WALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives, |
|
Because he don't live, you see; |
|
Leastways, he 's got out of the habit |
|
Of livin' like you and me. |
|
Whar have you been for the last three year |
5 |
That you haven't heard folks tell |
|
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks |
|
The night of the Prairie Belle? |
|
|
He weren't no saint,—them engineers |
|
Is all pretty much alike,— |
10 |
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill |
|
And another one here, in Pike; |
|
A keerless man in his talk was Jim, |
|
And an awkward hand in a row, |
|
But he never flunked, and he never lied,— |
15 |
I reckon he never knowed how. |
|
|
And this was all the religion he had,— |
|
To treat his engine well; |
|
Never be passed on the river; |
|
To mind the pilot's bell; |
20 |
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,— |
|
A thousand times he swore |
|
He 'd hold her nozzle agin the bank |
|
Till the last soul got ashore. |
|
|
All boats has their day on the Mississip, |
25 |
And her day come at last,— |
|
The Movastar was a better boat, |
|
But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. |
|
And so she come tearin' along that night— |
|
The oldest craft on the line— |
30 |
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, |
|
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. |
|
|
The fire bust out as she clared the bar, |
|
And burnt a hole in the night, |
|
And quick as a flash she turned, and made |
35 |
For that willer-bank on the right. |
|
There was runnin' and cussin', but Jim yelled out, |
|
Over all the infernal roar, |
|
"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank |
|
Till the last galoot 's ashore." |
40 |
|
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat |
|
Jim Bludso's voice was heard, |
|
And they all had trust in his cussedness, |
|
And knowed he would keep his word. |
|
And, sure's you 're born, they all got off |
45 |
Afore the smokestacks fell,— |
|
And Bludso's ghost went up alone |
|
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. |
|
|
He weren't no saint,—but at jedgment |
|
I'd run my chance with Jim, |
50 |
'Longside of some pious gentlemen |
|
That wouldn't shook hands with him. |
|
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,— |
|
And went for it thar and then; |
|
And Christ ain't a going to be too hard |
55 |
On a man that died for men. |