Seventy-Nine
By Bret Harte (Francis)
Know me next time when you see me, wont you, old smarty?
Oh, I mean you, old figger-head, just the same party!
Take out your pensivil, d n you; sharpen it, do!
Any complaints to make? Lots of em one of ems you.
You! who are you, anyhow, goin round in that sneakin way?
Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say?
Look at it; dont it look pooty? Oh, grin, and be d d to you, do!
But if I had you this side o that gratin, Id just make it lively for you.
How did I get in here? Well what ud you give to know?
Twasnt by sneakin round where I hadnt no call to go;
Twasnt by hangin round a-spyin unfortnet men.
Grin! but Ill stop your jaw if ever you do that agen.
Why dont you say suthin, blast you? Speak your mind if you dare.
Aint I a bad lot, sonny? Say it, and call it square.
Haint got no tongue, hey, hev ye? Oh, guard! heres a little swell
A cussin and swearin and yellin, and bribin me not to tell.
There! I thought that ud fetch ye! And you want to know my name?
Seventy-nine they call me, but that is their little game;
For Im werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand,
And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land.
For twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me;
And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldnt agree;
And I sed to the judge, sez I, Oh, grin! its all right, my son!
But youre a werry lively young pup, and you aint to be played upon!
Wots that you got? tobacco? Im cussed but I thought twas a tract.
Thank ye! A chap tother day now, lookee, this is a fact
Slings me a tract on the evils o keepin bad company,
As if all the saints was howlin to stay here along o we.
No, I haint no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that chap,
Him standin over there, a-hidin his eyes in his cap?
Well, that mans stumick is weak, and he cant stand the prisn fare;
For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it aint nowhere.
Perhaps its his bringin up; but hes sickenin day by day,
And he doesnt take no food, and Im seein him waste away.
And it isnt the thing to see; for, whatever hes been and done,
Starvation isnt the plan as hes to be saved upon.
For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasnt the stamps, I guess,
To buy him his extry grub outside o the prisn mess.
And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom Ive been sorter free,
Would thank you! But, say! look here! Oh, blast it! dont give it to me!
Dont you give it to me; now, dont ye, dont ye, dont!
You think its a put-up job; so Ill thank ye, sir, if you wont.
But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isnt even my pal;
And, if its a comfort to you, why, I dont intend that he shall.