The dust riz fast and furious; we all jes galloped round,Till the scenery got so giddy that T Bar Dick was downed.We buckled to our partners and told 'em to hold on,Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir-ee!That whirl at Anson City jes takes the cake with me.I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill,Give me a frontier break-down backed up by Windy Bill.McAllister ain't nowhere, when Windy leads the show;I've seen 'em both in harness and so I ought ter know.Oh, Bill, I shan't forget yer, and I oftentimes recallThat lively gaited sworray—the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
PINTO
I am a vaquero by trade;To handle my rope I'm not afraid.I lass' anoteroby the two hornsThrow down the biggest that ever was born.Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
My name to you I will not tell;For what's the use, you know me so well.The girls all love me, and cryWhen I leave them to join the rodero.Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
I am a vaquero, and here I reside;Show me the broncho I cannot ride.They say old Pinto with one split earIs the hardest jumping broncho on the rodero.Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
There strayed to our camp an iron gray colt;The boys were all fraid him so on him I bolt.You bet I stayed with him till cheer after cheer,—"He's the broncho twister that's on the rodero."Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
Mystory is ended, old Pinto is dead;I'm going down Laredo and paint the town red.I'm going up to Laredo and set up the beerTo all the cowboys that's on the rodero.Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
THE GAL I LEFT BEHIND ME
I struck the trail in seventy-nine,The herd strung out behind me;As I jogged along my mind ran backFor the gal I left behind me.That sweet little gal, that true little gal,The gal I left behind me!
If ever I get off the trailAnd the Indians they don't find me,I'll make my way straight back againTo the gal I left behind me.That sweet little gal, that true little gal,The gal I left behind me!
The wind did blow, the rain did flow,The hail did fall and blind me;I thought of that gal, that sweet little gal,That gal I'd left behind me!That sweet little gal, that true little gal,The gal I left behind me!
She wrote ahead to the place I said,I was always glad to find it.She says, "I am true, when you get throughRight back here you will find me."Thatsweet little gal, that true little gal,The gal I left behind me!
When we sold out I took the train,I knew where I would find her;When I got back we had a smackAnd that was no gol-darned liar.That sweet little gal, that true little gal,The gal I left behind me!
BILLY THE KID
Billy was a bad manAnd carried a big gun,He was always after GreasersAnd kept 'em on the run.
He shot one every morning,For to make his morning meal.And let a white man sass him,He was shore to feel his steel.
He kept folks in hot water,And he stole from many a stage;And when he was full of liquorHe was always in a rage.
But one day he met a manWho was a whole lot badder.And now he's dead,And we ain't none the sadder.
THE HELL-BOUND TRAIN
A Texas cowboy lay down on a bar-room floor.Having drunk so much he could drink no more;So he fell asleep with a troubled brainTo dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.
The engine with murderous blood was dampAnd was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp;An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones,While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.
The boiler was filled with lager beerAnd the devil himself was the engineer;The passengers were a most motley crew,—Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew,
Rich men in broadcloth, beggars in rags,Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags,Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white.All chained together,—O God, what a sight!
While the train rushed on at an awful pace,The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face;Wider and wider the country grew,As faster and faster the engine flew.
Louderand louder the thunder crashedAnd brighter and brighter the lightning flashed;Hotter and hotter the air becameTill the clothes were burnt from each quivering frame.
And out of the distance there arose a yell,"Ha, ha," said the devil, "we're nearing hell!"Then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with painAnd begged the devil to stop the train.
But he capered about and danced for gleeAnd laughed and joked at their misery."My faithful friends, you have done the workAnd the devil never can a payday shirk.
"You've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor;The starving brother you've turned from the door,You've laid up gold where the canker rust,And have given free vent to your beastly lust.
"You've justice scorned, and corruption sown,And trampled the laws of nature down.You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied,And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.
"You have paid full fare so I'll carry you through;For it's only right you should have your due.Why, the laborer always expects his hire,So I'll land you safe in the lake of fire.
"Whereyour flesh will waste in the flames that roar,And my imps torment you forever more."Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry,His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high.
Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hourTo be saved from his sin and the demon's power.And his prayers and his vows were not in vain;For he never rode the hell-bound train.
THE OLD SCOUT'S LAMENT
Come all of you, my brother scouts,And listen to my song;Come, let us sing togetherThough the shadows fall so long.
Of all the old frontiersmenThat used to scour the plainThere are but very few of themThat with us yet remain.
Day after day they're dropping off,They're going one by one;Our clan is fast decreasing,Our race is almost run.
There are many of our numberThat never wore the blue,But faithfully they did their partAs brave men, tried and true.
They never joined the army,But had other work to doIn piloting the coming folks,To help them safely through.
Butbrothers, we are failing,Our race is almost run;The days of elk and buffaloAnd beaver traps are gone—
Oh, the days of elk and buffalo!It fills my heart with painTo know these days are past and goneTo never come again.
We fought the red-skin rascalsOver valley, hill, and plain;We fought him in the mountain top,We fought him down again.
These fighting days are over.The Indian yell resoundsNo more along the border;Peace sends far sweeter sounds.
But we found great joy, old comrades,To hear and make it die;We won bright homes for gentle ones,And now, our West, good-bye.
THE DESERTED ADOBE
Round the 'dobe rank sands are thickly blowin',Its ridges fill the deserted field;Yet on this claim young lives once hope were sowingFor all the years might yield;And in strong hands the echoing hoof pursuin'A wooden share turned up the sod,The toiler brave drank deep the fresh air's brewin'And sang content to God.The toiler brave drank deep the fresh air's brewin'And sang content to God.
A woman fair and sweet has smilin' strivenThrough long and lonesome hours;A blue-eyed babe, a bit of earthly heaven,Laughed at the sun's hot towers;A bow of promise made this desert splendid,This 'dobe was their pride.But what began so well, alas, has ended—,The promise died.But what began so well alas soon ended—,The promise died.
Their plans and dreams, their cheerful labor wastedIn dry and mis-spent years;The spring was sweet, the summer bitter tasted,Theautumn salt with tears.Now "gyp" and sand do hide their one-time yearnin';'Twas theirs; 'tis past.God's ways are strange, we take so long in learnin',To fail at last.God's ways are strange, we take so long in learnin',To fail at last.
THE COWBOY AT WORK
You may call the cowboy horned and think him hard to tame,You may heap vile epithets upon his head;But to know him is to like him, notwithstanding his hard name,For he will divide with you his beef and bread.
If you see him on his pony as he scampers o'er the plain,You would think him wild and woolly, to be sure;But his heart is warm and tender when he sees a friend in need,Though his education is but to endure.
When the storm breaks in its fury and the lightning's vivid flashMakes you thank the Lord for shelter and for bed,Then it is he mounts his pony and away you see him dash,No protection but the hat upon his head.
Such is life upon a cow ranch, and the half was never told;But you never find a kinder-hearted setThanthe cattleman at home, be he either young or old,He's a "daisy from away back," don't forget.
When you fail to find a pony or a cow that's gone a-stray,Be that cow or pony wild or be it tame,The cowboy, like the drummer,—and the bed-bug, too, they say,—Brings him to you, for he gets there just the same.
HERE'S TO THE RANGER!
He leaves unplowed his furrow,He leaves his books unreadFor a life of tented freedomBy lure of danger led.He's first in the hour of peril,He's gayest in the dance,Like the guardsman of old EnglandOr the beau sabreur of France.
He stands our faithful bulwarkAgainst our savage foe;Through lonely woodland placesOur children come and go;Our flocks and herds untendedO'er hill and valley roam,The Ranger in the saddleMeans peace for us at home.
Behold our smiling farmsteadsWhere waves the golden grain!Beneath yon tree, earth's bosomWas dark with crimson stain.That bluff the death-shot echoedOf husband, father, slain!Godgrant such sight of horrorWe never see again!
The gay and hardy Ranger,His blanket on the ground,Lies by the blazing camp-fireWhile song and tale goes round;And if one voice is silent,One fails to hear the jest,They know his thoughts are absentWith her who loves him best.
Our state, her sons confess it,That queenly, star-crowned brow,Has darkened with the shadowOf lawlessness ere now;And men of evil passionsOn her reproach have laid,But that the ready RangerRode promptly to her aid.
He may not win the laurelNor trumpet tongue of fame;But beauty smiles upon him,And ranchmen bless his name.Then here's to the Texas Ranger,Past, present and to come!Our safety from the savage,The guardian of our home.
MUSTER OUT THE RANGER
Yes, muster them out, the valiant bandThat guards our western home.What matter to you in your eastern landIf the raiders here should come?No danger that you shall awake at nightTo the howls of a savage band;So muster them out, though the morning lightFind havoc on every hand.
Some dear one is sick and the horses all gone,So we can't for a doctor send;The outlaws were in in the light of the mornAnd no Rangers here to defend.For they've mustered them out, the brave true band,Untiring by night and day.The fearless scouts of this border landMade the taxes high, they say.
Have fewer men in the capitol walls,Fewer tongues in the war of words,But add to the Rangers, the living wallThat keeps back the bandit hordes.Have fewer dinners, less turtle soup,If the taxes are too high.Thereare many other and better waysTo lower them if they try.
Don't waste so much of your moneyPrinting speeches people don't read.If you'd only take off what's used for that'Twould lower the tax indeed.Don't use so much sugar and lemons;Cold water is just as goodFor a constant drink in the summer timeAnd better for the blood.
But leave us the Rangers to guard us still,Nor think that they cost too dear;For their faithful watch over vale and hillGives our loved ones naught to fear.
A COW CAMP ON THE RANGE
Oh, the prairie dogs are screaming,And the birds are on the wing,See the heel fly chase the heifer, boys!'Tis the first class sign of spring.The elm wood is budding,The earth is turning green.See the pretty things of natureThat make life a pleasant dream!
I'm just living through the winterTo enjoy the coming change,For there is no place so homelikeAs a cow camp on the range.The boss is smiling radiant,Radiant as the setting sun;For he knows he's stealing glories,For he ain't a-cussin' none.
The cook is at the chuck-boxWhistling "Heifers in the Green,"Making baking powder biscuits, boys,While the pot is biling beans.The boys untie their beddingAnd unroll it on the run,Forthey are in a monstrous hurryFor the supper's almost done.
"Here's your bloody wolf bait,"Cried the cook's familiar voiceAs he climbed the wagon wheelTo watch the cowboys all rejoice.Then all thoughts were turned from reverenceTo a plate of beef and beans,As we graze on beef and biscuitsLike yearlings on the range.
To the dickens with your cityWhere they herd the brainless brats,On a range so badly crowdedThere ain't room to cuss the cat.This life is not so sumptuous,I'm not longing for a change,For there is no place so homelikeAs a cow camp on the range.
FRECKLES. A FRAGMENT
He was little an' peaked an' thin, an' narry a no account horse,—Least that's the way you'd describe him in case that the beast had been lost;But, for single and double cussedness an' for double fired sin,The horse never came out o' Texas that was half-way knee-high to him!
