THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA

Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain.Shinin' 'dobe fireplace, shadows on the wall—(See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)It's the best grand high that there is within the lawWhen seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail,But we held 'em and we shoved 'em, for our longin' hearts were triedBy a yearnin' for tobacker and our dear fireside.Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop!(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford—Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord,But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is completeWhen the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!Snappy for the dance, now, fill she up and shoots!(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in 'is boots?)Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,Livin' is a luxury that don't come high;Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!Lively on the last turn! lope 'er to the death!(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his pawWhen we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw!"

Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,

Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,

For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,

But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain.

Shinin' 'dobe fireplace, shadows on the wall—(See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)It's the best grand high that there is within the lawWhen seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."

Shinin' 'dobe fireplace, shadows on the wall—

(See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)

It's the best grand high that there is within the law

When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."

Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail,But we held 'em and we shoved 'em, for our longin' hearts were triedBy a yearnin' for tobacker and our dear fireside.

Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,

Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail,

But we held 'em and we shoved 'em, for our longin' hearts were tried

By a yearnin' for tobacker and our dear fireside.

Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop!(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."

Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop!

(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)

Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,

But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."

Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford—Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord,But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is completeWhen the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!

Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford—

Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord,

But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete

When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!

Snappy for the dance, now, fill she up and shoots!(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in 'is boots?)Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."

Snappy for the dance, now, fill she up and shoots!

(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in 'is boots?)

Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,

But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,Livin' is a luxury that don't come high;Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,

Livin' is a luxury that don't come high;

Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,

For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!

Lively on the last turn! lope 'er to the death!(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his pawWhen we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw!"

Lively on the last turn! lope 'er to the death!

(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)

Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw

When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw!"

When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old,By the foot or the neck or the horn,He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go whiteBut I'll throw him as sure as you're born.Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo stringAnd the latigoes creak and strain,Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steerAnd I'll tumble him on the plain.For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,And the man is the boss of the herd,And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,Must come down when he says the word.

When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old,

By the foot or the neck or the horn,

He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white

But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.

Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string

And the latigoes creak and strain,

Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer

And I'll tumble him on the plain.

For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,And the man is the boss of the herd,And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,Must come down when he says the word.

For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,

And the man is the boss of the herd,

And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,

Must come down when he says the word.

The taut ropes sing like a banjo string ..."The taut ropes sing like a banjo stringAnd the latigoes creak and strain."

"The taut ropes sing like a banjo stringAnd the latigoes creak and strain."

"The taut ropes sing like a banjo string

And the latigoes creak and strain."

When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawseAnd my spurs clinch into his hide,He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,But wherever he goes I'll ride.Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy topOr flit like a wind-whipped smoke,But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heelTill he's happy to own he's broke.For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,And the hawse may be prince of his clanBut he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod bootAnd own that his boss is the man.When the devil at rest underneath my vestGets up and begins to pawAnd my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins,Then I tackle the real outlaw.When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wildAnd my temper is fractious growed,If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast.He kin brag till he makes you deaf,But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,That he kaint quite break is himse'f.

When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse

And my spurs clinch into his hide,

He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,

But wherever he goes I'll ride.

Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top

Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,

But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel

Till he's happy to own he's broke.

For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,And the hawse may be prince of his clanBut he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod bootAnd own that his boss is the man.

For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,

And the hawse may be prince of his clan

But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot

And own that his boss is the man.

When the devil at rest underneath my vestGets up and begins to pawAnd my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins,Then I tackle the real outlaw.When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wildAnd my temper is fractious growed,If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.

When the devil at rest underneath my vest

Gets up and begins to paw

And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins,

Then I tackle the real outlaw.

When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild

And my temper is fractious growed,

If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,

Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.

For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast.He kin brag till he makes you deaf,But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,That he kaint quite break is himse'f.

For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast.

He kin brag till he makes you deaf,

But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,

That he kaint quite break is himse'f.

