gotten by ten thousand throats
That thundered his acclaim--
Forgotten by his friends and foes
That cheered his very name;
Oblivion wraps his faded form,
But ages hence shall save
The memory of that Irish lad
That fills poor Dempsey's grave.

O Fame, why sleeps thy favored son
In wilds, in woods, in weeds?
And shall he ever thus sleep on--
Interred his valiant deeds?
'Tis strange New York should thus forget
Its "bravest of the brave,"
And in the wilds of Oregon
Unmarked, leave Dempsey's grave.
_MacMahon._

THE CATTLE ROUND-UP

ONCE more are we met for a season of pleasure,
That shall smooth from our brows every furrow of care,
For the sake of old times shall we each tread a measure
And drink to the lees in the eyes of the fair.
Once more let the hand-clasp of years past be given;
Let us once more be boys and forget we are men;
Let friendships the chances of fortune have riven
Be renewed and the smiling past come back again.
The past, when the prairie was big and the cattle
Were as "scary" as ever the antelope grew--
When to carry a gun, to make our spurs rattle,
And to ride a blue streak was the most that we knew;
The past when we headed each year for Dodge City
And punched up the drags on the old Chisholm Trail;
When the world was all bright and the girls were all pretty,
And a feller could "mav'rick" and stay out of jail.

Then here's to the eyes that like diamonds are gleaming,
And make the lamps blush that their duties are o'er;
And here's to the lips where young love lies a-dreaming;
And here's to the feet light as air on the floor;
And here's to the memories--fun's sweetest sequel;
And here's to the night we shall ever recall;
And here's to the time--time shall know not its equal
When we danced the day in at the Cattlemen's Ball.
_H. D. C. McLaclachlan._

PART II

THE COWBOY OFF GUARD

_I am the plain, barren since time began.
Yet do I dream of motherhood, when man
One day at last shall look upon my charms
And give me towns, like children, for my arms._

A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE

I UST to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod
From an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the Cupid god,
An' I'd laugh at the cusse