The first time that ever I saw him was nineteen years ago last spring;'Twas the year we had grasshoppers, that come an' et up everything,That a feller rode up here one evenin' an' wanted to pen over nightA small bunch of horses, he said; an' I told him I guessed 'twas all right.
Well, the feller was busted, the horses was thin, an' the grass round here kind of good,An' he said if I'd let him hold here a few days he'd settle with me when he could.SoI told him all right, turn them loose down the draw, that the latch string was always untied,He was welcome to stop a few days if he wished and rest from his weary ride.
Well, the cuss stayed around for two or three weeks, till at last he was ready to go;And that cuss out yonder bein' too poor to move, he gimme,—the cuss had no dough.Well, at first the darn brute was as wild as a deer, an' would snort when he came to the branch,An' it took two cow punchers, on good horses, too, to handle him here at the ranch.
Well, the winter came on an' the range it got hard, an' my mustang commenced to get thin,So I fed him some an' rode him around, an' found out old Freckles was game.For that was what the other cuss called him,—just Freckles, no more or no less,—His color,—couldn't describe it,—something like a paint shop in distress.
Them was Indian times, young feller, that I am telling about;An' oft's the time I've seen the red man fight an' put the boys to rout.A good horse in them days, young feller, would save your life,—One that in any race could hold the pace when the red-skin bands were rife.
WHOSE OLD COW?
'Twas the end of round-up, the last day of June,Or maybe July, I don't remember,Or it might have been August, 'twas some time ago,Or perhaps 'twas the first of September.
Anyhow, 'twas the round-up we had at MayouOn the Lightning Rod's range, near Cayo;There were some twenty wagons, more or less, camped aboutOn the temporal in the cañon.
First night we'd no cattle, so we only stood guardOn the horses, somewhere near two hundred head;So we side-lined and hoppled, we belled and we staked,Loosed our hot-rolls and fell into bed.
Next morning 'bout day break we started our work,Our horses, like 'possums, felt fine.Each one "tendin' knittin'," none tryin' to shirk!So the round-up got on in good time.
Well,we worked for a week till the country was cleanAnd the bosses said, "Now, boys, we'll stay here.We'll carve and we'll trim 'em and start out a herdUp the east trail from old Abilene."
Next morning all on herd, and but two with the cut,And the boss on Piute, carving fine,Till he rode down his horse and had to pull out,And a new man went in to clean up.
Well, after each outfit had worked on the bandThere was only three head of them left;When Nig Add from L F D outfit rode in,—A dictionary on earmarks and brands.
He cut the two head out, told where they belonged;But when the last cow stood there aloneAdd's eyes bulged so he didn't know just what to say,'Ceptin', "Boss, dere's something here monstrous wrong!
"White folks smarter'n Add, and maybe I'se wrong;But here's six months' wages dat I'll giveIf anyone'll tell me when I reads dis markTo who dis longhorned cow belong!
"Overslope in right ear an' de underbill,Lef' ear swaller fork an' de undercrop,Hole punched in center, an' de jinglebobUnder half crop, an' de slash an' split.
"She'sgot O Block an' Lightnin' Rod,Nine Forty-Six an' A Bar Eleven,T Terrapin an' Ninety-Seven,Rafter Cross an' de Double Prod.
"Half circle A an' Diamond D,Four Cross L and Three P Z,B W I bar, X V V,Bar N cross an' A L C.
"So, if none o' you punchers claims dis cow,Mr. Stock 'Sociation needn't git 'larmed;For one more brand more or less won't do no harm,So old Nigger Add'l just brand her now."
OLD TIME COWBOY
Come all you melancholy folks wherever you may be,I'll sing you about the cowboy whose life is light and free.He roams about the prairie, and, at night when he lies down,His heart is as gay as the flowers in May in his bed upon the ground.
They're a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them, at least;But if you do not hunt a quarrel you can live with them in peace;For if you do, you're sure to rue the day you joined their band.They will follow you up and shoot it out with you just man to man.
Did you ever go to a cowboy whenever hungry and dry,Asking for a dollar, and have him you deny?He'll just pull out his pocket book and hand you a note,—They are the fellows to help you whenever you are broke.
Goto their ranches and stay a while, they never ask a cent;And when they go to town, their money is freely spent.They walk straight up and take a drink, paying for every one,And they never ask your pardon for anything they've done.
When they go to their dances, some dance while others patThey ride their bucking bronchos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats;With their California saddles, and their pants stuck in their boots,You can hear their spurs a-jingling, and perhaps some of them shoots.
Come all soft-hearted tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun;Go live among the cowboys, they'll show you how it's done.They'll treat you like a prince, my boys, about them there's nothing mean;But don't try to give them too much advice, for all of them ain't green.
BUCKING BRONCHO
My love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks,Though he's promised to quit it, just for my sake.He ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,With a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.
The first time I met him, 'twas early one spring,Riding a broncho, a high-headed thing.He tipped me a wink as he gaily did go;For he wished me to look at his bucking broncho.
The next time I saw him 'twas late in the fall,Swinging the girls at Tomlinson's ball.He laughed and he talked as we danced to and fro,Promised never to ride on another broncho.
He made me some presents, among them a ring;The return that I made him was a far better thing;'Twas a young maiden's heart, I'd have you all know;He's won it by riding his bucking broncho.
My love has a gun, and that gun he can use,But he's quit his gun fighting as well as his booze;Andhe's sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope,And there's no more cow punching, and that's what I hope.
