Why, you had better win the grace
Of one poor humble Af-ri-can
Than win the eyes of every man
In love alone with his own face.
At last she nursed her true desire,
She sighed, she wept for William Brown.
She watched the splendid sun down
Like some great sailing ship on fire,
Then rose and checked her trunks right on;
And in the cars she lunched and lunched,
And had her ticket punched and punched,
Until she came to Oregon.
She reached the limit of the lines,
She wore blue specs upon her nose,
Wore rather short and manly clothes,
And so set out to reach the mines.
Her right hand held a Testament,
Her pocket held a parasol,
And thus equipped right on she went.
Went water-proof and water-fall.
She saw a miner gazing down,
Slow stirring something with a spoon;
"O, tell me true and tell me soon,
What has become of William Brown?"
He looked askance beneath her specs,
Then stirred his cocktail round and round,
Then raised his head and sighed profound,
And said, "He's handed in his checks."
Then care led on her damaged cheek,
And she grew faint, did Mary Jane,
And smelt her smelling-salts in vain.
Yet wandered on, way worn and weak.
At last upon a hill alone;
She came, and there she sat her down;
For on that hill there stood a stone,
And lo! that stone read "William Brown."
"O William Brown! O William Brown!
And here you rest at last," she said,
"With this lone stone above your head,
And forty miles from any town!
