Of the winding Wallametta,
Which I sing—and say it surely
As the jingling Juniata
Sounds as well; but 'tis unpretty,
Poets of the sunset sea-rim
Flying off to Acropolis—
Very absurd it is, and silly—
While the glassy Umatilla,
And the classic Longus Thomas,
And the grassy Tuda-Willa,
All do flash and flow before us.
Well, my hero Kamiakin
Was in love; you know such folly
Must go in, or something's lacking
In all great, good rhymes emetic.
Now, she dwelt in Walla Walla;
But her ma was awful stuck up;
And her pious dad, ascetic,
'Gainst our hero got his back up;
And he swore on stacks of Bibles,
Higher than the hay you stack up.
He would sue for breaches, libels;
He would sue him, shoot him, boot him—
That, in fact, he didn't suit him—
Didn't vote the proper ticket.
Now, it cost him like the nation
Going from the land of cider
(You know how these Navigation
Fellows charge a horse and rider);
And, though he was law-abiding,
To be treated thus about her
He declared was rather binding,
And that he wouldn't go without her.
So he strode a cayuse charger
With white eyes, also white as
Foam of creamy, dreamy lager
From her nostrils to her caudle;
With a woolly sheepskin folding
Back behind his jockey saddle,
Where the girl could ride by holding.
