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    FAR out in the wilds of Oregon,

    On a lonely mountain side,

    Where Columbia's mighty waters

    Roll down to the Ocean's tide;

    Where the giant fir and cedar

    Are imaged in the wave,

    O'ergrown with ferns and lichens,

    I found poor Dempsey's grave.

    I found no marble monolith,

    No broken shaft nor stone,

    Recording sixty victories

    This vanquished victor won;

    No rose, no shamrock could I find,

    No mortal here to tell

    Where sleeps in this forsaken spot

    The immortal Nonpareil.

    A winding, wooded canyon road

    That mortals seldom tread

    Leads up this lonely mountain

    To this desert of the dead.

    And the western sun was sinking

    In Pacific's golden wave;

    And these solemn pines kept watching

    Over poor Jack Dempsey's grave.

    That man of honor and of iron,

    That man of heart and steel,

    That man who far out-classed his class

    And made mankind to feel

    That Dempsey's name and Dempsey's fame

    Should live in serried stone,

    Is now at rest far in the West

    In the wilds of Oregon.

    Forgotten by ten thousand throats

    That thundered his acclaim--

    Forgotten by his friends and foes

    That cheered his very name;

    Oblivion wraps his faded form,

    But ages hence shall save

    The memory of that Irish lad

    That fills poor Dempsey's grave.

    O Fame, why sleeps thy favored son

    In wilds, in woods, in weeds?

    And shall he ever thus sleep on--

    Interred his valiant deeds?

    'Tis strange New York should thus forget

    Its "bravest of the brave,"

    And in the wilds of Oregon

    Unmarked, leave Dempsey's grave.