Root Hog or Die
SWEET BETSY FROM PIKE"A California Immigrant Song of the Fifties"
Oh, don't you remember sweet Betsy from PikeWho crossed the big mountains with her lover Ike,And two yoke of cattle, a large yellow dog,A tall, shanghai rooster, and one spotted hog?Saying, good-bye, Pike County,Farewell for a while;We'll come back againWhen we've panned out our pile.
One evening quite early they camped on the Platte,'Twas near by the road on a green shady flat;Where Betsy, quite tired, lay down to repose,While with wonder Ike gazed on his Pike County rose.
They soon reached the desert, where Betsy gave out,And down in the sand she lay rolling about;While Ike in great terror looked on in surprise,Saying "Betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes."Saying, good-bye, Pike County,Farewell for a while;I'd go back to-nightIf it was but a mile.
SweetBetsy got up in a great deal of painAnd declared she'd go back to Pike County again;Then Ike heaved a sigh and they fondly embraced,And she traveled along with his arm around her waist.
The wagon tipped over with a terrible crash,And out on the prairie rolled all sorts of trash;A few little baby clothes done up with careLooked rather suspicious,—though 'twas all on the square.
The shanghai ran off and the cattle all died,The last piece of bacon that morning was fried;Poor Ike got discouraged, and Betsy got mad,The dog wagged his tail and looked wonderfully sad.
One morning they climbed up a very high hill,And with wonder looked down into old Placerville;Ike shouted and said, as he cast his eyes down,"Sweet Betsy, my darling, we've got to Hangtown."
Long Ike and sweet Betsy attended a dance,Where Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants;Sweet Betsy was covered with ribbons and rings.Quoth Ike, "You're an angel, but where are your wings?"
A minersaid, "Betsy, will you dance with me?""I will that, old hoss, if you don't make too free;But don't dance me hard. Do you want to know why?Dog on ye, I'm chock full of strong alkali."
Long Ike and sweet Betsy got married of course,But Ike getting jealous obtained a divorce;And Betsy, well satisfied, said with a shout,"Good-bye, you big lummax, I'm glad you backed out."Saying, good-bye, dear Isaac,Farewell for a while,But come back in timeTo replenish my pile.
THE DISHEARTENED RANGER
Come listen to a ranger, you kind-hearted stranger,This song, though a sad one, you're welcome to hear;We've kept the Comanches away from your ranches,And followed them far o'er the Texas frontier.
We're weary of scouting, of traveling, and routingThe blood-thirsty villains o'er prairie and wood;No rest for the sinner, no breakfast or dinner,But he lies in a supperless bed in the mud.
No corn nor potatoes, no bread nor tomatoes,But jerked beef as dry as the sole of your shoe;All day without drinking, all night without winking,I'll tell you, kind stranger, this never will do.
Those great alligators, the State legislators,Are puffing and blowing two-thirds of their time,But windy orations about rangers and rationsNever put in our pockets one-tenth of a dime.
They do not regard us, they will not reward us,Though hungry and haggard with holes in our coats;But the election is coming and they will be drummingAnd praising our valor to purchase our votes.
Forglory and payment, for vittles and raiment,No longer we'll fight on the Texas frontier.So guard your own ranches, and mind the ComanchesOr surely they'll scalp you in less than a year.
Though sore it may grieve you, the rangers must leave youExposed to the arrows and knife of the foe;So herd your own cattle and fight your own battle,For home to the States I'm determined to go,—
Where churches have steeples and laws are more equal,Where houses have people and ladies are kind;Where work is regarded and worth is rewarded;Where pumpkins are plenty and pockets are lined.
Your wives and your daughters we have guarded from slaughter,Through conflicts and struggles I shudder to tell;No more well defend them, to God we'll commend them.To the frontier of Texas we bid a farewell.
THE MELANCHOLY COWBOY
Come all you melancholy folks and listen unto me,I will sing you about the cowboy whose heart's so light and free;He roves all over the prairie and at night when he lays downHis heart's as gay as the flowers of May with his bed spread on the ground.
They are a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them at least;But as long as you do not cross their trail, you can live with them in peace.But if you do, they're sure to rule, the day you come to their land,For they'll follow you up and shoot it out, they'll do it man to man.
You can go to a cowboy hungry, go to him wet or dry,And ask him for a few dollars in change and he will not deny;He will pull out his pocket-book and hand you out a note,—Oh, they are the fellows to strike, boys, whenever you are broke.
Youcan go to their ranches and often stay for weeks,And when you go to leave, boys, they'll never charge you a cent;But when they go to town, boys, you bet their money is spent.They walk right up, they take their drinks and they pay for every one.They never ask your pardon, boys, for a thing that they have done.
They go to the ball-room, and swing the pretty girls around;They ride their bucking broncos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats;Their California saddles, their pants below their boots,You can hear their spurs go jing-a-ling, or perhaps somebody shoots.
Come all you soft and tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun,Come go among the cowboys and they'll show you how it's done;But take the kind advice of me as I gave it to you before,For if you don't, they'll order you off with an old Colt's forty-four.
BOB STANFORD
Bob Stanford, he's a Texas boy,He lives down on the flat;His trade is running a well-drill,But he's none the worse for that.
He is neither rich nor handsome,But, unlike the city dude,His manners they are pleasantInstead of flip and rude.
His people live in Texas,That is his native home,But like many other Western ladsHe drifted off from home.
He came out to New MexicoA fortune for to make,He punched the bottom out of the earthAnd never made a stake.
So he came to ArizonaAnd again set up his drillTo punch a hole for water,And he's punching at it still.
