Ba gor! J jomp an’ jomp all tam’
Bot jos’ can’t halp dat—dere she am!
Cos’ w’en som’ fellaire he say “Boo!”
Morgee! I jomp an’ holler, too.
Long tam’,’way back ma broder, Joe,
Hav’ gon’roun’ house, an’ off she go.
—Go bang, r-rat clos’ op side ma ear;
Sence w’en I ac’ dis way—dat queer!
I tak’ med’ceen—don’t geet som’ cure.
Gass I got jomp-ops now for sure.
An’ mos’ all tam’ som’ son er gon
T’ink mak’ me jomp—wal, dat ban fon.
I’ll tal yo’ wan t’ing dat ban true—
Las’ spreeng dey beeld dat r-ra’ltrack t’rough
R-rat pas’ ma house, an’ w’at yo’ s’pose?
Dem ra’ltrack fellaires, wal, he goes
Sot pos’ for whees-el side ma door,
An’ den—wal, p’rap I didn’t swore!
Wan tra’n com’ pas’ long jos’ ’bout noon,
An’ go “whoot-toot!” Wal, bamby, soon,
Wa’n’t no whol’ deeshes ’round—for why?
’Cos’, sacre, I jomp op sky-high
An’ keeck dat table’roun’ dat plac’
An’ lat som’ howl com’ off ma face.
Dat vife he skeer mos’ near on death,
An’ all dem shildreen hoi’ deir breath
For saw deir fadder ac’ lak’ dat
An’ geeve dose dinnaire wan beeg slat.
An’ wan tra’n she go pas’ on night,
Long ’bout de tarn’ I sle’p mos’ tight.
An’ w’en she whees-el, “Whoot-too-too!”
I jomp lak’ wil’ cat, I tal you.
I heet ma vife gre’t beeg hard slams
An’ black her eye mos’ seexteen tarn’s.
Till las’ she go off sle’p down stair,
—She say I worse as greezly bear,
Bot w’at yo’ t’ink? I swore dis true,
I nevaire know w’at t’ing I do.
Wal, w’en t’ings geet bos’ op dat way,
I ban saw ra’ltrack boss wan day.
I tal heem ’bout I poun’ ma vife,
—Can’t halp dat t’ing for save ma life—
An’ he—he blor-rt, lak’ wan gre’t caff,
An’ lean way back an’ laff an’ laff.
I don’t saw nottin’s dere for fon
’Bout havin’ dat ol’ ra’ltrack ron
Op pas’ ma house an’ hav’ dem car
Male’ me bos’ op ma home, ba gar!
I tol’ heem dat bam-by dat soun’
Ban mak’ me keeck dat whol’ house down.
“I’ll tal yo’ w’at,” say he bam-by,
—He wap’ hees eye off lak’ he cry—
“I’ll tol’ yo’ w’at dees ro’d weell do:
We’ll send op our construckshong crew,
We’ll beeld, to show dat we hain’t mean,
Wan good, beeg cage an’ pot yo’ een.”
Ba gar! Dat all I geet off heem!
—I weesh dey not fin’ out dat steam!
Horde of the Great Unwashed! Hobo and
moucher and bum,
Vag and yag and grafter and tramp, we care-
lessly go and come.
Of the morrow we take no heed, no care infests
the day,
Plenty of gump and a train to jump—a grip on
the rods and away!
To the grab for the gear of greed we give no
thought or care,
We own with you the arch of blue—our share
of God’s good air;
—A coin to clear the law, a section of rubber
hose
To soften the chafe of the truss and rod—our
portion of cast-off clothes;
And ours the world—the world! a heritage
won by right,
—By tacit deed to the nomad breed with the
taint of the Ishmaelite.
Some from the wastes of the sage-brush,
some from the orange land,
Some from “God’s own country,” dusty and
tattered and tanned.
Wherefore? ’Tis idle to tell you—you’d
never understand.
Hither and fro,
We come—we go,
Old Father Ishmael’s band.
Yags-will sometimes walk, a tramp will hit the
grit,
But a hobo never will count the ties so long as
he keeps his wit.
There’s the truss of the Wagner freight, the
rods and the jolting truck,
You can grab and swing at the yard-line post
if you’ve muscle enough and pluck.
There’s the perch of the pilot, too, where you’re
target for lumps of coal,
For a shack or a fireman never thinks we’ve
either nerves or soul.
If you’ve taken the full degrees and have cov-
ered the “Honey Route,”
Have fired a rock at the “Fox Train crew,” and
knocked a Doughface out,
You are man for the king-pin act! Here’s hop-
ing you have success
When you risk your neck on the smoke-swept
“deck” of the Limited Express.
Some from the slopes of the Rockies, some
from the Ogden route,
Where the meek old Mormon matrons hand
the milk and honey out,
—West and south and northward—and
t’other way about,
On tank and wall,
You’ll find the scrawl
Of the tramp’s monarka-scout.
Taint of the nomad’s blood! God, if we could
but burst
From the thrall of vags and drop our rags and
cleave to the best—not worst!
Each day on a town’s main-drag, as we’re
flaggin’ some house for prog,
The smile of a child or a maiden’s face will give
our hearts a jog.
And I—yes, even I, have flicked at a sudden tear
And have turned my back on Smoky Jack lest
he see the thing and jeer.
Spur of the nomad’s taint! Back to the ring-
ing rails
That coaxingly curve to the far unknown!
Confusion to courts and jails!
The “goat” is coughing the grade; grab for
the rods, there, Jack,
Look out for your grip, for a bit of a slip will
toss you to grease the track.
Bound for the Greasers’ sage-brush, under
the roaring train,
Decking the fast expresses from Texas north
to Maine,
Grimy and tattered and blinded, Ishmael’s
blood our bane,
We ride—we ride,
To hope denied,
Cursed with the curse of Cain.