My love has a gun that has gone to the bad,Which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad;For the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low,And it wobbles about like a bucking broncho.
Now all you young maidens, where'er you reside,Beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide;He'll court you and pet you and leave you and goIn the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho.
THE PECOS QUEEN
Where the Pecos River winds and turns in its journey to the sea,From its white walls of sand and rock striving ever to be free,Near the highest railroad bridge that all these modern times have seen,Dwells fair young Patty Morehead, the Pecos River queen.
She is known by every cowboy on the Pecos River wide,They know full well that she can shoot, that she can rope and ride.She goes to every round-up, every cow work without fail,Looking out for her cattle, branded "walking hog on rail."
She made her start in cattle, yes, made it with her rope;Can tie down every maverick before it can strike a lope.She can rope and tie and brand it as quick as any man;She's voted by all cowboys an A-1 top cow hand.
Acrossthe Comstock railroad bridge, the highest in the West,Patty rode her horse one day, a lover's heart to test;For he told her he would gladly risk all dangers for her sake—But the puncher wouldn't follow, so she's still without a mate.
CHOPO
Through rocky arroyas so dark and so deep,Down the sides of the mountains so slippery and steep,—You've good judgment, sure-footed, wherever you go,You're a safety conveyance, my little Chopo.
Refrain:—Chopo, my pony, Chopo, my pride,Chopo, my amigo, Chopo I will ride.From Mexico's borders 'cross Texas' LlanoTo the salt Pecos River, I ride you, Chopo.
Whether single or double or in the lead of the team,Over highways or byways or crossing a stream,—You're always in fix and willing to go,Whenever you're called on, my chico Chopo.
You're a good roping horse, you were never jerked down,When tied to a steer, you will circle him round;Let him once cross the string and over he'll go,—You sabe the business, my cow-horse, Chopo.
Oneday on the Llano a hailstorm began,The herds were stampeded, the horses all ran,The lightning it glittered, a cyclone did blow,But you faced the sweet music, my little Chopo.
TOP HAND
While you're all so frisky I'll sing a little song,—Think a little horn of whiskey will help the thing along?It's all about the Top Hand, when he busted flatBummin' round the town, in his Mexican hat.He's laid up all winter, and his pocket book is flat,His clothes are all tatters, but he don't mind that.
See him in town with a crowd that he knows,Rollin' cigarettes and smokin' through his nose.First thing he tells you, he owns a certain brand,—Leads you to think he is a daisy hand;Next thing he tells you 'bout his trip up the trail,All the way to Kansas, to finish out his tale.
Put him on a hoss, he's a handy hand to work;Put him in the brandin'-pen, he's dead sure to shirk.With his natural leaf tobacco in the pockets of his vestHe'll tell you his California pants are the best.He's handled lots of cattle, hasn't any fears,Can draw his sixty dollars for the balance of his years.
Put him on herd, he's a-cussin' all day;Anything he tries, it's sure to get away.Whenyou have a round-up, he tells it all aboutHe's goin' to do the cuttin' an' you can't keep him out.If anything goes wrong, he lays it on the screws,Says the lazy devils were tryin' to take a snooze.
When he meets a greener he ain't afraid to rig,Stands him on a chuck box and makes him dance a jig,—Waves a loaded cutter, makes him sing and shout,—He's a regular Ben Thompson when the boss ain't about.When the boss ain't about he leaves his leggins in camp,He swears a man who wears them is worse than a tramp.
Says he's not carin' for the wages he earns,For Dad's rich in Texas,—got wagon loads to burn;But when he goes to town, he's sure to take it in,He's always been dreaded wherever he's been.He rides a fancy horse, he's a favorite man,Can get more credit than a common waddie can.
When you ship the cattle he's bound to go alongTo keep the boss from drinking and see that nothing's wrong.Wherever he goes, catch on to his name,He likes to be called with a handle to his name.He's always primping with a pocket looking-glass,From the top to the bottom he's a bold Jackass.
CALIFORNIA TRAIL
List all you California boysAnd open wide your ears,For now we start across the plainsWith a herd of mules and steers.Now, bear in mind before you start,That you'll eat jerked beef, not ham,And antelope steak, Oh cuss the stuff!It often proves a sham.
You cannot find a stick of woodOn all this prairie wide;Whene'er you eat you've got to standOr sit on some old bull hide.It's fun to cook with buffalo chipsOr mesquite, green as corn,—If I'd once known what I know nowI'd have gone around Cape Horn.
The women have the hardest timeWho emigrate by land;For when they cook out in the windThey're sure to burn their hand.Then they scold their husbands round,Get mad and spill the tea,—I'd have thanked my stars if they'd not come outUpon this bleak prairie.
Mostevery night we put out guardsTo keep the Indians off.When night comes round some heads will ache,And some begin to cough.To be deprived of help at night,You know is mighty hard,But every night there's someone sickTo keep from standing guard.
Then they're always talking of what they've got,And what they're going to do;Some will say they're content,For I've got as much as you.Others will say, "I'll buy or sell,I'm damned if I care which."Others will say, "Boys, buy him out,For he doesn't own a stitch."
Old raw-hide shoes are hell on cornsWhile tramping through the sands,And driving jackass by the tail,—Damn the overland!I would as leaf be on a raft at seaAnd there at once be lost.John, let's leave the poor old mule,We'll never get him across!
BRONC PEELER'S SONG
I've been upon the prairie,I've been upon the plain,I've never rid a steam-boat,Nor a double-cinched-up train.But I've driv my eight-up to wagonThat were locked three in a row,And that through blindin' sand storms,And all kinds of wind and snow.
