University of Virginia Library

We called him The Saint: for a better mule
Has never been knowed sense time begun!
If any quadr'ped broke a rule
Concernin' kickin', he was the one.
Why bless my soul, you could stan' aroun'
An' hold him up, an' curry him down,
An' wag his tail for to make him smile,
An' tickle his heels a good long while,
An' pull his ears fur to wag his head,
An' open his mouth to inquire his age,
Or anything else on 'arth instead,
That will the reg'lar mule enrage,
An' cause it, maybe, with steam to spare,
To make a curvatoor in the air,
An' he would'nt show fur a single minnit,
He thought there was aught irreg'lar in it:
He'd just stan' still an' wink his eyes
With mebby a bit of mild surprise,
An' seem to say, “My thanks are due,
Which same I hope you will now receive,
For takin' the pains, with kindness true,
A mule's monotony to relieve.”
So of'n I said, when he asked—some fool did—
What sum would tempt me The Saint to part-with,
“No money'll buy him:—if ever a mule did,
He hed religion himself, to start-with!”

Well, be this matter as't may'nt or may,
I was ridin' The Saint to town one day,
An' noticin' how he minced along,
As 'fraid perhaps that he might step wrong,
Still piously gazin' here an' there,
As lookin' through Nature up somewhere:
An' I says, “If it warn't fur your ears, I'd swear
You warn't a mule!—but I still declare
A decent mule is better of course
Than any wild rantankerous horse.”

Wal, so we wended an' wended our way,
Together sojournin', as one might say—
Till up the turnpike a furlong or two,
An oughter mobillious came into view!
An' The Saint he halted as if he was shot,
An' stuffed, an' stood up at that same spot.
An' I says, “Git out o' here, mule alive!
Them fellers with oughters, they own the road!”
But he would not lead, an' he would not drive,
An' paid no heed to his livin' load.
An' the oughter it guv a sort of a bray,
An' they shouted hoarsely, “Get out of the way!”
An' I says “My friends, I'll try my best,
But you an' the mule must do the rest.
He never re'ly his whole life o'er,
Has seed an oughter mobillious before;
It's the first long stare that he ever took,
An' he probably wants a good straight look:
An' then he'll go on, demure and meek,
An' think of it all the rest the week.
However to start him now I strive,
He wull not lead, an' he wull not drive:
An' ef you can steer aroun' the beast,
An' tip yer mobillious the very least,
He'll jest inspect it as you pass by,
An' go 'long peacefully—him an' I.”

But the shafferer shouted “Look out fur paint!”
An' he run his machine right on to The Saint.
An' The Saint he turned, an' the off front wheel
Came scrapin' along on his handiest heel;
An' he give that tire a terrible whack
That started it several furlongs back
To'rds the rubber-tree on which it grew;
An' he guv the wheel his compliments, too,
An' he ses to the other one, “Git you hence!”
An' he put the shafferer through the fence,
An' he smashed the rudder with which they steer,
An' the little long basket that holds the beer,
An' he sent the lamps to the shinin' shore,
An' the whistle that brayed at him jest before;
An' he ripped the interior of that machine,
Till the clouds was drippin' with gasoline;
An' I tried through his morals to intercede,
But he wud not drive an' he wud not lead,
An' he seemed till then to hev kep' in store
The kicks he'd gathered five years or more.
An' I hollered “Git up!” an' I hollered “Whoa!”
But he wud not stop, an' he wud not go;
An' the oughter mobillious he pranced aroun',
As ef 'twas a sort o' a circus-groun',
An' with impartiality strict,
From ev'ry p'int o' the compass kicked.
He turned one “ex” to a letter s,
The other to two or three, I guess;
Divided the figgers behind 'em, too,
In a way the 'rethmetic could not do;
An' made things look in gen'ral as
No railroad-collision ever has.

The passengers scampered from side to side
In a manner very undignified;
They hollered “Whoa!” to that catapult,
The same's I did, with the same result;
They tried to shoot him in humane style—
He kicked their pistol the eighth of a mile!
An' a woman, pr'tty an' delicate-shaped
(She was one of the passengers that escaped)
Perched on a fence, with bewitchin' grin,
An' shouted “Teddy!—a trust! go in!”
An' the owner he muttered, after a spell,
“Three thousan' dollars gone straight to—sell
For junk, through a lack o' proper schools
To train the heels of refractory mules!”

An' I says “I done the best I could,
An' he's al'ays been pertic'lar good,
An' I think ef you look at his tracks you'll find
He gin ye yer half of the road at first,
An' if to the same you'd be'en resigned,
Things never'd hev gone from bad to worst.”

Then The Saint he winked his meekest eye,
As ef to say “We hed best proceed”:
An' biddin' the shipwrecked folks good bye,
I sojourned off on my humble steed.
“But who'll pay for this?” I heerd them cry.
“Silver an' gold hev I none,” says I,
“But I always practice the golden rule,
An' travel along on a level track;
An' ef you say so, I'll give ye the mule.”
“Not on his birthday!” they hollered back.