PREFATORY NOTE. Two years ago appeared "Humorous Readings-Maistly Scotch." Every amateur reader, who had sought to find good and suitable pieces for reading at social parties, knew that a book of the kind was greatly needed. That it met to a large extent this want, and fulfilled the purpose for which it was prepared, is evidenced by the reception it met with from the public-sixteen thousand copies having been already disposed of, and its popularity is by no means yet exhausted. At the request of many friends and correspondents the present book has been prepared, with greater variety in the style, and at least as high a standard of excellence in its selections. It is the hope of its Editor that it will give as great satisfaction as the first series, and serve as widely useful a purpose, in enlivening many a merry meeting, and brightening many a winter hearth. A. STEWART. As we sat there, in the camp-fire glare, like shadows among the smoke. 'Twas the dead of night, and in the light our faces shone bright red, And the wind all round made a screeching sound, and the pines roared overhead. Ay, Parson Pete was talking; we called him Parson Pete, neat; He'd a preaching style, and a winning smile, and, when all talk was spent, Six shooter had he, and a sharp bowie, to p'int his argyment. Some one had spoke of the Injin folk, and we had a guess, you bet, They might be creeping, while we were sleeping, to catch us in the net; And half were asleep and snoring deep, while the others vigil kept, But devil a one let go his gun, whether he woke or slept.] "There's some think Injins pison, and others count 'em scum, And night and day they are melting away, clean into Kingdom Come ; *From "Ballads of Life, Love, and Humour." By Robert Buchanan. London; Chatto & Windus. By permission of the publishers. But don't you go and make mistakes, like many dern'd fools I've known, For dirt is dirt, and snakes is snakes, but an Injin's flesh and bone ! We were seeking gold in the Texan hold, and we'd had a blaze of luck, More rich and rare the stuff ran there at every foot we struck; Like men gone wild we t'iled and t'iled, and never seemed to tire, The hot sun beamed, and our faces streamed with the sweat of a mad desire. I was Captain then of the mining men, and I had a precious life, For a wilder set I never met at derringer and knife; Nigh every day there was some new fray, a bullet in some one's brain, And the cussedest brute to stab and to shoot, was an Imp of Sin from Maine. Phil Blood. Well, he was six foot three, with a squint to make you skeer'd, His face all scabb'd, and twisted and stabb'd, with carroty hair and beard, Sour as the drink in Bitter Chink, sharp as a grizzly's squeal, Limp in one leg, for a leaden egg had nick'd him in the heel. No beauty was he, but a sight to see, all stript to the waist and bare, With his grim-set jaws, and his panther paws, and his hawk's eye all aglare; With pick and spade in sun and shade he labour'd like darnation, But when his spell was over-well! he was fond of his recreation! And being a crusty kind of cuss, the only sport he had, in life, And the sharpest joke he was known to poke was the p’int of his precious knife. |