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Once I’d a mate-down on Lonesome Creek,
Camped a time at the Twelve-mile Dam;
Good old sort who could yarn a week,
Known by the name o’ Snakeskin Sam.
Belt was a pelt of a carpet-snake,
Band of his hat was much the same,
Pouch of a similar reptile make—
That was the why of Samuel’s name.
Gentle an’ jocular, that was his style;
Soulfully sensitive bloke was Sam;
R’member one flood when he swum a mile,
At night, to rescue one bleatin’ lamb.
Boundary-ridin’ o’er hill an’ lea,
Roundin’ up woollies from morn to night;
That was his job till the cry o’er sea
Called him away to the world’s big fight.
Staggered me some when he rode up here,
Khaki-clad—which I thought was sham,
For motherin’ lambs was his proper sphere,
So tender-hearted was Snakeskin Sam.
Part of his bundle he left with me,
Sort of a fantod souvenir;
Snakeskin whip an’ a puggaree,
Serpent bridles an’ other gear.
I cheered him away, but I wondered how
He’d shape with the steel as I said good-bye.
Heard of him next on a camel cow,
Ridin the bound’ry of old Sinai.
Masterin’ Abdul on desert runs,
Drovin’ Turks o’er the thirsty sand;
Turnin’ a grin to the barkin’ guns,
Givin’ his drink to the captive hand.
That was his limit, I used to think,
When he’d been months in the firin’ line.
An’ never a pen ‘ad he dipped in ink—
But I ‘ad misjudged that old mate o’ mine.
For Sam, I’d learned, was a demon loose
Out on the warpath, cool an’ grim,
Rootin’ ‘em out of a strong caboose,
Bullet an bay’net the same to him.
Couldn’t be held when a scrap begun,
Over an’ at ‘em with thrust an’ clout;
Couldn’t be stopped with a Gatlin’ gun.
Never cried go till he’d cleared ‘em out.
That was the way from the desert rim,
Out of the trench an’ the battle reek.
Mates who had ridden an’ fought with him
Wrote of the Terror from Lonesome Creek.
Well, he surprised me, that’s all I can say;
Shut me right up; but it’s’ proud I am,
An’ I hope to be ridin’ again some day
Round the old fences with Corporal Sam.
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