He says he is determinedTo make the business stickOrspend that derned old well machineAnd all he can get on tick.
I hope he is successfulAnd I'll help him if I can,For I admire pluck and ambitionIn an honest working man.
So keep on going down,Punch the bottom out, or try,There is nothing in a hole in the groundThat continues being dry.
CHARLIE RUTLAGE
Another good cow-puncher has gone to meet his fate,I hope he'll find a resting place within the golden gate.Another place is vacant on the ranch of the X I T,'Twill be hard to find another that's liked as well as he.
The first that died was Kid White, a man both tough and brave,While Charlie Rutlage makes the third to be sent to his grave,Caused by a cow-horse falling while running after stock;'Twas on the spring round-up,—a place where death men mock.
He went forward one morning on a circle through the hills,He was gay and full of glee, and free from earthly ills;But when it came to finish up the work on which he went,Nothing came back from him; for his time on earth was spent.
'Twasas he rode the round-up, an X I T turned back to the herd;Poor Charlie shoved him in again, his cutting horse he spurred;Another turned; at that moment his horse the creature spiedAnd turned and fell with him, and beneath, poor Charlie died.
His relations in Texas his face never more will see,But I hope he will meet his loved ones beyond in eternity.I hope he will meet his parents, will meet them face to face,And that they will grasp him by the right hand at the shining throne of grace.
THE RANGE RIDERS
Come all you range riders and listen to me,I will relate you a story of the saddest degree,I will relate you a story of the deepest distress,—I love my poor Lulu, boys, of all girls the best.
When you are out riding, boys, upon the highway,Meet a fair damsel, a lady so gay,With her red, rosy cheeks and her sparkling dark eyes,Just think of my Lulu, boys, and your bosoms will rise.
While you live single, boys, you are just in your prime;You have no wife to scold, you have nothing to bother your minds;You can roam this world over and do just as you will,Hug and kiss the pretty girls and be your own still.
But when you get married, boys, you are done with this life,You have sold your sweet comfort for to gain you a wife;Yourwife she will scold you, and the children will cry,It will make those fair faces look withered and dry.
You can scarcely step aside, boys, to speak to a friendBut your wife is at your elbow saying what do you mean.With her nose turned upon you it will look like sad news,—I advise you by experience that life to refuse.
Come fill up your bottles, boys, drink Bourbon around;Here is luck to the single wherever they are found.Here is luck to the single and I wish them success,Likewise to the married ones, I wish them no less.
I have one more request to make, boys, before we part.Never place your affection on a charming sweetheart.She is dancing before you your affections to gain;Just turn your back on them with scorn and disdain.
HER WHITE BOSOM BARE
The sun had gone downO'er the hills of the west,And the last beams had fadedO'er the mossy hill's crest,O'er the beauties of natureAnd the charms of the fair,And Amanda was boundWith her white bosom bare.
At the foot of the mountainAmanda did sighAt the hoot of an owlOr the catamount's cry;Or the howl of some wolfIn its low, granite cell,Or the crash of some largeForest tree as it fell.
Amanda was thereAll friendless and forlornWith her face bathed in bloodAnd her garments all torn.The sunlight had fadedO'er the hills of the green,And fierce was the lookOf the wild, savage scene.
Forit was out in the forestWhere the wild game springs,Where low in the branchesThe rude hammock swings;The campfire was kindled,Well fanned by the breeze,And the light of the campfireShone round on the trees.
The campfire was kindled,Well fanned by the breeze,And the light of the fireShone round on the trees;And grim stood the circleOf the warrior throng,Impatient to joinIn the war-dance and song.
The campfire was kindled,Each warrior was there,And Amanda was boundWith her white bosom bare.She counted the vengeanceIn the face of her foesAnd sighed for the momentWhen her sufferings might close.
Young Albon, he gazedOn the face of the fairWhile her dark hazel eyesWereuplifted in prayer;And her dark waving tressesIn ringlets did flowWhich hid from the gazerA bosom of snow.
Then young Albon, the chiefOf the warriors, drew near,With an eye like an eagleAnd a step like a deer."Forbear," cried he,"Your torture forbear;This maiden shall live.By my wampum I swear.
"It is for this maiden's freedomThat I do crave;Give a sigh for her sufferingOr a tear for her grave.If there is a victimTo be burned at that tree,Young Albon, your leader,That victim shall be."
Then quick to the armsOf Amanda he rushed;The rebel was dead,And the tumult was hushed;And grim stood the circleOf warriors aroundWhilethe cords of AmandaYoung Albon unbound.
So it was early next morningThe red, white, and blueWent gliding o'er the watersIn a small birch canoe;Just like the white swanThat glides o'er the tide,Young Albon and AmandaO'er the waters did ride.
O'er the blue, bubbling water,Neath the evergreen trees,Young Albon and AmandaDid ride at their ease;And great was the joyWhen she stepped on the shoreTo embrace her dear fatherAnd mother once more.
Young Albon, he stoodAnd enjoyed their embrace,With a sigh in his heartAnd a tear on his face;And all that he askedWas kindness and foodFrom the parents of AmandaTo the chief of the woods.
YoungAmanda is home now,As you all know,Enjoying the friendsOf her own native shore;Nevermore will she roamO'er the hills or the plains;She praises the chiefThat loosened her chains.
JUAN MURRAY
My name is Juan Murray, and hard for my fate,I was born and raised in Texas, that good old lone star state.I have been to many a round-up, boys, have worked on the trail,Have stood many a long old guard through the rain, yes, sleet, and hail;I have rode the Texas broncos that pitched from morning till noon,And have seen many a storm, boys, between sunrise, yes, and noon.
