Classic Poem

( A MEMORY OF EIGHTY-SIX )

I N a low and rambling shanty
 Outside the stable gate,
Where woolly-headed “aunty”
 With wash-bills used to wait,
All the boys were wont to rally
 For cocktails every night;
And 'twas there I first saw Sally,
 Poor Sally—almost white!

By day or night she took delight
 In greeting every guest
That came her way, and made him pay
 For the glass she'd quaff with zest!
But she left us one dry season
 To glut her appetite
With a mixture called Ambrosia—
 Poor Sally—almost white!

Her hair was like dried seaweed,
 Her eyes were faded blue;
Her limbs, they say, were knock-kneed,
 Her skin was saffron hue!
Her features were not classic,
 But her teeth were snowy bright,
And her speech was somewhat drastic—
 Poor Sally—almost white!

Much drink she'd try to sell you
 With manner frank and free,
And any one will tell you
 She was quick at repartee!
For her own or for the bar's sake
 She never shirked a fight!
She was handy with a car-stake—
 Poor Sally—almost white!

But, oh, one hot December,
 Things snapped inside her head!
Some old folks may remember
 How she looked when she was dead!
And they've torn the “woodbine” roots up
 Till there's not a sprig in sight,
Yet sometimes a memory shoots up
 Of Sally—almost white!