I found no marble monolith, No broken shaft nor stone, Recording sixty victories This vanquished victor won; No rose, no shamrock could I find, No mortal here to tell Where sleeps in this forsaken spot The immortal Nonpareil.

A winding, wooded canyon road That mortals seldom tread Leads up this lonely mountain To this desert of the dead.

And the western sun was sinking In Pacific's golden wave; And these solemn pines kept watching Over poor Jack Dempsey's grave.

That man of honor and of iron, That man of heart and steel, That man who far out-cla.s.sed his cla.s.s And made mankind to feel That Dempsey's name and Dempsey's fame Should live in serried stone, Is now at rest far in the West In the wilds of Oregon.

Forgotten by ten thousand throats That thundered his acclaim-- Forgotten by his friends and foes That cheered his very name; Oblivion wraps his faded form, But ages hence shall save The memory of that Irish lad That fills poor Dempsey's grave.

O Fame, why sleeps thy favored son In wilds, in woods, in weeds?

And shall he ever thus sleep on-- Interred his valiant deeds?

'Tis strange New York should thus forget Its "bravest of the brave,"

And in the wilds of Oregon Unmarked, leave Dempsey's grave.

_MacMahon._

THE CATTLE ROUND-UP

ONCE more are we met for a season of pleasure, That shall smooth from our brows every furrow of care, For the sake of old times shall we each tread a measure And drink to the lees in the eyes of the fair.

Once more let the hand-clasp of years past be given; Let us once more be boys and forget we are men; Let friendships the chances of fortune have riven Be renewed and the smiling past come back again.

The past, when the prairie was big and the cattle Were as "scary" as ever the antelope grew-- When to carry a gun, to make our spurs rattle, And to ride a blue streak was the most that we knew; The past when we headed each year for Dodge City And punched up the drags on the old Chisholm Trail; When the world was all bright and the girls were all pretty, And a feller could "mav'rick" and stay out of jail.

Then here's to the eyes that like diamonds are gleaming, And make the lamps blush that their duties are o'er; And here's to the lips where young love lies a-dreaming; And here's to the feet light as air on the floor; And here's to the memories--fun's sweetest sequel; And here's to the night we shall ever recall; And here's to the time--time shall know not its equal When we danced the day in at the Cattlemen's Ball.

_H. D. C. McLaclachlan._

PART II

THE COWBOY OFF GUARD

_I am the plain, barren since time began.

Yet do I dream of motherhood, when man One day at last shall look upon my charms And give me towns, like children, for my arms._

A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE

I UST to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod From an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the Cupid G.o.d, An' I'd laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin' their breath in sighs An' goin' around with a locoed look a-campin' inside their eyes.

I've read o' the gals that broke 'em up a-sailin' in airy flight On angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o' the same at night, An' a sort o' disgusted frown'd bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow, An' I'd call 'em a lot o' sissy boys--but I'm seein' it different now.

I got the jab in my rough ol' heart, an' I got it a-plenty, too, A center shot from a pair o' eyes of the winninest sort o' blue, An' I ride the ranges a-sighin' sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer-- A durned heap worse than the novel blokes that the narrative gals'd queer.

Just hain't no energy left no mo', go 'round like a orphant calf A-thinkin' about that sagehen's eyes that give me the Cupid gaff, An' I'm all skeered up when I hit the thought some other rider might Cut in ahead on a faster hoss an' rope her afore my sight.

There ain't a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd Could switch a tail on the whole durned range 'long-side o' that little bird; A figger plump as a prairy dog's that's feedin' on new spring gra.s.s, An' as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin' gla.s.s.

She's got a smile that 'd raise the steam in the icyist sort o' heart, A couple o' soul inspirin' eyes, an' the nose that keeps 'em apart Is the cutest thing in the sa.s.sy line that ever occurred to act As a ornament stuck on a purty face, an' that's a dead open fact.

I'm a-goin' to brace her by an' by to see if there's any hope, To see if she's liable to shy when I'm ready to pitch the rope; To see if she's goin' to make a stand, or fly like a skeered up dove When I make a pa.s.s with the brandin' iron that's het in the fire o'

love.

I'll open the little home corral an' give her the level hunch To make a run fur the open gate when I cut her out o' the bunch, Fur there ain't no sense in a-jammin' round with a heart that's as soft as dough An' a-throwin' the breath o' life away bunched up into sighs.

Heigh-ho!

_James Barton Adams._

THE COWBOY AND THE MAID

FUNNY how it come about!

Me and Texas Tom was out Takin' of a moonlight walk, Fillin' in the time with talk.

Every star up in the sky Seemed to wink the other eye At each other, 'sif they Smelt a mouse around our way!

Me and Tom had never grew Spoony like some couples do; Never billed and cooed and sighed; He was bashful like and I'd Notions of my own that it Wasn't policy to git Too abundant till I'd got Of my feller good and caught.

As we walked along that night He got talkin' of the bright Prospects that he had, and I Somehow felt, I dunno why, That a-fore we cake-walked back To the ranch he'd make a crack Fer my hand, and I was plum Achin' fer the shock to come.

By and by he says, "I've got Fifty head o' cows, and not One of 'em but, on the dead, Is a crackin' thoroughbred.

Got a daisy claim staked out, And I'm thinkin' it's about Time fer me to make a shy At a home." "O Tom!" says I.

"Bin a-lookin' round," says he, "Quite a little while to see 'F I could git a purty face Fer to ornament the place.

Plenty of 'em in the land; But the one 'at wears my brand Must be sproutin' wings to fly!"

"You deserve her, Tom," says I.

"Only one so fur," says he, "Fills the bill, and mebbe she Might shy off and bust my hope If I should pitch the poppin' rope.

Mebbe she'd git hot an' say That it was a silly play Askin' her to make a tie."

"She would be a fool," says I.

'Tain't n.o.body's business what Happened then, but I jist thought I could see the moon-man smile Cutely down upon us, while Me and him was walkin' back,-- Stoppin' now and then to smack Lips rejoicin' that at last The dread crisis had been past.

_Anonymous._

A COWBOY'S LOVE SONG

OH, the last steer has been branded And the last beef has been shipped, And I'm free to roam the prairies That the round-up crew has stripped; I'm free to think of Susie,-- Fairer than the stars above,-- She's the waitress at the station And she is my turtle dove.

Biscuit-shootin' Susie,-- She's got us roped and tied; Sober men or woozy Look on her with pride.

Susie's strong and able, And not a one gits rash When she waits on the table And superintends the hash.