I am a jolly cowboy and have roamed all over the West,And among the bronco riders I rank among the best.But when I left old Midland, with voice right then I spoke,—"I never will see you again until the day I croak."
But since I left old Texas so many sights I have sawA-traveling from my native state way out to Mexico,—I am looking all around me and cannot help but smileTo see my nearest neighbors all in the Mexican style.
I leftmy home in Texas to dodge the ball and chain.In the State of Sonora I will forever remain.Farewell to my mother, my friends that are so dear,I would like to see you all again, my lonesome heart to cheer.
I have a word to speak, boys, only another to say,—Don't never be a cow-thief, don't never ride a stray;Be careful of your line, boys, and keep it on your tree,—Just suit yourself about it, for it is nothing to me.
But if you start to rustling you will come to some sad fate,You will have to go to prison and work for the state.Don't think that I am lying and trying to tell a joke,For the writer has experienced just every word he's spoke.
It is better to be honest and let other's stock aloneThan to leave your native country and seek a Mexican home.For if you start to rustling you will surely come to seeThe State of Sonora,—be an outcast just like me.
GREER COUNTY
Tom Hight is my name, an old bachelor I am,You'll find me out West in the country of fame,You'll find me out West on an elegant plain,And starving to death on my government claim.
Hurrah for Greer County!The land of the free,The land of the bed-bug,Grass-hopper and flea;I'll sing of its praisesAnd tell of its fame,While starving to deathOn my government claim.
My house is built of natural sod,Its walls are erected according to hod;Its roof has no pitch but is level and plain,I always get wet if it happens to rain.
How happy am I on my government claim,I've nothing to lose, and nothing to gain;I've nothing to eat, I've nothing to wear,—From nothing to nothing is the hardest fare.
How happy am I when I crawl into bed,—A rattlesnake hisses a tune at my head,Agay little centipede, all without fear,Crawls over my pillow and into my ear.
Now all you claim holders, I hope you will stayAnd chew your hard tack till you're toothless and gray;But for myself, I'll no longer remainTo starve like a dog on my government claim.
My clothes are all ragged as my language is rough,My bread is corn dodgers, both solid and tough;But yet I am happy, and live at my easeOn sorghum molasses, bacon, and cheese.
Good-bye to Greer County where blizzards arise,Where the sun never sinks and a flea never dies,And the wind never ceases but always remainsTill it starves us all out on our government claims.
Farewell to Greer County, farewell to the West,I'll travel back East to the girl I love best,I'll travel back to Texas and marry me a wife,And quit corn bread for the rest of my life.
ROSIN THE BOW
I live for the good of my nationAnd my sons are all growing low,But I hope that my next generationWill resemble Old Rosin the Bow.
I have traveled this wide world all over,And now to another I'll go,For I know that good quarters are waitingTo welcome Old Rosin the Bow.
The gay round of delights I have traveled,Nor will I behind leave a woe,For while my companions are jovialThey'll drink to Old Rosin the Bow.
This life now is drawn to a closing,All will at last be so,Then we'll take a full bumper at partingTo the name of Old Rosin the Bow.
When I am laid out on the counter,And the people all anxious to know,Just raise up the lid of the coffinAnd look at Old Rosin the Bow.
And when through the streets my friends bear me,And the ladies are filled with deep woe,They'llcome to the doors and the windowsAnd sigh for Old Rosin the Bow.
Then get some fine, jovial fellows,And let them all staggering go;Then dig a deep hole in the meadowAnd in it toss Rosin the Bow.
Then get a couple of dornicks,Place one at my head and my toe,And do not forget to scratch on them,"Here lies Old Rosin the Bow."
Then let those same jovial fellowsSurround my lone grave in a row,While they drink from my favorite bottleThe health of Old Rosin the Bow.
THE GREAT ROUND-UP
When I think of the last great round-upOn the eve of eternity's dawn,I think of the past of the cowboysWho have been with us here and are gone.And I wonder if any will greet meOn the sands of the evergreen shoreWith a hearty, "God bless you, old fellow,"That I've met with so often before.
I think of the big-hearted fellowsWho will divide with you blanket and bread,With a piece of stray beef well roasted,And charge for it never a red.I often look upward and wonderIf the green fields will seem half so fair,If any the wrong trail have takenAnd fail to "be in" over there.
For the trail that leads down to perditionIs paved all the way with good deeds,But in the great round-up of ages,Dear boys, this won't answer your needs.But the way to the green pastures, though narrow,Leads straight to the home in the sky,And Jesus will give you the passportsTo the land of the sweet by and by.
Forthe Savior has taken the contractTo deliver all those who believe,At the headquarters ranch of his Father,In the great range where none can deceive.The Inspector will stand at the gatewayAnd the herd, one by one, will go by,—The round-up by the angels in judgmentMust pass 'neath his all-seeing eye.
No maverick or slick will be talliedIn the great book of life in his home,For he knows all the brands and the earmarksThat down through the ages have come.But, along with the tailings and sleepers,The strays must turn from the gate;No road brand to gain them admission,But the awful sad cry "too late."
Yet I trust in the last great round-upWhen the rider shall cut the big herd,That the cowboys shall be representedIn the earmark and brand of the Lord,To be shipped to the bright, mystic regionsOver there in green pastures to lie,And led by the crystal still watersIn that home of the sweet by and by.
THE JOLLY COWBOY
My lover, he is a cowboy, he's brave and kind and true,He rides a Spanish pony, he throws a lasso, too;And when he comes to see me our vows we do redeem,He throws his arms around me and thus begins to sing:
"Ho, I'm a jolly cowboy, from Texas now I hail,Give me my quirt and pony, I'm ready for the trail;I love the rolling prairies, they're free from care and strife,Behind a herd of longhorns I'll journey all my life.
