check his trunks to a warmer clime
Than he'll find in Illanoy.
Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me!
You know that ungodly day

When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped
And torn and
tattered we lay.
When the rest retreated I stayed behind,
Fur reasons
sufficient to me, -
With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike,
I
sprawled on that cursed glacee.
Lord! how the hot sun went for us,
And br'iled and blistered and
burned!

How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us
When a cuss in
his death-grip turned!
Till along toward dusk I seen a thing
I

couldn't believe for a spell:
That nigger--that Tim--was a crawlin' to
me
Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!
The Rebels seen him as quick as me,
And the bullets buzzed like bees;

But he jumped for me, and shouldered me,
Though a shot brought
him once to his knees;
But he staggered up, and packed me off,

With a dozen stumbles and falls,
Till safe in our lines he drapped us
both,
His black hide riddled with balls.
So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer,
And here stays Banty Tim:

He trumped Death's ace for me that day,
And I'm not goin' back on
him!
You may rezoloot till the cows come home,
But ef one of you
tetches the boy,
He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell,
Or my
name's not Tilmon Joy!
THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL.
The darkest, strangest mystery
I ever read, or heern, or see,
Is 'long
of a drink at Taggart's Hall, -
Tom Taggart's of Gilgal.
I've heern the tale a thousand ways,
But never could git through the
maze
That hangs around that queer day's doin's;
But I'll tell the yarn
to youans.
Tom Taggart stood behind his bar,
The time was fall, the skies was
fa'r,
The neighbours round the counter drawed,
And ca'mly drinked
and jawed.
At last come Colonel Blood of Pike,
And old Jedge Phinn,
permiscus-like,
And each, as he meandered in,
Remarked, "A
whisky-skin."
Tom mixed the beverage full and fa'r,
And slammed it, smoking, on
the bar.
Some says three fingers, some says two, -
I'll leave the
choice to you.

Phinn to the drink put forth his hand;
Blood drawed his knife, with
accent bland,
"I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn -
Jest drap that
whisky-skin."
No man high-toneder could be found
Than old Jedge Phinn the
country round.
Says he, "Young man, the tribe of Phinns
Knows
their own whisky-skins!"
He went for his 'leven-inch bowie-knife: -
"I tries to foller a Christian
life;
But I'll drap a slice of liver or two,
My bloomin' shrub, with
you."
They carved in a way that all admired,
Tell Blood drawed iron at last,
and fired.
It