Classic Poem

Bill Peters was a hustler
From Independence town;
He warn't a college scholar
Nor man of great renown,
But Bill had a way o' doin' things
An' doin' 'em up brown.

Bill druv the stage from Independence
Up to the Smokey Hill;
An' everybody knowed him thar
As Independence Bill —
That warn't no feller on the route
That druv with half the skill.

Bill druv four pair of horses,
Same as you'd drive a team,
An' you'd think you was a-travelin'
On a railroad druv by steam;
An' he'd git thar on time, you bet,
Or Bill 'ud bust a seam.

He carried mail an' passengers,
An' he started on the dot,
An' them teams o' his'n, so they say,
Was never known to trot;
But they went it in a gallop
An' kept their axles hot.

When Bill's stage 'ud bust a tire,
Or something 'ud break down,
He'd hustle round an' patch her up
An' start off with a bound;
An' the wheels o' that old shack o' his
Scarce ever touched the ground.

An' Bill didn't 'low no foolin',
An' when Injuns hove in sight,
An' bullets rattled at the stage,
He druv with all his might.
He'd holler, " Fellers give 'em hell!
I ain't got time to fight. "

Then the way them wheels 'ud rattle,
An' the way the dust 'ud fly,
You'd think a million cattle
Had stampeded an' gone by.
But the mail 'ud get thar just the same,
If the horses had to die!

He druv the stage for many a year
Along the Smokey Hill,
An' a pile o' wild Comanches
Did Bill Peters have to kill —
An' I reckon if he'd had got luck
He'd be a drivin' still.

But he chanced one day to run agin
A bullet made o' lead,
Which was harder than he bargained for
An' now poor Bill is dead;
An' when they brung his body home
A barrel o' tears was shed.