"When early dawn is breaking and we are far away,We fall into our saddles, we round-up all the day;We rope, we brand, we ear-mark, I tell you we are smart,And when the herd is ready, for Kansas then we start.
"Oh, I am a Texas cowboy, lighthearted, brave, and free,To roam the wide, wide prairie, 'tis always joy to me.Mytrusty little pony is my companion true,O'er creeks and hills and rivers he's sure to pull me through.
"When threatening clouds do gather and herded lightnings flash,And heavy rain drops splatter, and rolling thunders crash;What keeps the herd from running, stampeding far and wide?The cowboy's long, low whistle and singing by their side.
"When in Kansas City, our boss he pays us up,We loaf around the city and take a parting cup;We bid farewell to city life, from noisy crowds we come,And back to dear old Texas, the cowboy's native home."
Oh, he is coming back to marry the only girl he loves,He says I am his darling, I am his own true love;Some day we two will marry and then no more he'll roam,But settle down with Mary in a cozy little home.
"Ho, I'm a jolly cowboy, from Texas now I hail,Give me my bond to Mary, I'll quit the Lone Star trail.Ilove the rolling prairies, they're free from care and strife,But I'll quit the herd of longhorns for the sake of my little wife."
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The Texas Cowboy
THE CONVICT
When slumbering In my convict cell my childhood days I see,When I was mother's little child and knelt at mother's knee.There my life was peace, I know, I knew no sorrow or pain.Mother dear never did think, I know, I would wear a felon's chain.
Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink,Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink,Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?
When I had grown to manhood and evil paths I trod,I learned to scorn my fellow-man and even curse my God;And in the evil course I ran for a great length of timeTill at last I ran too long and was condemned for a felon's crime.
My prison life will soon be o'er, my life will soon be gone,—Maythe angels waft it heavenward to a bright and happy home.I'll be at rest, sweet, sweet rest, there is rest in the heavenly home;I'll be at rest, sweet, sweet rest, there is rest in the heavenly home.
Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink,Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink,Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?
JACK O' DIAMONDS
O Mollie, O Mollie, it is for your sake aloneThat I leave my old parents, my house and my home,That I leave my old parents, you caused me to roam,—I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
Jack o' diamonds, Jack o' diamonds,I know you of old,You've robbed my poor pocketsOf silver and gold.Whiskey, you villain,You've been my downfall,You've kicked me, you've cuffed me,But I love you for all.
My foot's in my stirrup, my bridle's in my hand,I'm going to leave sweet Mollie, the fairest in the land.Her parents don't like me, they say I'm too poor,They say I'm unworthy to enter her door.
They say I drink whiskey; my money is my own,And them that don't like me can leave me alone.I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry,And when I get thirsty I'll lay down and cry.
It'sbeefsteak when I'm hungry,And whiskey when I'm dry,Greenbacks when I'm hard up,And heaven when I die.Rye whiskey, rye whiskey,Rye whiskey I cry,If I don't get rye whiskey,I surely will die.O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before,Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.
I will build me a big castle on yonder mountain high,Where my true love can see me when she comes riding by,Where my true love can see me and help me to mourn,—I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
I'll get up in my saddle, my quirt I'll take in hand,I'll think of you, Mollie, when in some far distant land,I'll think of you, Mollie, you caused me to roam,—I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
If the ocean was whiskey,And I was a duck,I'd dive to the bottomTo get one sweet sup;But the ocean ain't whiskey,And I ain't a duck,SoI'll play Jack o' diamondsAnd then we'll get drunk.O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before,Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.
I've rambled and trambled this wide world around,But it's for the rabble army, dear Mollie, I'm bound,It is to the rabble army, dear Mollie, I roam,—I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
I have rambled and gambled all my money away,But it's with the rabble army, O Mollie, I must stay,It is with the rabble army, O Mollie I must roam,—I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
Jack o' diamonds, Jack o' diamonds,I know you of old,You've robbed my poor pocketsOf silver and gold.Rye whiskey, rye whiskey,Rye whiskey I cry,If you don't give me rye whiskeyI'll lie down and die.O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before,Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.
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Jack O Diamonds
THE COWBOY'S MEDITATION
At midnight when the cattle are sleepingOn my saddle I pillow my head,And up at the heavens lie peepingFrom out of my cold, grassy bed,—Often and often I wonderedAt night when lying aloneIf every bright star up yonderIs a big peopled world like our own.
Are they worlds with their ranges and ranches?Do they ring with rough rider refrains?Do the cowboys scrap there with ComanchesAnd other Red Men of the plains?Are the hills covered over with cattleIn those mystic worlds far, far away?Do the ranch-houses ring with the prattleOf sweet little children at play?
At night in the bright stars up yonderDo the cowboys lie down to their rest?Do they gaze at this old world and wonderIf rough riders dash over its breast?Do they list to the wolves in the canyons?Do they watch the night owl in its flight,With their horse their only companionWhile guarding the herd through the night?
Sometimeswhen a bright star is twinklingLike a diamond set in the sky,I find myself lying and thinking,It may be God's heaven is nigh.I wonder if there I shall meet her,My mother whom God took away;If in the star-heavens I'll greet herAt the round-up that's on the last day.
In the east the great daylight is breakingAnd into my saddle I spring;The cattle from sleep are awakening,The heaven-thoughts from me take wing,The eyes of my bronco are flashing,Impatient he pulls at the reins,And off round the herd I go dashing,A reckless cowboy of the plains.
