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Best Famous Badger Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Badger poems. This is a select list of the best famous Badger poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Badger poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of badger poems.

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Written by Ted Hughes | Create an image from this poem

The Warm and the Cold

 Freezing dusk is closing
 Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
 That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened Like a nut screwed tight On the starry aeroplane Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world Like a mammoth of ice - The past and the future Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump Like money in a pig.
Such a frost The flimsy moon Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers Turn in their sleep Like oxen on spits.

Written by C S Lewis | Create an image from this poem

The Condemned

 There is a wildness still in England that will not feed 
In cages; it shrinks away from the touch of the trainer's hand,
Easy to kill, not easy to tame.
It will never breed In a zoo for the public pleasure.
It will not be planned.
Do not blame us too much if we that are hedgerow folk Cannot swell the rejoicings at this new world you make - We, hedge-hogged as Johnson or Borrow, strange to the yoke As Landor, surly as Cobbett (that badger), birdlike as Blake.
A new scent troubles the air -- to you, friendly perhaps But we with animal wisdom have understood that smell.
To all our kind its message is Guns, Ferrets, and Traps, And a Ministry gassing the little holes in which we dwell.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem


 You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis,
He, the handsome Yenadizze,
Whom the people called the Storm-Fool,
Vexed the village with disturbance;
You shall hear of all his mischief,
And his flight from Hiawatha,
And his wondrous transmigrations,
And the end of his adventures.
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, By the shining Big-Sea-Water Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis.
It was he who in his frenzy Whirled these drifting sands together, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, When, among the guests assembled, He so merrily and madly Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, Danced the Beggar's Dance to please them.
Now, in search of new adventures, From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, Came with speed into the village, Found the young men all assembled In the lodge of old Iagoo, Listening to his monstrous stories, To his wonderful adventures.
He was telling them the story Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, How he made a hole in heaven, How he climbed up into heaven, And let out the summer-weather, The perpetual, pleasant Summer; How the Otter first essayed it; How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger Tried in turn the great achievement, From the summit of the mountain Smote their fists against the heavens, Smote against the sky their foreheads, Cracked the sky, but could not break it; How the Wolverine, uprising, Made him ready for the encounter, Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, Drew his arms back, like a cricket.
"Once he leaped," said old Iagoo, "Once he leaped, and lo! above him Bent the sky, as ice in rivers When the waters rise beneath it; Twice he leaped, and lo! above him Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers When the freshet is at highest! Thrice he leaped, and lo! above him Broke the shattered sky asunder, And he disappeared within it, And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, With a bound went in behind him!" "Hark you!" shouted Pau-Puk-Keewis As he entered at the doorway; "I am tired of all this talking, Tired of old Iagoo's stories, Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom.
Here is something to amuse you, Better than this endless talking.
" Then from out his pouch of wolf-skin Forth he drew, with solemn manner, All the game of Bowl and Counters, Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces.
White on one side were they painted, And vermilion on the other; Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, Two Ininewug or wedge-men, One great war-club, Pugamaugun, And one slender fish, the Keego, Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, And three Sheshebwug or ducklings.
All were made of bone and painted, All except the Ozawabeeks; These were brass, on one side burnished, And were black upon the other.
In a wooden bowl he placed them, Shook and jostled them together, Threw them on the ground before him, Thus exclaiming and explaining: "Red side up are all the pieces, And one great Kenabeek standing On the bright side of a brass piece, On a burnished Ozawabeek; Thirteen tens and eight are counted.
" Then again he shook the pieces, Shook and jostled them together, Threw them on the ground before him, Still exclaiming and explaining: "White are both the great Kenabeeks, White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, Red are all the other pieces; Five tens and an eight are counted.
" Thus he taught the game of hazard, Thus displayed it and explained it, Running through its various chances, Various changes, various meanings: Twenty curious eyes stared at him, Full of eagerness stared at him.
"Many games," said old Iagoo, "Many games of skill and hazard Have I seen in different nations, Have I played in different countries.
He who plays with old Iagoo Must have very nimble fingers; Though you think yourself so skilful, I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, I can even give you lessons In your game of Bowl and Counters!" So they sat and played together, All the old men and the young men, Played for dresses, weapons, wampum, Played till midnight, played till morning, Played until the Yenadizze, Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, Of their treasures had despoiled them, Of the best of all their dresses, Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches.
Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, Like the eyes of wolves glared at him.
Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis: "In my wigwam I am lonely, In my wanderings and adventures I have need of a companion, Fain would have a Meshinauwa, An attendant and pipe-bearer.
I will venture all these winnings, All these garments heaped about me, All this wampum, all these feathers, On a single throw will venture All against the young man yonder!" `T was a youth of sixteen summers, `T was a nephew of Iagoo; Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him.
As the fire burns in a pipe-head Dusky red beneath the ashes, So beneath his shaggy eyebrows Glowed the eyes of old Iagoo.
"Ugh!" he answered very fiercely; "Ugh!" they answered all and each one.
Seized the wooden bowl the old man, Closely in his bony fingers Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, Shook it fiercely and with fury, Made the pieces ring together As he threw them down before him.
Red were both the great Kenabeeks, Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings, Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, White alone the fish, the Keego; Only five the pieces counted! Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis Shook the bowl and threw the pieces; Lightly in the air he tossed them, And they fell about him scattered; Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, Red and white the other pieces, And upright among the others One Ininewug was standing, Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis Stood alone among the players, Saying, "Five tens! mine the game is," Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, Like the eyes of wolves glared at him, As he turned and left the wigwam, Followed by his Meshinauwa, By the nephew of Iagoo, By the tall and graceful stripling, Bearing in his arms the winnings, Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons.
"Carry them," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, Pointing with his fan of feathers, "To my wigwam far to eastward, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo!" Hot and red with smoke and gambling Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis As he came forth to the freshness Of the pleasant Summer morning.
All the birds were singing gayly, All the streamlets flowing swiftly, And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, Beat with triumph like the streamlets, As he wandered through the village, In the early gray of morning, With his fan of turkey-feathers, With his plumes and tufts of swan's down, Till he reached the farthest wigwam, Reached the lodge of Hiawatha.
Silent was it and deserted; No one met him at the doorway, No one came to bid him welcome; But the birds were singing round it, In and out and round the doorway, Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, And aloft upon the ridge-pole Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis.
"All are gone! the lodge Is empty!" Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, In his heart resolving mischief "Gone is wary Hiawatha, Gone the silly Laughing Water, Gone Nokomis, the old woman, And the lodge is left unguarded!" By the neck he seized the raven, Whirled it round him like a rattle, Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, From the ridge-pole of the wigwam Left its lifeless body hanging, As an insult to its master, As a taunt to Hiawatha.
With a stealthy step he entered, Round the lodge in wild disorder Threw the household things about him, Piled together in confusion Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, Robes of buffalo and beaver, Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, As an insult to Nokomis, As a taunt to Minnehaha.
Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, Whistling, singing through the forest, Whistling gayly to the squirrels, Who from hollow boughs above him Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, Singing gayly to the wood birds, Who from out the leafy darkness Answered with a song as merry.
Then he climbed the rocky headlands, Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, Perched himself upon their summit, Waiting full of mirth and mischief The return of Hiawatha.
Stretched upon his back he lay there; Far below him splashed the waters, Plashed and washed the dreamy waters; Far above him swam the heavens, Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens; Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled Hiawatha's mountain chickens, Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, Almost brushed him with their pinions.
And he killed them as he lay there, Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, Threw their bodies down the headland, Threw them on the beach below him, Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, Perched upon a crag above them, Shouted: "It is Pau-Puk-Keewis! He is slaying us by hundreds! Send a message to our brother, Tidings send to Hiawatha!"
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Man From Athabaska

 Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming
 Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;
And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming
 Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me;
 'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.
And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder, For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar; Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder, And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War; 'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are.
Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying, And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do? Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying, As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe: Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view.
Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty.
You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so.
" "But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty.
And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers -- no!" So I sold my furs and started .
and that's eighteen months ago.
For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away; And the partner on my right hand was an apache from Montmartre; On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U.
(Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.
) But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago, And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and `blagues' me all the day.
I'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago, And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away.
Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say.
And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea, Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing; And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be: Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me! And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle, Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore; And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle, And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more; While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar.
And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling, And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track; And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling, And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac; And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.
So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring, And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe; And I yarn of fur and feather when the `marmites' are a-soaring, And they listen to my stories, seven `poilus' in a row, Seven lean and lousy poilus with their cigarettes aglow.
And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska; And those seven greasy poilus they are crazy to go too.
And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo, And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew.
For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered, And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore, And a city all a-smoulder, and .
as if it really mattered, For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore; And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly, And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Municipal Gallery Revisited


Around me the images of thirty years:
An ambush; pilgrims at the water-side;
Casement upon trial, half hidden by the bars,
Guarded; Griffith staring in hysterical pride;
Kevin O'Higgins' countenance that wears
A gentle questioning look that cannot hide
A soul incapable of remorse or rest;
A revolutionary soldier kneeling to be blessed;


