Poem of the Week
August 23, 2004
How strong the cow-boy is in death,
How strives he with the reaper grim !
How writhes each sturdy, supple limb,
What life is in each dying breath !
His eyes have still the haughty gleam,
The flash of mingled pride and scorn,
They had at early yester' morn,
When he saw us and we saw him,
Come plunging through the swollen stream
And drive his heifers from our corn.
Oh, who hath done this dreadful deed,
Hath in an evil moment slain
This dashing hero of the plain,
This idol of the mount and mead ?
Oh, hath some jealous Indian chief
Waylaid this warrior of the ranch ?
Or hath some envious churl, perchance,
Conceiving honest combat vain,
Wrought all this tragedy and grief,
By shooting ere he could advance ?
He died as cowboys died before ;
A bottle struck him on the head,
He tottered, stumbled, fell and bled
A quart or two upon the floor.
'Twas Biddy Looney struck the blow
That caught him just above the ear,
He'd kissed her once and called her dear
And then ( in sorrow breathe it low )
He'd scorned her pleading cry for beer !
--Eugene Field
December 10th, 1881.
Reprinted from A Little Book of Tribune Verse,
Denver, 1901.