THE GREEN TREE HOTEL 169 



Ah ! those were the days when the red blood ran 

 In the fevered veins of a river man, 



And those were the days when your honor, sah, 

 Meant more than it does in the days that are ! 



If a slur was cast on a woman's name, 

 Or the lie was passed in a poker game. 



It was knife to knife ere the morning sun. 

 And a new-made grave for the weaker one. 



I carry the mark of a bowie here, 



In a long, red scar near the larboard ear, 



For we fought together at break of day. 

 When the Mississippi was the great highway ! 



If I sigh sometimes for the vanished years. 

 And my eyes grow dim with the mist of tears. 



It is not because of the changing ways. 

 And it's not regret for the river days! 



But I miss the ones who have gone to sleep. 

 Where the hills dip down to the waters deep. 



And I mourn a friend who in life was rare — 

 Old Davy Tip who is anchored there. 



They were true to me as the stars are true. 

 And their smiles like sunshine sifted through, 



To brighten the gloom of a stormy day, 

 When the Mississippi was the great highway ! 



So I dream tonight o'er my pipe and glass - 

 A dream of the boats as they used to pass ; 



The song of the river's in everything, 



As the whistle blows for the bridge to swing I 



I can see the lights as we're drifting down - 

 The lights of home in the sleeping town. 



And I miss the crews that will sail no more, 

 As I miss the face of a girl on shore. 