BILLY VENERO
Billy Venero heard them say,In an Arizona town one day.That a band of Apache Indians were upon the trail of death;Heard them tell of murder done,Three men killed at Rocky Run,"They're in danger at the cow-ranch," said Venero, under breath.
Cow-Ranch, forty miles away,Was a little place that layIn a deep and shady valley of the mighty wilderness;Half a score of homes were there,And in one a maiden fairHeld the heart of Billy Venero, Billy Venero's little Bess.
So no wonder he grew paleWhen he heard the cowboy's taleOf the men that he'd seen murdered the day before at Rocky Run."Sure as there's a God above,I will save the girl I love;By my love for little Bessie I will see that something's done."
Nota moment he delayedWhen his brave resolve was made."Why man," his comrades told him when they heard of his daring plan,"You are riding straight to death."But he answered, "Save your breath;I may never reach the cow-ranch but I'll do the best I can."
As he crossed the alkaliAll his thoughts flew on aheadTo the little band at cow-ranch thinking not of danger near;With his quirt's unceasing whirlAnd the jingle of his spursLittle brown Chapo bore the cowboy o'er the far away frontier.
Lower and lower sank the sun;He drew rein at Rocky Run;"Here those men met death, my Chapo," and he stroked his glossy mane;"So shall those we go to warnEre the coming of the mornIf we fail,—God help my Bessie," and he started on again.
Sharp and clear a rifle shotWoke the echoes of the spot."Iam wounded," cried Venero, as he swayed from side to side;"While there's life there's always hope;Slowly onward I will lope,—If I fail to reach the cow-ranch, Bessie Lee shall know I tried.
"I will save her yet," he cried,"Bessie Lee shall know I tried,"And for her sake then he halted in the shadow of a hill;From his chapareras he tookWith weak hands a little book;Tore a blank leaf from its pages saying, "This shall be my will."
From a limb a pen he broke,And he dipped his pen of oakIn the warm blood that was spurting from a wound above his heart."Rouse," he wrote before too late;"Apache warriors lie in wait.Good-bye, Bess, God bless you darling," and he felt the cold tears start.
Then he made his message fast,Love's first message and its last,To the saddle horn he tied it and his lips were white with pain,"Take this message, if not me,Straightto little Bessie Lee;"Then he tied himself to the saddle, and he gave his horse the rein.
Just at dusk a horse of brownWet with sweat came panting downThe little lane at the cow-ranch, stopped in front of Bessie's door;But the cowboy was asleep,And his slumbers were so deep,Little Bess could never wake him though she tried for evermore.
You have heard the story toldBy the young and by the old,Away down yonder at the cow-ranch the night the Apaches came;Of that sharp and bloody fight,How the chief fell in the fightAnd the panic-stricken warriors when they heard Venero's name.
And the heavens and earth betweenKeep a little flower so greenThat little Bess had planted ere they laid her by his side.
DOGIE SONG
The cow-bosses are good-hearted chunks,Some short, some heavy, more long;But don't matter what he looks like,They all sing the same old song.On the plains, in the mountains, in the valleys,In the south where the days are long,The bosses are different fellows;Still they sing the same old song.
"Sift along, boys, don't ride so slow;Haven't got much time but a long round to go.Quirt him in the shoulders and rake him down the hip;I've cut you toppy mounts, boys, now pair off and rip.Bunch the herd at the old meet,Then beat 'em on the tail;Whip 'em up and down the sidesAnd hit the shortest trail."
THE BOOZER
I'm a howler from the prairies of the West.If you want to die with terror, look at me.I'm chain-lightning—if I ain't, may I be blessed.I'm the snorter of the boundless prairie.
He's a killer and a hater!He's the great annihilator!He's a terror of the boundless prairie.
I'm the snoozer from the upper trail!I'm the reveler in murder and in gore!I can bust more Pullman coaches on the railThan anyone who's worked the job before.
He's a snorter and a snoozer.He's the great trunk line abuser.He's the man who puts the sleeper on the rail.
I'm the double-jawed hyena from the East.I'm the blazing, bloody blizzard of the States.I'm the celebrated slugger; I'm the Beast.I can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits.
He's a double-jawed hyena!He's the villain of the scena!He can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits.
DRINKING SONG
Drink that rot gut, drink that rot gut,Drink that red eye, boys;It don't make a damn wherever we land,We hit her up for joy.
We've lived in the saddle and ridden trail,Drink old Jordan, boys,We'll go whooping and yelling, we'll all go a-helling;Drink her to our joy.
Whoop-ee! drink that rot gut, drink that red nose,Whenever you get to town;Drink it straight and swig it mighty,Till the world goes round and round!
A FRAGMENT
I'd rather hear a rattler rattle,I'd rather buck stampeding cattle,I'd rather go to a greaser battle,Than—Than to—Than to fight—Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
I'd rather eat a pan of dope,I'd rather ride without a rope,I'd rather from this country lope,Than—Than to—Than to fight—Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
A MAN NAMED HODS
Come, all you old cowpunchers, a story I will tell,And if you'll all be quiet, I sure will sing it well;And if you boys don't like it, you sure can go to hell.
Back in the day when I was young, I knew a man named Hods;He wasn't fit fer nothin' 'cep turnin' up the clods.
But he came west in fifty-three, behind a pair of mules,And 'twas hard to tell between the three which was the biggest fools.
Up on the plains old Hods he got and there his trouble began.Oh, he sure did get in trouble,—and old Hodsie wasn't no man.
He met a bunch of Indian bucks led by Geronimo,And what them Indians did to him, well, shorely I don't know.