At a roundup on the Gily,One sweet mornin' long ago,Ten of us was throwed right freelyBy a hawse from Idaho.And we thought he'd go-a-beggin'For a man to break his prideTill, a-hitchin' up one leggin,Boastful Bill cut loose and cried—"I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;I kin ride the highest liver'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."So Bill climbed the Northern FuryAnd they mangled up the airTill a native of MissouriWould have owned his brag was fair.Though the plunges kep' him reelin'And the wind it flapped his shirt,Loud above the hawse's squealin'We could hear our friend assert"I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke.Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!If you think my fame needs bright'nin'W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke."Then one caper of repulsionBroke that hawse's back in two.Cinches snapped in the convulsion;Skyward man and saddle flew.Up he mounted, never laggin',While we watched him through our tears,And his last thin bit of braggin'Came a-droppin' to our ears."If you'd ever watched my habits very closeYou would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross.I have kep' my talent hidin';I'm too good for earthly ridin'And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,—Adios!"Years have gone since that ascension.Boastful Bill ain't never lit,So we reckon that he's wrenchin'Some celestial outlaw's bit.When the night rain beats our slickersAnd the wind is swift and stoutAnd the lightnin' flares and flickers,We kin sometimes hear him shout—"I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky.Hi! you earthlin's, shut your windersWhile we're rippin' clouds to flinders.If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!"Stardust on his chaps and saddle,Scornful still of jar and jolt,He'll come back some day, astraddleOf a bald-faced thunderbolt.And the thin-skinned generationOf that dim and distant daySure will stare with admirationWhen they hear old Boastful say—"I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed.Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best.Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,With your a'roplanes and motors—Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!"

At a roundup on the Gily,

One sweet mornin' long ago,

Ten of us was throwed right freely

By a hawse from Idaho.

And we thought he'd go-a-beggin'

For a man to break his pride

Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin,

Boastful Bill cut loose and cried—

"I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;I kin ride the highest liver'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."

"I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;

I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;

I kin ride the highest liver

'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,

And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."

So Bill climbed the Northern FuryAnd they mangled up the airTill a native of MissouriWould have owned his brag was fair.Though the plunges kep' him reelin'And the wind it flapped his shirt,Loud above the hawse's squealin'We could hear our friend assert

So Bill climbed the Northern Fury

And they mangled up the air

Till a native of Missouri

Would have owned his brag was fair.

Though the plunges kep' him reelin'

And the wind it flapped his shirt,

Loud above the hawse's squealin'

We could hear our friend assert

"I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke.Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!If you think my fame needs bright'nin'W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke."

"I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke.

Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!

If you think my fame needs bright'nin'

W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'

And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke."

Then one caper of repulsionBroke that hawse's back in two.Cinches snapped in the convulsion;Skyward man and saddle flew.Up he mounted, never laggin',While we watched him through our tears,And his last thin bit of braggin'Came a-droppin' to our ears.

Then one caper of repulsion

Broke that hawse's back in two.

Cinches snapped in the convulsion;

Skyward man and saddle flew.

Up he mounted, never laggin',

While we watched him through our tears,

And his last thin bit of braggin'

Came a-droppin' to our ears.

"If you'd ever watched my habits very closeYou would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross.I have kep' my talent hidin';I'm too good for earthly ridin'And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,—Adios!"

"If you'd ever watched my habits very close

You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross.

I have kep' my talent hidin';

I'm too good for earthly ridin'

And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,—Adios!"

Years have gone since that ascension.Boastful Bill ain't never lit,So we reckon that he's wrenchin'Some celestial outlaw's bit.When the night rain beats our slickersAnd the wind is swift and stoutAnd the lightnin' flares and flickers,We kin sometimes hear him shout—

Years have gone since that ascension.

Boastful Bill ain't never lit,

So we reckon that he's wrenchin'

Some celestial outlaw's bit.

When the night rain beats our slickers

And the wind is swift and stout

And the lightnin' flares and flickers,

We kin sometimes hear him shout—

"I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky.Hi! you earthlin's, shut your windersWhile we're rippin' clouds to flinders.If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!"

"I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;

I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky.

Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders

While we're rippin' clouds to flinders.

If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!"

Stardust on his chaps and saddle,Scornful still of jar and jolt,He'll come back some day, astraddleOf a bald-faced thunderbolt.And the thin-skinned generationOf that dim and distant daySure will stare with admirationWhen they hear old Boastful say—

Stardust on his chaps and saddle,

Scornful still of jar and jolt,

He'll come back some day, astraddle

Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.

And the thin-skinned generation

Of that dim and distant day

Sure will stare with admiration

When they hear old Boastful say—

"I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed.Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best.Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,With your a'roplanes and motors—Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!"

"I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed.

Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best.

Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,

With your a'roplanes and motors—

Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!"

