Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
John Hay 18381905
John Hay196 The Mystery of Gilgal
T
I ever read, or heern, or see,
Is ’long of a drink at Taggart’s Hall,—
Tom Taggart’s of Gilgal.
But never could git through the maze That hangs around that queer day’s doin’s; But I ’ll tell the yarn to youans. The time was fall, the skies was fa’r, The neighbors round the counter drawed, And ca’mly drinked and jawed. And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus-like, And each, as he meandered in, Remarked, “A whisky-skin.” And slammed it, smoking, on the bar. Some says three fingers, some says two,— I ’ll leave the choice to you. Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, “I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn— Jest drap that whisky skin.” Than old Jedge Phinn the country round. Says he, “Young man, the tribe of Phinns Knows their own whisky-skins!” “I tries to foller a Christian life; But I ’ll drap a slice of liver or two, My bloomin’ shrub, with you.” Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired. It took Seth Bludso ’twixt the eyes, Which caused him great surprise. Shots and bad language swelled the din; The short, sharp bark of Derringers, Like bull-pups, cheered the furse. They made, I reckon, a cord or more. Girls went that winter, as a rule, Alone to spellin’-school. Sheba, to make this mystery clear; But I end with hit as I did begin,— Who got the whisky-skin?