[No claim is laid to the authorship of this poem. It wandered away from the brain-corral of its composer during the drouth seasons of 1890-94 without a brand and was seized upon and reprinted, with numerous variations, by the frontier press of that time. The original was full of rough, stumbling lines. Some of these have been omitted, others revised. But the poem, with all its crudities, is one of the most faithful pictures of a certain period and social condition in all western literature. As such it finds a here.]
Farewell to my homestead sod shanty;
I have made my final proof;
The cattle will hook down the walls,
And someone will steal off the roof.
Farewell to my sheet-iron stove
That stands in the corner all cold;
The good things I baked in the oven
Can never in grammar be told.
Farewell to my cracker-box cupboard,
With a gunny-sack hung for a door;
Farewell my tin Spoons and tin dishes
I never shall need any more.
Farewell to my 2x4 bedstead,—
Where after my labors I slept;
Farewell to the dreams that I dreamed there
While the centipedes over me crept.
Farewell to my down-holstered rocker
With the bottom sagged into the ground;
Farewell to the shirts, socks and breeches
That filled it again to the round.
Farewell to my sour dough pancakes
No one but myself could endure;
If they didn’t taste good to the stranger
They were sure the dyspepsia to cure.
Farewell to my tea and my crackers;
Farewell to my water and soap;
Farewell to my sorghum and buckwheat,
Farewell to my lallacadope.
A final farewell to my homestead
Farewell to your hills and your sand;
I’ve covered you up with a mortgage—
Farewell to my quarter of land.
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