A poem by Francis Bret Harte

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:
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 r’ar?
It wouldn’t take
D d much to break
You and your bar.

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
What’s that you say?
Why, dern it! sho!
No? Yes! By Joe!

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

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