WILLIAM NYE'S EXPERIMENT. Angel's.
Dear Bret Harte, I'm in tears, And the camp's in the dust, For with anguish it hears As poor William may bust, And the last of the Nyes is in danger of sleeping the sleep of the just.
No revolver it was Interfered with his health, The convivial glass Did not harm him by stealth; It was nary! He fell by a scheme which he thought would accumulate wealth!
For a Moqui came round To the camp--Injun Joe; And the dollars was found In his pockets to flow; For he played off some tricks with live snakes, as was reckoned a competent show.
They was rattlers; a pair In his teeth he would hold, And another he'd wear Like a scarf to enfold His neck, with them dangerous critters as safe as the saint was of old.
Sez William, "That same Is as easy as wink. I am fly to his game; For them rattlers, I think, Has had all their incisors extracted. They're harmless as suthin' to drink."
So he betted his pile He could handle them snakes; And he tried, with a smile, And a rattler he takes, Feeling safe as they'd somehow been doctored; but bless you, that sarpent awakes!
Waken snakes! and they DID And they rattled like mad; For it was not a "kid," But some medicine he had, Injun Joe, for persuadin' the critters but William's bit powerful bad.
So they've put him outside Of a bottle of Rye, And they've set him to ride A mustang as kin shy, To keep up his poor circulation; and that's the last chance for Bill Nye.
But a near thing it is, And the camp's in the dust. He's a pard as we'd miss If poor Bill was to bust - If the last of the Nyes were a-sleepin the peaceable sleep of the just.
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