But they lifted off old Hodsie's skelp and left him out to die,And if it hadn't been for me, he'd been in the sweet by and by.
ButI packed him back to Santa Fé and there I found his mules,For them dad-blamed two critters had got the Indians fooled.
I don't know how they done it, but they shore did get away,And them two mules is livin' up to this very day.
Old Hodsie's feet got toughened up, he got to be a sport,He opened up a gamblin' house and a place of low resort;
He got the prettiest dancing girls that ever could be found,—Them girls' feet was like rubber balls and they never staid on the ground.
And then thar came Billy the Kid, he envied Hodsie's wealth,He told old Hods to leave the town, 'twould be better for his health;Old Hodsie took the hint and got, but he carried all his wealth.
And he went back to Noo York State with lots of dinero,And now they say he's senator, but of that I shore don't know.
A FRAGMENT
I am fur from my sweetheartAnd she is fur from me,And when I'll see my sweetheartI can't tell when 'twill be.
But I love her just the same,No matter where I roam;And that there girl will wait fur meWhenever I come home.
I've roamed the Texas prairies,I've followed the cattle trail,I've rid a pitching ponyTill the hair came off his tail.
I've been to cowboy dances,I've kissed the Texas girls,But they ain't none what can compareWith my own sweetheart's curls.
THE LONE STAR TRAIL
I'm a rowdy cowboy just off the stormy plains,My trade is girting saddles and pulling bridle reins.Oh, I can tip the lasso, it is with graceful ease;I rope a streak of lightning, and ride it where I please.My bosses they all like me, they say I am hard to beat;I give them the bold standoff, you bet I have got the cheek.I always work for wages, my pay I get in gold;I am bound to follow the longhorn steer until I am too old.
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
I am a Texas cowboy and I do ride the range;My trade is cinches and saddles and ropes and bridle reins;With Stetson hat and jingling spurs and leather up to the knees,Gray backs as big as chili beans and fighting like hell with fleas.And if I had a little stake, I soon would married be,But another week and I must go, the boss said so to-day.Mygirl must cheer up courage and choose some other one,For I am bound to follow the Lone Star Trail until my race is run.
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
It almost breaks my heart for to have to go away,And leave my own little darling, my sweetheart so far away.But when I'm out on the Lone Star Trail often I'll think of thee,Of my own dear girl, the darling one, the one I would like to see.And when I get to a shipping point, I'll get on a little spreeTo drive away the sorrow for the girl that once loved me.And though red licker stirs us up we're bound to have our fun,And I intend to follow the Lone Star Trail until my race is run.
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
I went up the Lone Star Trail in eighteen eighty-three;I fell in love with a pretty miss and she in love with me."When you get to Kansas write and let me know;Andif you get in trouble, your bail I'll come and go."When I got up in Kansas, I had a pleasant dream;I dreamed I was down on Trinity, down on that pleasant stream;I dreampt my true love right beside me, she come to go my bail;I woke up broken hearted with a yearling by the tail.
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
In came my jailer about nine o'clock,A bunch of keys was in his hand, my cell door to unlock,Saying, "Cheer up, my prisoner, I heard some voice sayYou're bound to hear your sentence some time to-day."In came my mother about ten o'clock,Saying, "O my loving Johnny, what sentence have you got?""The jury found me guilty and the judge a-standin' byHas sent me down to Huntsville to lock me up and die."
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
Down come the jailer, just about eleven o'clock,With a bunch of keys all in his hand the cell doors to unlock,Saying,"Cheer up, my prisoner, I heard the jury sayJust ten long years in Huntsville you're bound to go and stay."Down come my sweetheart, ten dollars in her hand,Saying, "Give this to my cowboy, 'tis all that I command;O give this to my cowboy and think of olden times,Think of the darling that he has left behind."
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
WAY DOWN IN MEXICO
O boys, we're goin' far to-night,Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!We'll take the greasers now in handAnd drive 'em in the Rio Grande,Way down in Mexico.
We'll hang old Santa Anna soon,Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!And all the greaser soldiers, too,To the chune of Yankee Doodle Doo,Way down in Mexico.
We'll scatter 'em like flocks of sheep,Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!We'll mow 'em down with rifle ballAnd plant our flag right on their wall,Way down in Mexico.
Old Rough and Ready, he's a trump,Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!He'll wipe old Santa Anna outAnd put the greasers all to rout,Way down in Mexico.
Then we'll march back by and by,Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!And kiss the gals we left to homeAnd never more we'll go and roam,Way down in Mexico.
RATTLESNAKE—A RANCH HAYING SONG
A nice young ma-wa-wanLived on a hi-wi-will;A nice young ma-wa-wan,For I knew him we-we-well.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
This nice young ma-wa-wanWent out to mo-wo-wowTo see if he-we-weCould make a sho-wo-wow.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
He scarcely mo-wo-wowedHalf round the fie-we-wieldTill up jumped—come a rattle, come a sna-wa-wake,And bit him on the he-we-weel.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
He laid right dow-we-wownUpon the gro-wo-woundAnd shut his ey-wy-wyesAnd looked all aro-wo-wound.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
"Opappy da-wa-wad,Go tell my ga-wa-walThat I'm a-goin' ter di-wi-wie,For I know I sha-wa-wall."
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
"O pappy da-wa-wad,Go spread the ne-wu-wus;And here come Sa-wa-wallWithout her sho-woo-woos."
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
"O John, O Joh-wa-wahn,Why did you go-wo-woWay down in the mea-we-we-dowSo far to mo-wo-wow?"
