San Quentin was brilliant. Within the halls
  Of the noble pile with the frowning walls
  (God knows they've enough to make them frown,
  With a Governor trying to break them down!)
  Was a blaze of light. 'Twas the natal day
  Of his nibs the popular John S. Gray,
  And many observers considered his birth
  The primary cause of his moral worth.
  "The ball is free!" cried Black Bart, and they all
  Said a ball with no chain was a novel ball;
  "And I never have seed," said Jimmy Hope,
  "Sech a lightsome dance withouten a rope."
  Chinamen, Indians, Portuguese, Blacks,
  Russians, Italians, Kanucks and Kanaks,
  Chilenos, Peruvians, Mexicans—all
  Greased with their presence that notable ball.
  None were excluded excepting, perhaps,
  The Rev. Morrison's churchly chaps,
  Whom, to prevent a religious debate,
  The Warden had banished outside of the gate.
  The fiddler, fiddling his hardest the while,
  "Called off" in the regular foot-hill style:
  "Circle to the left!" and "Forward and back!"
  And "Hellum to port for the stabbard tack!"
  (This great virtuoso, it would appear,
  Was Mate of the Gatherer many a year.)
  "Ally man left!"—to a painful degree
  His French was unlike to the French of Paree,
  As heard from our countrymen lately abroad,
  And his "doe cee doe" was the gem of the fraud.
  But what can you hope from a gentleman barred
  From circles of culture by dogs in the yard?
  'Twas a glorious dance, though, all the same,
  The Jardin Mabille in the days of its fame
  Never saw legs perform such springs—
  The cold-chisel's magic had given them wings.
  They footed it featly, those lades and gents:
  Dull care (said Long Moll) had a helly go-hence!

  'Twas a very aristocratic affair:
  The crjme de la crjme and ilite were there—
  Rank, beauty and wealth from the highest sets,
  And Hubert Howe Bancroft sent his regrets.