Cho:—Goodbye, Liza, poor gal,Goodbye, Liza Jane,Goodbye, Liza, poor gal,She died on the plain.
There never was a place I've beenHad any kind of wood.We burn the roots of bar-grassAnd think it's very good.I've never tasted home bread,Nor cakes, nor muss like that;But I know fried dough and beefPulled from red-hot tallow fat.
I hate to see the wire fenceA-closin' up the range;Andall this fillin' in the trailWith people that is strange.We fellers don't know how to plow,Nor reap the golden grain;But to round up steers and brand the cowsTo us was allus plain.
So when this blasted countryIs all closed in with wire,And all the top, as trot grass,Is burnin' in Sol's fire,I hope the settlers will be gladWhen rain hits the land.And all us cowdogs are in hellWith a "set"[9]joined hand in hand.
A DEER HUNT
One pleasant summer day it came a storm of snow;I picked my old gun and a-hunting I did go.
I came across a herd of deer and I trailed them through the snow,I trailed them to the mountains where straight up they did go.
I trailed them o'er the mountains, I trailed them to the brim,And I trailed them to the waters where they jumped in to swim.
I cocked both my pistols and under water went,—To kill the fattest of them deer, that was my whole intent.
While I was under water five hundred feet or moreI fired both my pistols; like cannons did they roar.
I picked up my venison and out of water came,—To kill the balance of them deer, I thought it would be fun.
SoI bent my gun in circles and fired round a hill.And, out of three or four deer, ten thousand I did kill.
Then I picked up my venison and on my back I tiedAnd as the sun came passing by I hopped up there to ride.
The sun she carried me o'er the globe, so merrily I did roamThat in four and twenty hours I landed safe at home.
And the money I received for my venison and skin,I taken it all to the barn door and it would not all go in.
And if you doubt the truth of this I tell you how to know:Just take my trail and go my rounds, as I did, long ago.
WINDY BILL
Windy Bill was a Texas man,—Well, he could rope, you bet.He swore the steer he couldn't tie,—Well, he hadn't found him yet.But the boys they knew of an old black steer,A sort of an old outlawThat ran down in the malpaisAt the foot of a rocky draw.
This old black steer had stood his groundWith punchers from everywhere;So they bet old Bill at two to oneThat he couldn't quite get there.Then Bill brought out his old gray hoss,His withers and back were raw,And prepared to tackle the big black bruteThat ran down in the draw.
With his brazen bit and his Sam Stack treeHis chaps and taps to boot,And his old maguey tied hard and fast,Bill swore he'd get the brute.Now, first Bill sort of sauntered roundOld Blackie began to paw,Then threw his tail straight in the airAnd went driftin' down the draw.
Theold gray plug flew after him,For he'd been eatin' corn;And Bill, he piled his old magueyRight round old Blackie's horns.The old gray hoss he stopped right still;The cinches broke like straw,And the old maguey and the Sam Stack treeWent driftin' down the draw.
Bill, he lit in a flint rock pile,His face and hands were scratched.He said he thought he could rope a snakeBut he guessed he'd met his match.He paid his bets like a little manWithout a bit of jaw,And lowed old Blackie was the bossOf anything in the draw.
There's a moral to my story, boys,And that you all must see.Whenever you go to tie a snake,[10]Don't tie it to your tree;But take your dolly welters[11]'Cordin' to California law,And you'll never see your old rim-fire[12]Go drifting down the draw.
WILD ROVERS
Come all you wild roversAnd listen to meWhile I retail to youMy sad history.I'm a man of experienceYour favors to gain,Oh, love has been the ruinOf many a poor man.
When you are singleAnd living at your easeYou can roam this world overAnd do as you please;You can roam this world overAnd go where you willAnd slyly kiss a pretty girlAnd be your own still.
But when you are marriedAnd living with your wife,You've lost all the joysAnd comforts of life.Your wife she will scold you,Your children will cry,Andthat will make papaLook withered and dry.
You can't step aside, boys,To speak to a friendWithout your wife at your elbowSaying, "What does this mean?"Your wife, she will scoldAnd there is sad news.Dear boys, take warning;'Tis a life to refuse.
If you chance to be ridingAlong the highwayAnd meet a fair maiden,A lady so gay,With red, rosy cheeksAnd sparkling blue eyes,—Oh, heavens! what a tumultIn your bosom will rise!
One more request, boys,Before we must part:Don't place your affectionsOn a charming sweetheart;She'll dance before youYour favors to gain.Oh, turn your back on themWith scorn and disdain!
Comeclose to the bar, boys,We'll drink all around.We'll drink to the pure,If any be found;We'll drink to the single,For I wish them success;Likewise to the married,For I wish them no less.
LIFE IN A HALF-BREED SHACK
'Tis life in a half-breed shack,The rain comes pouring down;"Drip" drops the mud through the roof,And the wind comes through the wall.A tenderfoot cursed his luckAnd feebly cried out "yah!"
Refrain:Yah! Yah! I want to go home to my ma!Yah! Yah! this bloomin' country's a fraud!Yah! Yah! I want to go home to my ma!
He tries to kindle a fireWhen it's forty-five below;He aims to chop at a logAnd amputates his toe;He hobbles back to the shackAnd feebly cries out "yah"!
He gets on a bucking cayuseAnd thinks to flourish around,But the buzzard-head takes to buckingAnd lays him flat out on the ground.As he picks himself up with a curse,He feebly cries out "yah"!