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
"O Sal, O Sa-wa-wall,Why don't you kno-wo-wowWhen the grass gits ri-wi-wipe,It must be mo-wo-woed?"
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
Come all young gir-wi-wirlsAnd shed a tea-we-wearForthis young ma-wa-wanThat died right he-we-were.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
Come all young me-we-wenAnd warning ta-wa-wake,And don't get bi-wi-witBy a rattle sna-wa-wake.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
THE RAILROAD CORRAL
Oh we're up in the morning ere breaking of day,The chuck wagon's busy, the flapjacks in play;The herd is astir o'er hillside and vale,With the night riders rounding them into the trail.Oh, come take up your cinches, come shake out your reins;Come wake your old broncho and break for the plains;Come roust out your steers from the long chaparral,For the outfit is off to the railroad corral.
The sun circles upward; the steers as they plodAre pounding to powder the hot prairie sod;And it seems as the dust makes you dizzy and sickThat we'll never reach noon and the cool, shady creek.But tie up your kerchief and ply up your nag;Come dry up your grumbles and try not to lag;Come with your steers from the long chaparral,For we're far on the road to the railroad corral.
The afternoon shadows are starting to lean,When the chuck wagon sticks in the marshy ravine;The herd scatters farther than vision can look,Foryou can bet all true punchers will help out the cook.Come shake out your rawhide and snake it up fair;Come break your old broncho to take in his share;Come from your steers in the long chaparral,For 'tis all in the drive to the railroad corral.
But the longest of days must reach evening at last,The hills all climbed, the creeks all past;The tired herd droops in the yellowing light;Let them loaf if they will, for the railroad's in sightSo flap up your holster and snap up your belt,And strap up your saddle whose lap you have felt;Good-bye to the steers from the long chaparral,For there's a town that's a trunk by the railroad corral.
THE SONG OF THE "METIS" TRAPPERBy Rolette
Hurrah for the great white way!Hurrah for the dog and sledge!As we snow-shoe along,We give them a song,With a snap of the whip and an urgent "mush on,"—Hurrah for the great white way! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the snow and the ice!As we follow the trail,We call to the dogs with whistle and song,And reply to their talkWith only "mush on, mush on"!Hurrah for the snow and the ice! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the gun and the trap,—As we follow the linesBy the rays of the mystic lightThat flames in the north with banners so bright,As we list to its swish, swish, swish, through the air all night,Hurrah for the gun and the trap! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrahfor the fire and cold!As we lie in the robes all night.And list to the howl of the wolf;For we emptied the pot of the tea so hot,And a king on his throne might envy our lot,—Hurrah for the fire and cold! Hurrah!
Hurrah for our black-haired girls,Who brave the storms of the mountain heightsAnd follow us on the great white way;For their eyes so bright light the way all rightAnd guide us to shelter and warmth each night.Hurrah for our black-haired girls! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
THE CAMP FIRE HAS GONE OUT
Through progress of the railroads our occupation's gone;So we will put ideas into words, our words into a song.First comes the cowboy, he is pointed for the west;Of all the pioneers I claim the cowboys are the best;You will miss him on the round-up, it's gone, his merry shout,—The cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out.
There is the freighters, our companions, you've got to leave this land,Can't drag your loads for nothing through the gumbo and the sand.The railroads are bound to beat you when you do your level best;So give it up to the grangers and strike out for the west.Bid them all adieu and give the merry shout,—The cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out.
When I think of those good old days, my eyes with tears do fill;WhenI think of the tin can by the fire and the cayote on the hill.I'll tell you, boys, in those days old-timers stood a show,—Our pockets full of money, not a sorrow did we know.But things have changed now, we are poorly clothed and fed.Our wagons are all broken and our ponies most all dead.Soon we will leave this country, you'll hear the angels shout,"Oh, here they come to Heaven, the campfire has gone out."
NIGHT-HERDING SONGBy Harry Stephens
Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round,You have wandered and tramped all over the ground;Oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow,And don't forever be on the go,—Oh, move slow, dogies, move slow.
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
I have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, and cross-herded, too,But to keep you together, that's what I can't do;My horse is leg weary and I'm awful tired,But if I let you get away I'm sure to get fired,—Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up.
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
O say, little dogies, when you goin' to lay downAnd quit this forever siftin' around?My limbs are weary, my seat is sore;Oh, lay down, dogies, like you've laid before,—Lay down, little dogies, lay down.
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
Oh,lay still, dogies, since you have laid down,Stretch away out on the big open ground;Snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild soundThat will all go away when the day rolls round,—Lay still, little dogies, lay still.
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.. . . . . .
TAIL PIECE
Oh, the cow-puncher loves the whistle of his rope,As he races over the plains;And the stage-driver loves the popper of his whip,And the rattle of his concord chains;And we'll all pray the Lord that we will be saved,And we'll keep the golden rule;But I'd rather be home with the girl I loveThan to monkey with this goddamn'd mule.. . . . . . . . . . .
THE HABIT[5]
I've beat my way wherever any winds have blown,I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone,From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill;For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
I settles down quite frequent and I says, says I,"I'll never wander further till I comes to die."But the wind it sorta chuckles, "Why, o' course you will,"And shure enough I does it, cause I can't keep still.
I've seed a lot o' places where I'd like to stay,But I gets a feelin' restless and I'm on my way.I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill,And once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
I've been in rich men's houses and I've been in jail,But when it's time for leavin', I jes hits the trail;I'm a human bird of passage, and the song I trill,Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."
