A Little Book of Western Verse. OH, CASEY'S TABLE D'HÔTE. H, them days on Red Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz fair 'nd blue, When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true! When the nights wuz crisp 'nd balmy, 'nd the camp wuz all astir, With the joints all throwed wide open 'nd no sheriff to demur ! Oh, them times on Red Hoss Mountain in the There's no sich place nor times like them as I kin find to-day! What though the camp hez busted? I seem to see it still A-lyin', like it loved it, on that big 'nd warty hill; And I feel a sort of yearnin' 'nd a chokin' in my throat When I think of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote ! Wal, yes; it's true I struck it rich, but that don't cut a show When one is old 'nd feeble 'nd it's nigh his time to go; The money that he's got in bonds or carries to invest Don't figger with a codger who has lived a life out West; Us old chaps like to set around, away from folks 'nd noise, 'Nd think about the sights we seen and things we done when boys; The which is why I love to set 'nd think of them And that is why I love to set around all day 'nd gloat On thoughts of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote. This Casey wuz an Irishman, — you'd know it by his name And by the facial features appertainin' to the same. He'd lived in many places 'nd had done a thousand things, From the noble art of actin' to the work of dealin' kings, But, somehow, had n't caught on; so, driftin' with the rest, He drifted for a fortune to the undeveloped West, And he come to Red Hoss Mountain when the little camp wuz new, When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true; And, havin' been a stewart on a Mississippi boat, He opened up a caffy 'nd he run a tabble dote. The bar wuz long 'nd rangey, with a mirrer on the shelf, 'Nd a pistol, so that Casey, when required, could help himself; Down underneath there wuz a row of bottled beer 'nd wine, 'Nd a kag of Burbun whiskey of the run of '59; |