Читать книгу Hoosier Lyrics - Field Eugene - Страница 7

In gallus old Kentucky, where the grass is very blue,

Where the liquor is the smoothest and the girls are fair and true,

Where the crop of he-gawd gentlemen is full of heart and sand,

And the stock of four-time winners is the finest in the land;

Where the democratic party in bourbon hardihood

For more than half a century unterrified has stood,

Where nod the black-eyed Susans to the prattle of the rill —

There – there befell the wooing of Penn-Yan Bill.

Down yonder in the cottage that is nestling in the shade

Of the walnut trees that seem to love that quiet little glade

Abides a pretty maiden of the bonny name of Sue —

As pretty as the black-eyed flow'rs and quite as modest, too;

And lovers came there by the score, of every age and kind,

But not a one (the story goes) was quite to Susie's mind.

Their sighs, their protestations, and their pleadings made her ill —

Till at once upon the scene hove Penn-Yan Bill.

He came from old Montana and he rode a broncho mare,

He had a rather howd'y'do and rough-and-tumble air;

His trousers were of buckskin and his coat of furry stuff —

His hat was drab of color and its brim was wide enough;

Upon each leg a stalwart boot reached just above the knee,

And in the belt about his waist his weepons carried he;

A rather strapping lover for our little Susie – still,

She was his choice and he was hers, was Penn-Yan Bill.

We wonder that the ivy seeks out the oaken tree,

And twines her tendrils round him, though scarred and gnarled he be;

We wonder that a gentle girl, unused to worldly cares,

Should choose a man whose life has been a constant scrap with bears;

Ah, 'tis the nature of the vine, and of the maiden, too —

So when the bold Montana boy came from his lair to woo,

The fair Kentucky blossom felt all her heartstrings thrill

Responsive to the purring of Penn-Yan Bill.

He told her of his cabin in the mountains far away,

Of the catamount that howls by night, the wolf that yawps by day;

He told her of the grizzly with the automatic jaw,

He told her of the Injun who devours his victims raw;

Of the jayhawk with his tawdry crest and whiskers in his throat,

Of the great gosh-awful sarpent and the Rocky mountain goat.

A book as big as Shakespeare's or as Webster's you could fill

With the yarns that emanated from Penn-Yan Bill!

Lo, as these mighty prodigies the westerner relates,

Her pretty mouth falls wide agape – her eyes get big as plates;

And when he speaks of varmints that in the Rockies grow

She shudders and she clings to him and timidly cries "Oh!"

And then says he: "Dear Susie, I'll tell you what to do —

You be my wife, and none of these 'ere things dare pester you!"

And she? She answers, clinging close and trembling yet: "I will."

And then he gives her one big kiss, does Penn-Yan Bill.

Avaunt, ye poet lovers, with your wishywashy lays!

Avaunt, ye solemn pedants, with your musty, bookish ways!

Avaunt, ye smurking dandies who air your etiquette

Upon the gold your fathers worked so long and hard to get!

How empty is your nothingness beside the sturdy tales

Which mountaineers delight to tell of border hills and vales —

Of snaix that crawl, of beasts that yowl, of birds that flap and trill

In the wild egregious altitude of Penn-Yan Bill.

Why, over all these mountain peaks his honest feet have trod —

So high above the rest of us he seemed to walk with God;

He's breathed the breath of heaven, as it floated, pure and free,

From the everlasting snow-caps to the mighty western sea;

And he's heard that awful silence which thunders in the ear:

"There is a great Jehovah, and His biding place is here!"

These – these solemn voices and these the sights that thrill

In the far-away Montana of Penn-Yan Bill.

Of course she had to love him, for it was her nature to;

And she'll wed him in the summer, if all we hear be true.

The blue grass will be waving in that cool Kentucky glade

Where the black-eyed Susans cluster in the pleasant walnut shade —

Where the doves make mournful music and the locust trills a song

To the brook that through the pasture scampers merrily along;

And speechless pride and rapture ineffable shall fill

The beatific bosom of Penn-Yan Bill!