Angel’s.
DEAR BRET HARTE,
I’m in tears,
And the camp’s in the dust,
For with anguish it hears
As poor William may bust,
And the last of the Nyes is in danger of
sleeping the sleep of the just.
No revolver it was
Interfered with his health,
The convivial glass
Did not harm him by stealth;
It was nary! He fell by a scheme which
he thought would accumulate wealth!
For a Moqui came round
To the camp—Injun Joe;
And the dollars was found
In his pockets to flow;
For he played off some tricks with live
snakes, as was reckoned a competent show.
They was rattlers; a pair
In his teeth he would hold,
And another he’d wear
Like a scarf to enfold
His neck, with them dangerous critters
as safe as the saint was of old.
Sez William, “That same
Is as easy as wink.
I am fly to his game;
For them rattlers, I think,
Has had all their incisors extracted.
They’re harmless as suthin’ to drink.”
So he betted his pile
He could handle them snakes;
And he tried, with a smile,
And a rattler he takes,
Feeling safe as they’d somehow been
doctored; but bless you, that sarpent awakes!
Waken snakes! and they _did_
And they rattled like mad;
For it was not a “kid,”
But some medicine he had,
Injun Joe, for persuadin’ the critters but
William’s bit powerful bad.
So they’ve put him outside
Of a bottle of Rye,
And they’ve set him to ride
A mustang as kin shy,
To keep up his poor circulation; and
that’s the last chance for Bill Nye.
But a near thing it is,
And the camp’s in the dust.
He’s a pard as we’d miss
If poor Bill was to bust—
If the last of the Nyes were a-sleepin
the peaceable sleep of the just.