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On the Trail jof Love |
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It was a cinch he had it right—
An' scarcely say a word or speak,
But looks into her eyes as meek
As any child. Yet this here Ben
Was a rip-snorter out with men.
He had gray eyes an' when he spoke
'Twas gener'ly from out the smoke
Of his old six-guns; when he turned
Them loose, then gray eyes burned
An' got like little pints o' steel,
An' no man cared their glance to feel.
Big chest, thin flanks an' quickness that
Was like a high-strung mountain cat—
Yet with the Princess he was like
A little child, an' oft we'd pike
To Big Pete's Place an' leave Ben there,
A-courtin' of his lady fair.
"Don't know jes' how it happened then,
But seems she was a-stringin' Ben—
Jes' playin' him as fishers play
A fish they know can't get away;
Jes' passin' time away fer fun
With Ben's true heart all cinched an' won.
Of course, us fellers see it hard,
But dassent lend a helpin' card;
Fer well we knows that Ben would drag
His bunch o' guns an' surely bag
The gent what spoke a word o' her,
Or jingled e'en a warnful spur
In front the Bronk o' Love persuin'
The reckless trail to lastin' ruin. |
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