Classic Poem

It is not every gentleman
Who owns a rawhide lash
Will waste it on his bitches
And suchlike yellow trash.

The mountain laurel grows so high
To hide him from the earth;
The woods are full of creatures
That lie not by his hearth;

That lie not by his hearth to lick
His hand in gratitude;
There's plenty wolves and catamounts
Prowling in the wood.

It is not every gentleman
Will sit down in peace,
With his wife at his shoulder
And his children at his knees.

Perhaps, to be contrary,
He'll hang his rifle up,
And push away his supper,
And empty his cup.

And go out into the wild laurel,
Stepping tiptoe-tip,
Carrying nothing in his hand
But a rawhide whip.

O sometimes a gentleman
Will leave his rifle home
A-hanging in the firelight
While he goes forth to roam

In the darkness, on the mountain-side,
In a cavern of stars,
Thinking maybe of marriages,
And maybe of wars.

And maybe of the creature
That runs at his heel,
Clad in rough velvet
And shod with smooth steel;

That runs forever at his right hand
Like a sleek lightning-flash,
And he with nothing to defend him
But a rawhide lash.