Hebuys all the town lots he can getIn the wrong end of Calgary,And he waits and he waits for the boomUntil he's dead broke like me.He couldn't get any tickSo he feebly cries out "yah"!
He couldn't do any workAnd he wouldn't know how if he could;So the police run him for a vagAnd set him to bucking wood.As he sits in the guard room cell,He feebly cries out "yah"!
Come all ye tenderfeetAnd listen to what I say,If you can't get a government jobYou had better remain where you be.Then you won't curse your luckAnd cry out feebly "yah"!
THE ROAD TO COOK'S PEAK
If you'll listen a while I'll sing you a song,And as it is short it won't take me long.There are some things of which I will speakConcerning the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—Concerning the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.
It was in the morning at eight-forty-five,I was hooking up all ready to driveOut where the miners for minerals seek,With two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak—On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—With two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.
With my two little mules I jog alongAnd try to cheer them with ditty and song;O'er the wide prairie where coyotes sneak,While driving the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—While driving the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.
Sometimes I have to haul heavy freight,Then it is I get home very late.Inrain or shine, six days in the week,'Tis the same little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—'Tis the same little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.
And when with the driving of stage I am throughI will to my two little mules bid adieu.And hope that those creatures, so gentle and meek,Will have a good friend on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—Will have a good friend on the road to Cook's Peak.
Now all kind friends that travel about,Come take a trip on the Wallis stage route.With a plenty of grit, they never get weak,—Those two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—Those two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.
ARAPHOE, OR BUCKSKIN JOE
'Twas a calm and peaceful evening in a camp called Araphoe,And the whiskey was a running with a soft and gentle flow,The music was a-ringing in a dance hall cross the way,And the dancers was a-swinging just as close as they could lay.
People gathered round the tables, a-betting with their wealth,And near by stood a stranger who had come there for his health.He was a peaceful little stranger though he seemed to be unstrung;For just before he'd left his home he'd separated with one lung.
Nearby at a table sat a man named Hankey Dean,A tougher man says Hankey, buckskin chaps had never seen.But Hankey was a gambler and he was plum sure to lose;For he had just departed with a sun-dried stack of blues.
Herose from the table, on the floor his last chip flung,And cast his fiery glimmers on the man with just one lung."No wonder I've been losing every bet I made tonightWhen a sucker and a tenderfoot was between me and the light.
Look here, little stranger, do you know who I am?""Yes, and I don't care a copper colored damn."The dealers stopped their dealing and the players held their breath;For words like those to Hankey were a sudden flirt with death.
"Listen, gentle stranger, I'll read my pedigree:I'm known on handling tenderfeet and worser men than thee;The lions on the mountains, I've drove them to their lairs;The wild-cats are my playmates, and I've wrestled grizzly bears;
"Why, the centipedes can't mar my tough old hide,And rattle snakes have bit me and crawled off and died.I'm as wild as the horse that roams the range;The moss grows on my teeth and wild blood flows through my veins.
"I'mwild and woolly and full of fleasAnd never curried below the knees.Now, little stranger, if you'll give me your address,—How would you like to go, by fast mail or express?"
The little stranger who was leaning on the doorPicked up a hand of playing cards that were scattered on the floor.Picking out the five of spades, he pinned it to the doorAnd then stepped back some twenty paces or more.
He pulled out his life-preserver, and with a "one, two, three, four,"Blotted out a spot with every shot;For he had traveled with a circus and was a fancy pistol shot."I have one more left, kind sir, if you wish to call the play."
Then Hanke stepped up to the stranger and made a neat apology,"Why, the lions in the mountains,—that was nothing but a joke.Never mind about the extra, you are a bad shooting man,And I'm a meek little child and as harmless as a lamb."
ROUNDED UP IN GLORY
I have been thinking to-day,As my thoughts began to stray,Of your memory to me worth more than gold.As you ride across the plain,'Mid the sunshine and the rain,—You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye.
Chorus:You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye,You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye,When the milling time is o'erAnd you will stampede no more,When he rounds you up within the Master's fold.
As you ride across the plainWith the cowboys that have fame,And the storms and the lightning flash by.We shall meet to part no moreUpon the golden shoreWhen he rounds us up in glory bye and bye.
May we lift our voices highTo that sweet bye and bye,Andbe known by the brand of the Lord;For his property we are,And he will know us from afarWhen he rounds us up in glory bye and bye.
THE DRUNKARD'S HELL
It was on a cold and stormy nightI saw and heard an awful sight;The lightning flashed and thunder rolledAround my poor benighted soul.
I thought I heard a mournful soundAmong the groans still lower down,That awful sight no tongue can tellIs this,—the place called Drunkard's Hell.
I thought I saw the gulf belowWhere all the dying drunkards go.I raised my hand and sad to tellIt was the place called Drunkard's Hell.
I traveled on and got there at lastAnd started to take a social glass;But every time I started,—well,I thought about the Drunkard's Hell.
I dashed it down to leave that placeAnd started to seek redeeming grace.I felt like Paul, at once I'd prayTill all my sins were washed away.
Ithen went home to change my lifeAnd see my long neglected wife.I found her weeping o'er the bedBecause her infant babe was dead.
I told her not to mourn and weepBecause her babe had gone to sleep;Its happy soul had fled awayTo dwell with Christ till endless day.
I taken her by her pale white hand,She was so weak she could not stand;I laid her down and breathed a prayerThat God might bless and save her there.
I then went to the Temperance hallAnd taken a pledge among them all.They taken me in with a willing handAnd taken me in as a temperance man.
So seven long years have passed awaySince first I bowed my knees to pray;So now I live a sober lifeWith a happy home and a loving wife.
