Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/89



Do I know Polly Brown? Do I know her? Why, damme! You might as well ask if I know my own name! It’s a wonder you never heard tell of old Sammy, Her father, my mate in the Crackenback claim.

He asks if I know little Poll! Why, I nursed her As often, I reckon, as old Mother Brown When they lived at the Flats, and old Sam went a burster In Chinaman’s Gully, and dropped every crown.

My golden-haired mate, ever brimful of folly And childish conceit, and yet ready to rest Contented beside me: ’twas I who taught Polly To handle four horses along with the best.

’Twas funny to hear the small fairy discoursing Of horses and drivers! I’ll swear that she knew Every one of the nags that I drove to the Crossing— Their voices, and paces, and pedigrees too.

She got a strange whim in her golden-haired noddle That a driver’s high seat was a kind of a throne: I’ve taken her up there before she could toddle, And she’d talk to the nags in a tongue of her own.