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THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL
Suppose, down near that rattlers' den,
While I sit here and dream,
I'd spy a bunch of ugly men And hear a woman scream.
Suppose I'd let my rifle shout And drop the men in rows,
And then the woman should turn out — My Minnie! — just suppose.
A-a! ma-a I ba-a! eh-eh-eh I
The tune would then be gay;
There is, I mind, a parson kind Just forty miles away.
Why, Eden would come back again, With sage and sheep corrals,
And I could swing a singin' pen To write her " pastorals."
I pack a rifle on my arm
And jump at flies that buzz;
There's nothin' here to do me harm; I sometimes wish there was.
If through that brush above the pool A red should creep — and creep —
Wah! cut down on 'im! — Stop, you fool I That's nothin' but a sheep.
A-a! ma-a! ba-a I — Hell!
Oh, sky and plain and bluff! Unless my mail comes up the trail 160 |
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