RAMBLING BOY
I am a wild and roving lad,A wild and rambling lad I'll be;For I do love a little girlAnd she does love me.
"O Willie, O Willie, I love you so,I love you more than I do know;And if my tongue could tell you soI'd give the world to let you know."
When Julia's old father came this to know,—That Julia and Willie were loving so,—He ripped and swore among them all,And swore he'd use a cannon ball.
She wrote Willie a letter with her right handAnd sent it to him in the western land."Oh, read these lines, sweet William dear.For this is the last of me you will hear."
He read those lines while he wept and cried,"Ten thousand times I wish I had died",He read those lines while he wept and said,"Ten thousand times I wish I were dead."
Whenher old father came home that nightHe called for Julia, his heart's delight,He ran up stairs and her door he brokeAnd found her hanging by her own bed rope.
And with his knife he cut her down,And in her bosom this note he foundSaying, "Dig my grave both deep and wideAnd bury sweet Willie by my side."
They dug her grave both deep and wideAnd buried sweet Willie by her side;And on her grave set a turtle doveTo show the world they died for love.
BRIGHAM YOUNG. I.
I'll sing you a song that has often been sungAbout an old Mormon they called Brigham Young.Of wives he had many who were strong in the lungs,Which Brigham found out by the length of their tongues.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
Oh, sad was the life of a Mormon to lead,Yet Brigham adhered all his life to his creed.He said 'twas such fun, and true, without doubt,To see the young wives knock the old ones about.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
One day as old Brigham sat down to his dinnerHe saw a young wife who was not getting thinner;When the elders cried out, one after the other,By the holy, she wants to go home to her mother.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
Old Brigham replied, which can't be denied,He couldn't afford to lose such a bride.Then do not be jealous but banish your fears;For the tree is well known by the fruit that it bears.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
ThatI love one and all you very well know,Then do not provoke me or my anger will show.What must be our fate if found here in a row,If Uncle Sam comes with his row-de-dow-dow.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
Then cease all your quarrels and do not despair,To meet Uncle Sam I will quickly prepare.Hark! I hear Yankee Doodle played over the hills!Ah! here's the enemy with their powder and pills.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
BRIGHAM YOUNG. II.
Now Brigham Young is a Mormon bold,And a leader of the roaring rams,And shepherd of a lot of fine tub sheepAnd a lot of pretty little lambs.Oh, he lives with his five and forty wives,In the city of the Great Salt Lake,Where they breed and swarm like hens on a farmAnd cackle like ducks to a drake.
Chorus:—Oh Brigham, Brigham Young,It's a miracle how you survive,With your roaring rams and your pretty little lambsAnd your five and forty wives.
Number forty-five is about sixteen,Number one is sixty and three;And they make such a riot, how he keeps them quietIs a downright mystery to me.For they clatter and they chaw and they jaw, jaw, jaw,And each has a different desire;It would aid the renown of the best shop in townTo supply them with half they desire.
Now,Brigham Young was a stout man once,And now he is thin and old;And I am sorry to state he is bald on the pate,Which once had a covering of gold.For his oldest wives won't have white wool,And his young ones won't have red,So, with tearing it out, and taking turn about,They have torn all the hair off his head.
Now, the oldest wives sing songs all day,And the young ones all sing songs;And amongst such a crowd he has it pretty loud,—They're as noisy as Chinese gongs.And when they advance for a Mormon danceHe is filled with the direst alarms;For they are sure to end the night in a tabernacle fightTo see who has the fairest charms.
Now, if any man here envies Brigham YoungLet him go to the Great Salt Lake;And if he has the leisure to enjoy his pleasure,He'll find it a great mistake.One wife at a time, so says my rhyme,Is enough,—there's no denial;—So, before you strive to be lord of forty-five,Take two for a month on trial.
THE OLD GRAY MULE
I am an old man some sixty years oldAnd that you can plain-li see,But when I was a young man ten years oldThey made a stable boy of me.
I have seen the fastest horsesThat made the fastest time,But I never saw one in all my lifeLike that old gray mule of mine.
On a Sunday morn I dress myself,A-goin' out to ride;Now, my old mule is as gray as a bird,Then he is full of his pride.
He never runs away with you,Never cuts up any shine;For the only friend I have on earthIs this old gray mule of mine.
Now my old gray mule is dead and gone,Gone to join the heavenly band,With silver shoes upon his feetTo dance on the golden strand.
THE FOOLS OF FORTY-NINE
When gold was found in forty-eight the people thought 'twas gas,And some were fools enough to think the lumps were only brass.But soon they all were satisfied and started off to mine;They bought their ships, came round the Horn, in the days of forty-nine.
Refrain:Then they thought of what they'd been toldWhen they started after gold,—That they never in the world would make a pile.
The people all were crazy then, they didn't know what to do.They sold their farms for just enough to pay their passage through.They bid their friends a long farewell, said, "Dear wife, don't you cry,I'll send you home the yellow lumps a piano for to buy."
The poor, the old, and the rotten scows were advertised to sailFromNew Orleans with passengers, but they must pump and bail.The ships were crowded more than full, and some hung on behind,And others dived off from the wharf and swam till they were blind.
With rusty pork and stinking beef and rotten, wormy bread!The captains, too, that never were up as high as the main mast head!The steerage passengers would rave and swear that they'd paid their passageAnd wanted something more to eat beside bologna sausage.
They then began to cross the plain with oxen, hollowing "haw."And steamers then began to run as far as Panama.And there for months the people staid, that started after gold,And some returned disgusted with the lies that had been told.
