English poem
Yuba Bill
by Bret Harte
It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, I reckon, Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, Up at you place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon-- Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way. Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled, Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay-- Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled; Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay.