| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
80 |
OTHER VERSE |
||
|
But Sandy, the papa, had traveled some more, So footsore and weary they turned from the
shore, Back over the mountains and on to the plain, In hope to recover the trail once again, And fortune soon blest, with its fullness, their
zeal, And turned threatened woe to the welcomest
weal.
On a rough, wooden bench, by a " dobey's " deep
door, One eve, at the gloam, they saw Sandy once
more. He trotted a red-headed babe on his knee, And sang an old song, with great gusto and glee, So this is the story, about as it ran, Of the fiery trail of one Sandy McCann. |
|||
|
CHIQUITA, LA BONITA.
Great black eyes, with look so tender, That they seem, almost, to weep;
Hand that's taper, brown and slender, Shades them, peering up the steep,
From the " dobey " on the mesa, Where the sun forever shines, |
|||