The people died on every route, they sickened and died like sheep;And those at sea before they died were launched into the deep;Andthose that died while crossing the plains fared not so well as that,For a hole was dug and they thrown in along the miserable Platte.
The ships at last began to arrive and the people began to inquire.They say that flour is a dollar a pound, do you think it will be any higher?And to carry their blankets and sleep outdoors, it seemed so very droll!Both tired and mad, without a cent, they damned the lousy hole.
A RIPPING TRIP[13]
You go aboard a leaky boatAnd sail for San Francisco,You've got to pump to keep her afloat,You've got that, by jingo!The engine soon begins to squeak,But nary a thing to oil her;Impossible to stop the leak,—Rip, goes the boiler.
The captain on the promenadeLooking very savage;Steward and the cabin maidFightin' 'bout the cabbage;All about the cabin floorPassengers lie sea-sick;Steamer bound to go ashore,—Rip, goes the physic.
Pork and beans they can't afford,The second cabin passengers;The cook has tumbled overboardWith fifty pounds of sassengers;Theengineer, a little tight,Bragging on the Mail Line,Finally gets into a fight,—Rip, goes the engine.
THE HAPPY MINER
I'm a happy miner,I love to sing and dance.I wonder what my love would sayIf she could see my pantsWith canvas patches on my kneesAnd one upon the stern?I'll wear them when I'm digging hereAnd home when I return.
Refrain:So I get in a jovial way,I spend my money free.And I've got plenty!Will you drink lager beer with me?
She writes about her poodle dog;But never thinks to say,"Oh, do come home, my honey dear,I'm pining all away."I'll write her half a letter,Then give the ink a tip.If that don't bring her to her milkI'll coolly let her rip.
They wish to know if I can cookAnd what I have to eat,Andtell me should I take a coldBe sure and soak my feet.But when they talk of cookingI'm mighty hard to beat,I've made ten thousand loaves of breadThe devil couldn't eat.
I like a lazy partnerSo I can take my ease,Lay down and talk of golden home,As happy as you please;Without a thing to eat or drink,Away from care and grief,—I'm fat and sassy, ragged, too,And tough as Spanish beef.
No matter whether rich or poor,I'm happy as a clam.I wish my friends at home could lookAnd see me as I am.With woolen shirt and rubber boots,In mud up to my knees,And lice as large as chili beansFighting with the fleas.
I'll mine for half an ounce a day,Perhaps a little less;But when it comes to China payI cannot stand the press.Like thousands there, I'll make a pile,If I make one at all,About the time the allied forcesTake Sepasterpol.
THE CALIFORNIA STAGE COMPANY
There's no respect for youth or ageOn board the California stage,But pull and haul about the seatsAs bed-bugs do about the sheets.
Refrain:They started as a thieving lineIn eighteen hundred and forty-nine;All opposition they defy,So the people must root hog or die.
You're crowded in with Chinamen,As fattening hogs are in a pen;And what will more a man provokeIs musty plug tobacco smoke.
The ladies are compelled to sitWith dresses in tobacco spit;The gentlemen don't seem to care,But talk on politics and swear.
The dust is deep in summer time,The mountains very hard to climb,And drivers often stop and yell,"Get out, all hands, and push up hill."
Thedrivers, when they feel inclined,Will have you walking on behind,And on your shoulders lug a poleTo help them out some muddy hole.
They promise when your fare you pay,"You'll have to walk but half the way";Then add aside, with cunning laugh,"You'll have to push the other half."
NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM
My country, 'tis of thee,Land where things used to beSo cheap, we croak.Land of the mavericks,Land of the puncher's tricks,Thy culture-inroad pricksThe hide of this peeler-bloke.
Some of the punchers swearThat what they eat and wearTakes all their calves.Others vow that theyEat only once a dayJerked beef and prairie hayWashed down with tallow salves.
These salty-dogs[14]but craveTo pull them out the graveJust one Kiowa spur.They know they still will dineOn flesh and beef the time;But give us, Lord divine,One "hen-fruit stir."[15]
Our father's land, with thee,Best trails of liberty,We chose to stop.We don't exactly likeSo soon to henceward hike,But hell, we'll take the pikeIf this don't stop.
Footnote 1:In this song, as in several others, the chorus should come in after each stanza. The arrangement followed has been adopted to illustrate versions current in different sections.(Back)
Footnote 2:Sung to the air ofMy Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.(Back)
Footnote 3:Attributed to James Barton Adams.(Back)
Footnote 4:Printed as a fugitive ballad inGrandon of Sierra, by Charles E. Winter.(Back)
Footnote 5:A song current in Arizona, probably written by Berton Braley. Cowboys and miners often take verses that please them and fit them to music.(Back)
Footnote 6:These verses are used in many parts of the West as a dance song. Sung to waltz music the song takes the place of "Home, Sweet Home" at the conclusion of a cowboy ball. The "fiddle" is silenced and the entire company sing as they dance.(Back)
Footnote 7:A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.(Back)
Footnote 8:This poem, one of the best in Larry Chittenden'sRanch Verses, published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. I have heard it in New Mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,—always as a song. None of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.(Back)
Footnote 9:"set" means settler.(Back)
Footnote 10:snake, bad steer.(Back)
Footnote 11:Dolly welter, rope tied all around the saddle.(Back)
Footnote 12:rim-fire saddle, without flank girth.(Back)
Footnote 13:To tune ofPop Goes the Weasel.(Back)
Footnote 14:Cowboy Dude.(Back)
Footnote 15:Pancake.(Back)