An Abbot or Archbishop with an upraised hand
Blessing the Tricolour.
'This is not,' I say, 'The dead Ireland of my youth, but an Ireland The poets have imagined, terrible and gay.
' Before a woman's portrait suddenly I stand, Beautiful and gentle in her Venetian way.
I met her all but fifty years ago For twenty minutes in some studio.
III Heart-smitten with emotion I Sink down, My heart recovering with covered eyes; Wherever I had looked I had looked upon My permanent or impermanent images: Augusta Gregory's son; her sister's son, Hugh Lane, 'onlie begetter' of all these; Hazel Lavery living and dying, that tale As though some ballad-singer had sung it all; IV Mancini's portrait of Augusta Gregory, 'Greatest since Rembrandt,' according to John Synge; A great ebullient portrait certainly; But where is the brush that could show anything Of all that pride and that humility? And I am in despair that time may bring Approved patterns of women or of men But not that selfsame excellence again.
V My mediaeval knees lack health until they bend, But in that woman, in that household where Honour had lived so long, all lacking found.
Childless I thought, 'My children may find here Deep-rooted things,' but never foresaw its end, And now that end has come I have not wept; No fox can foul the lair the badger swept - VI (An image out of Spenser and the common tongue).
John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
We three alone in modern times had brought Everything down to that sole test again, Dream of the noble and the beggar-man.
VII And here's John Synge himself, that rooted man, 'Forgetting human words,' a grave deep face.
You that would judge me, do not judge alone This book or that, come to this hallowed place Where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; Think where man's glory most begins and ends, And say my glory was I had such friends.

Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Shadowy Waters: Introductory Lines

 I walked among the seven woods of Coole:
Shan-walla, where a willow-hordered pond
Gathers the wild duck from the winter dawn;
Shady Kyle-dortha; sunnier Kyle-na-no,
Where many hundred squirrels are as happy
As though they had been hidden hy green houghs
Where old age cannot find them; Paire-na-lee,
Where hazel and ash and privet hlind the paths:
Dim Pairc-na-carraig, where the wild bees fling
Their sudden fragrances on the green air;
Dim Pairc-na-tarav, where enchanted eyes
Have seen immortal, mild, proud shadows walk;
Dim Inchy wood, that hides badger and fox
And marten-cat, and borders that old wood
Wise Buddy Early called the wicked wood:
Seven odours, seven murmurs, seven woods.
I had not eyes like those enchanted eyes, Yet dreamed that beings happier than men Moved round me in the shadows, and at night My dreams were clown hy voices and by fires; And the images I have woven in this story Of Forgael and Dectora and the empty waters Moved round me in the voices and the fires, And more I may not write of, for they that cleave The waters of sleep can make a chattering tongue Heavy like stone, their wisdom being half silence.
How shall I name you, immortal, mild, proud shadows? I only know that all we know comes from you, And that you come from Eden on flying feet.
Is Eden far away, or do you hide From human thought, as hares and mice and coneys That run before the reaping-hook and lie In the last ridge of the barley? Do our woods And winds and ponds cover more quiet woods, More shining winds, more star-glimmering ponds? Is Eden out of time and out of space? And do you gather about us when pale light Shining on water and fallen among leaves, And winds blowing from flowers, and whirr of feathers And the green quiet, have uplifted the heart? I have made this poem for you, that men may read it Before they read of Forgael and Dectora, As men in the old times, before the harps began, Poured out wine for the high invisible ones.
Written by John Clare | Create an image from this poem


 When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears - they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry, And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down And clap the dogs and take him to the town, And bait him all the day with many dogs, And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets: They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where'er they go; When badgers fight, then everyone's a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray' The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small, He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray, Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold, The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels The frighted women take the boys away, The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race, But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one, And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men, Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again; Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
Written by Badger Clark | Create an image from this poem

The Glory Trail

  'Way high up the Mogollons,
    Among the mountain tops,
  A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones
    And licked his thankful chops,
  When on the picture who should ride,
    A-trippin' down a slope,
  But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride
    And mav'rick-hungry rope.

    "_Oh, glory be to me," says he,_
      "_And fame's unfadin' flowers!_
    _All meddlin' hands are far away;_
    _I ride my good top-hawse today_
    _And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J----_
      _Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!_"

  That lion licked his paw so brown
    And dreamed soft dreams of veal--
  And then the circlin' loop sung down
    And roped him 'round his meal.
  He yowled quick fury to the world
    Till all the hills yelled back;
  The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled
    And Bob caught up the slack.

    "_Oh, glory be to me," laughs he._
      "_We hit the glory trail._
    _No human man as I have read_
    _Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,_
    _Nor ever hawse could drag one dead_
      _Until we told the tale._"

  'Way high up the Mogollons
    That top-hawse done his best,
  Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,
    From canyon-floor to crest.
  But ever when Bob turned and hoped
    A limp remains to find,
  A red-eyed lion, belly roped
    But healthy, loped behind.

    "_Oh, glory be to me" grunts he._
      "_This glory trail is rough,_
    _Yet even till the Judgment Morn_
    _I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,_
    _For never any hero born_
      _Could stoop to holler: Nuff!_'"

  Three suns had rode their circle home
    Beyond the desert's rim,
  And turned their star-herds loose to roam
    The ranges high and dim;
  Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross
    Bob pounded, weak and wan,
  For pride still glued him to his hawse
    And glory drove him on.