Thesun is sorta coaxin' and the road is clearAnd the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill;For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
OLD PAINT[6]
REFRAIN:Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne,Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne,—
My foot in the stirrup, my pony won't stand;Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, I'm off for Montan';Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
I'm a ridin' Old Paint, I'm a-leadin' old Fan;Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
With my feet in the stirrups, my bridle in my hand;Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
Old Paint's a good pony, he paces when he can;Goodbye, little Annie, I'm off for Cheyenne.
Oh, hitch up your horses and feed 'em some hay,And seat yourself by me so long as you stay.
Myhorses ain't hungry, they'll not eat your hay;My wagon is loaded and rolling away.
My foot in my stirrup, my reins in my hand;Good-morning, young lady, my horses won't stand.
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
DOWN SOUTH ON THE RIO GRANDE
From way down south on the Rio Grande,Roll on steers for the Post Oak Sand,—Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
You'd laugh fur to see that fellow a-straddleOf a mustang mare on a raw-hide saddle,—Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Rich as a king, and he wouldn't be biggerFur a pitchin' hoss and a lame old nigger,—Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Ole Abe kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger,'Til he bust hisself 'bout a lame old nigger,—Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Old Jeff swears he'll sew him togetherWith powder and shot instead of leather,—Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Kin cuss an' fight an' hold or free 'em,But I know them mavericks when I see 'em,—Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
SILVER JACK[7]
I was on the drive in eightyWorking under Silver Jack,Which the same is now in JacksonAnd ain't soon expected back,And there was a fellow 'mongst usBy the name of Robert Waite;Kind of cute and smart and tongueyGuess he was a graduate.
He could talk on any subjectFrom the Bible down to Hoyle,And his words flowed out so easy,Just as smooth and slick as oil,He was what they call a skeptic,And he loved to sit and weaveHifalutin' words togetherTellin' what he didn't believe.
One day we all were sittin' roundSmokin' nigger head tobaccoAnd hearing Bob expound;Hell, he said, was all a humbug,And he made it plain as dayThat the Bible was a fable;Andwe lowed it looked that way.Miracles and such likeWere too rank for him to stand,And as for him they called the SaviorHe was just a common man.
"You're a liar," someone shouted,"And you've got to take it back."Then everybody started,—'Twas the words of Silver Jack.And he cracked his fists togetherAnd he stacked his duds and cried,"'Twas in that thar religionThat my mother lived and died;And though I haven't alwaysUsed the Lord exactly right,Yet when I hear a chump abuse himHe's got to eat his words or fight."
Now, this Bob he weren't no cowardAnd he answered bold and free:"Stack your duds and cut your capers,For there ain't no flies on me."And they fit for forty minutesAnd the crowd would whoop and cheerWhen Jack spit up a tooth or two,Or when Bobby lost an ear.
But at last Jack got him underAnd he slugged him onct or twict,Andstraightway Bob admittedThe divinity of Christ.But Jack kept reasoning with himTill the poor cuss gave a yellAnd lowed he'd been mistakenIn his views concerning hell.
Then the fierce encounter endedAnd they riz up from the groundAnd someone brought a bottle outAnd kindly passed it round.And we drank to Bob's religionIn a cheerful sort o' way,But the spread of infidelityWas checked in camp that day.
THE COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS BALL[8]
Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow,Where the cattle are a-browzin' and the Spanish ponies grow;Where the Northers come a-whistlin' from beyond the Neutral Strip;And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as though they had the grip;Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark,And the mockin' birds are singin' to the lovely medder lark;Where the 'possum and the badger and the rattlesnakes abound,And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound;Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams,Whilethe Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams;Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call,—It was there I attended the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
The town was Anson City, old Jones' county seat,Where they raised Polled Angus cattle and waving whiskered wheat;Where the air is soft and bammy and dry and full of health,Where the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth;Where they print theTexas Western, that Hec McCann suppliesWith news and yarns and stories, of most amazing size;Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger" on knowing tenderfeet,And Democracy's triumphant and mighty hard to beat;Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap, from Lamar,Who used to be the sheriff "back east in Paris, sah"!'Twas there, I say, at Anson with the lovely Widder Wall,That I went to that reception, the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
Theboys had left the ranches and come to town in piles;The ladies, kinder scatterin', had gathered in for miles.And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well,'Twas gave on this occasion at the Morning Star Hotel.The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine,And a viol came imported, by the stage from Abilene.The room was togged out gorgeous—with mistletoe and shawls,And the candles flickered festious, around the airy walls.The wimmen folks looked lovely—the boys looked kinder treed,Till the leader commenced yelling, "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede,"And the music started sighing and a-wailing through the hallAs a kind of introduction to the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
The leader was a feller that came from Swenson's ranch,—They called him Windy Billy from Little Deadman's Branch.His rig was kinder keerless,—big spurs and high heeled boots;He had the reputation that comes when fellers shoots.Hisvoice was like the bugle upon the mountain height;His feet were animated, and a mighty movin' sight,When he commenced to holler, "Now fellers, shake your pen!Lock horns ter all them heifers and rustle them like men;Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing and let 'em go;Climb the grapevine round 'em; neow all hands do-ce-do!You maverick, jine the round-up,—jes skip the waterfall,"Huh! hit was getting active, the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
The boys was tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat,That old bass viol's music just got there with both feet!That wailin', frisky fiddle, I never shall forget;And Windy kept a-singin'—I think I hear him yet—"Oh, X's, chase yer squirrels, and cut 'em to our side;Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride,Doc Hollis down the center, and twine the ladies' chain,Van Andrews, pen the fillies in big T Diamond's train.Allpull your freight together, neow swallow fork and change;Big Boston, lead the trail herd through little Pitchfork's range.Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope and balance all!"Huh! Hit were gettin' active—the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.