    "_Oh, glory be to me," sighs he._
      "_He kaint be drug to death,_
    _But now I know beyond a doubt_
    _Them heroes I have read about_
    _Was only fools that stuck it out_
      _To end of mortal breath._"

  'Way high up the Mogollons
    A prospect man did swear
  That moon dreams melted down his bones
    And hoisted up his hair:
  A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,
    A lion trailed along,
  A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,
    Yelled out a crazy song.

    "_Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,_
      "_And to my noble noose!_
    _Oh, stranger, tell my pards below_
    _I took a rampin' dream in tow,_
    _And if I never lay him low,_
      _I'll never turn him loose!_"
Written by Badger Clark | Create an image from this poem

The Old Cow Man

  I rode across a valley range
    I hadn't seen for years.
  The trail was all so spoilt and strange
    It nearly fetched the tears.
  I had to let ten fences down
    (The fussy lanes ran wrong)
  And each new line would make me frown
    And hum a mournin' song.

    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
      _Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!_
    _The nester brand is on the land;_
      _I reckon I'll retire,_
    _While progress toots her brassy horn_
      _And makes her motor buzz,_
    _I thank the Lord I wasn't born_
      _No later than I was._

  'Twas good to live when all the sod,
    Without no fence nor fuss,
  Belonged in pardnership to God,
    The Gover'ment and us.
  With skyline bounds from east to west
    And room to go and come,
  I loved my fellow man the best
    When he was scattered some.

    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
      _Close and closer cramps the wire._
    _There's hardly play to back away_
      _And call a man a liar._
    _Their house has locks on every door;_
      _Their land is in a crate._
    _These ain't the plains of God no more,_
      _They're only real estate._

  There's land where yet no ditchers dig
    Nor cranks experiment;
  It's only lovely, free and big
    And isn't worth a cent.
  I pray that them who come to spoil
    May wait till I am dead
  Before they foul that blessed soil
    With fence and cabbage head.

    _Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
      _Far and farther crawls the wire._
    _To crowd and pinch another inch_
      _Is all their heart's desire._
    _The world is overstocked with men_
      _And some will see the day_
    _When each must keep his little pen,_
      _But I'll be far away._

  When my old soul hunts range and rest
    Beyond the last divide,
  Just plant me in some stretch of West
    That's sunny, lone and wide.
  Let cattle rub my tombstone down
    And coyotes mourn their kin,
  Let hawses paw and tromp the moun'
    But don't you fence it in!

    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
      _And they pen the land with wire._
    _They figure fence and copper cents_
      _Where we laughed 'round the fire._
    _Job cussed his birthday, night and morn._
      _In his old land of Uz,_
    _But I'm just glad I wasn't born_
      _No later than I was!_
Written by Badger Clark | Create an image from this poem

The Legend Of Boastful Bill

  At a roundup on the Gily,
    One sweet mornin' long ago,
  Ten of us was throwed right freely
    By a hawse from Idaho.
  And we thought he'd go-a-beggin'
    For a man to break his pride
  Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin,
    Boastful Bill cut loose and cried--

    "_I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;_
    _I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;_
      _I kin ride the highest liver_
      _'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,_
    _And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt._"

  So Bill climbed the Northern Fury
    And they mangled up the air
  Till a native of Missouri
    Would have owned his brag was fair.
  Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
    And the wind it flapped his shirt,
  Loud above the hawse's squealin'
    We could hear our friend assert

    "_I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke._
    _Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!_
      _If you think my fame needs bright'nin'_
      _W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'_
    _And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke._"

  Then one caper of repulsion
    Broke that hawse's back in two.
  Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
    Skyward man and saddle flew.
  Up he mounted, never laggin',
    While we watched him through our tears,
  And his last thin bit of braggin'
      Came a-droppin' to our ears.

    "_If you'd ever watched my habits very close_
    _You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross._
      _I have kep' my talent hidin';_
      _I'm too good for earthly ridin'_
    _And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,--Adios!_"

  Years have gone since that ascension.
    Boastful Bill ain't never lit,
  So we reckon that he's wrenchin'
    Some celestial outlaw's bit.
  When the night rain beats our slickers
    And the wind is swift and stout
  And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
    We kin sometimes hear him shout--

    "_I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;_
    _I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky._
      _Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders_
      _While we're rippin' clouds to flinders._
    _If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!_"

  Stardust on his chaps and saddle,
    Scornful still of jar and jolt,
  He'll come back some day, astraddle
    Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.
  And the thin-skinned generation
    Of that dim and distant day
  Sure will stare with admiration
    When they hear old Boastful say--

    "_I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed._
    _Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best._
      _Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,_
      _With your a'roplanes and motors--_
    _Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!_"

Book: Shattered Sighs