Lay on the iron! the tie holds fastAnd my wild record closes.This maverick is down at lastJust roped and tied with roses.And one small girl's to blame for it,Yet I don't fight with shame for it—Lay on the iron; I'm game for it,Just roped and tied with roses.I loped among the wildest bandOf saddle-hatin' winners—Gay colts that never felt a brandAnd scarred old outlaw sinners.The wind was rein and guide to us;The world was pasture wide to usAnd our wild name was pride to us—High headed bronco sinners!So, loose and light we raced and foughtAnd every range we tasted,But now, since I'm corralled and caught,I know them days were wasted.From now, the all-day gait for me,The trail that's hard but straight for me,For down that trail, who'll wait for me!Ay! them old days were wasted!But though I'm broke, I'll never beA saddle-marked old groaner,For never worthless bronc like meGot such a gentle owner.There could be colt days glad as mineOr outlaw runs as mad as mineOr rope-flung falls as bad as mine,But never such an owner.Lay on the iron, and lay it red!I'll take it kind and clever.Who wouldn't hold a prouder headTo wear that mark forever?I'll never break and stray from her;I'd starve and die away from her.Lay on the iron—it's play from her—And brand me hers forever!

Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast

And my wild record closes.

This maverick is down at last

Just roped and tied with roses.

And one small girl's to blame for it,

Yet I don't fight with shame for it—

Lay on the iron; I'm game for it,

Just roped and tied with roses.

I loped among the wildest bandOf saddle-hatin' winners—Gay colts that never felt a brandAnd scarred old outlaw sinners.The wind was rein and guide to us;The world was pasture wide to usAnd our wild name was pride to us—High headed bronco sinners!

I loped among the wildest band

Of saddle-hatin' winners—

Gay colts that never felt a brand

And scarred old outlaw sinners.

The wind was rein and guide to us;

The world was pasture wide to us

And our wild name was pride to us—

High headed bronco sinners!

So, loose and light we raced and foughtAnd every range we tasted,But now, since I'm corralled and caught,I know them days were wasted.From now, the all-day gait for me,The trail that's hard but straight for me,For down that trail, who'll wait for me!Ay! them old days were wasted!

So, loose and light we raced and fought

And every range we tasted,

But now, since I'm corralled and caught,

I know them days were wasted.

From now, the all-day gait for me,

The trail that's hard but straight for me,

For down that trail, who'll wait for me!

Ay! them old days were wasted!

But though I'm broke, I'll never beA saddle-marked old groaner,For never worthless bronc like meGot such a gentle owner.There could be colt days glad as mineOr outlaw runs as mad as mineOr rope-flung falls as bad as mine,But never such an owner.

But though I'm broke, I'll never be

A saddle-marked old groaner,

For never worthless bronc like me

Got such a gentle owner.

There could be colt days glad as mine

Or outlaw runs as mad as mine

Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine,

But never such an owner.

Lay on the iron, and lay it red!I'll take it kind and clever.Who wouldn't hold a prouder headTo wear that mark forever?I'll never break and stray from her;I'd starve and die away from her.Lay on the iron—it's play from her—And brand me hers forever!

Lay on the iron, and lay it red!

I'll take it kind and clever.

Who wouldn't hold a prouder head

To wear that mark forever?

I'll never break and stray from her;

I'd starve and die away from her.

Lay on the iron—it's play from her—

And brand me hers forever!

Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine,Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill,Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line,Time for millin' cattle to be still.So—o now, the lightnin's far away,The coyote's nothiny skeery;He's singin' to his dearie—Hee—ya, tammalalleday!Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'.Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need,Nothin' we kin see to take your eye.Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede,Plungin' down some 'royo bank to die.So—o, now, for still the shadows stay;The moon is slow and steady;The sun comes when he's ready.Hee—ya, tammalalleday!No use runnin' out to meet the mornin'.Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim,Dreamin' of a land too far to see.There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brimAnd it often seems the same to me.So—o, now, for dreams they never pay.The dust it keeps us blinkin',We're seven miles from drinkin'.Hee—ya, tammalalleday!But we got to stand it till the mornin'.Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through.Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns.Always far away is misty silver-blue;Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns.So—o, now. It must be this away—The lonesome owl a-callin',The mournful coyote squallin'.Hee—ya, tammalalleday!Mockin-birds don't sing until the mornin'.Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue,Always feelin' thorns that slab and sting.Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true,So I ride around myself and sing.So—o, now, a man has got to stay,A-likin' or a-hatin',But workin' on and waitin'.Hee—ya, tammalalleday!All of us are waitin' for the mornin'.

Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine,Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill,Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line,Time for millin' cattle to be still.

Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine,

Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill,

Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line,

Time for millin' cattle to be still.

So—o now, the lightnin's far away,The coyote's nothiny skeery;He's singin' to his dearie—Hee—ya, tammalalleday!Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'.

So—o now, the lightnin's far away,

The coyote's nothiny skeery;

He's singin' to his dearie—

Hee—ya, tammalalleday!

Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'.

Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need,Nothin' we kin see to take your eye.Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede,Plungin' down some 'royo bank to die.

Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need,

Nothin' we kin see to take your eye.

Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede,

Plungin' down some 'royo bank to die.

So—o, now, for still the shadows stay;The moon is slow and steady;The sun comes when he's ready.Hee—ya, tammalalleday!No use runnin' out to meet the mornin'.

So—o, now, for still the shadows stay;

The moon is slow and steady;

The sun comes when he's ready.

Hee—ya, tammalalleday!

No use runnin' out to meet the mornin'.

Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim,Dreamin' of a land too far to see.There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brimAnd it often seems the same to me.

Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim,

Dreamin' of a land too far to see.

There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brim

And it often seems the same to me.

So—o, now, for dreams they never pay.The dust it keeps us blinkin',We're seven miles from drinkin'.Hee—ya, tammalalleday!But we got to stand it till the mornin'.

So—o, now, for dreams they never pay.

The dust it keeps us blinkin',

We're seven miles from drinkin'.

Hee—ya, tammalalleday!

But we got to stand it till the mornin'.

Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through.Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns.Always far away is misty silver-blue;Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns.

Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through.

Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns.

Always far away is misty silver-blue;

Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns.

So—o, now. It must be this away—The lonesome owl a-callin',The mournful coyote squallin'.Hee—ya, tammalalleday!Mockin-birds don't sing until the mornin'.

So—o, now. It must be this away—

The lonesome owl a-callin',

The mournful coyote squallin'.

Hee—ya, tammalalleday!

Mockin-birds don't sing until the mornin'.

Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue,Always feelin' thorns that slab and sting.Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true,So I ride around myself and sing.

Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue,

Always feelin' thorns that slab and sting.

Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true,

So I ride around myself and sing.

So—o, now, a man has got to stay,A-likin' or a-hatin',But workin' on and waitin'.Hee—ya, tammalalleday!All of us are waitin' for the mornin'.

So—o, now, a man has got to stay,

A-likin' or a-hatin',

But workin' on and waitin'.

Hee—ya, tammalalleday!

All of us are waitin' for the mornin'.

My love was swift and slenderAs an antelope at play,And her eyes were gray and tenderAs the east at break o' day,And I sure was shaky heartedAnd her flower face was paleOn that silver night we parted,When I sang along the trail:Forever—forever—Oh, moon above the pine,Like the matin' birds in Springtime,I will twitter while you shine.Rich as ore with gold a-glowin',Sweet as sparklin' springs a-flowin',Strong as redwoods ever growin',So will be this love o' mine.I rode across the riverAnd beyond the far divide,Till the echo of "forever"Staggered faint behind and died.For the long trail smiled and beckonedAnd the free wind blowed so sweet,That life's gayest tune, I reckoned,Was my hawse's ringin' feet.Forever—forever—Oh, stars, look down and sigh,For a poison spring will sparkleAnd the trustin' drinker die.And a rovin' bird will twitterAnd a worthless rock will glitterAnd the maiden's love is bitterWhen the man's is proved a lie.Last the rover's circle guidin'Brought me where I used to be,And I met her, gaily ridin'With a smarter man than me.Then I raised my dusty coverBut she didn't see nor hear,So I hummed the old tune over,Laughin' in my hawse's ear:If the snowflake specks the desertOr the yucca blooms awhile.Ay! what gloom the mountain coversWhere the driftin' cloud shade hovers!Ay! the trail o' parted lovers,Where "forever" lasts a mile!

My love was swift and slender

As an antelope at play,

And her eyes were gray and tender

As the east at break o' day,

And I sure was shaky hearted

And her flower face was pale

On that silver night we parted,

When I sang along the trail:

Forever—forever—Oh, moon above the pine,Like the matin' birds in Springtime,I will twitter while you shine.Rich as ore with gold a-glowin',Sweet as sparklin' springs a-flowin',Strong as redwoods ever growin',So will be this love o' mine.

Forever—forever—

Oh, moon above the pine,

Like the matin' birds in Springtime,

I will twitter while you shine.

Rich as ore with gold a-glowin',

Sweet as sparklin' springs a-flowin',

Strong as redwoods ever growin',

So will be this love o' mine.

I rode across the riverAnd beyond the far divide,Till the echo of "forever"Staggered faint behind and died.For the long trail smiled and beckonedAnd the free wind blowed so sweet,That life's gayest tune, I reckoned,Was my hawse's ringin' feet.

I rode across the river

And beyond the far divide,

Till the echo of "forever"

Staggered faint behind and died.

For the long trail smiled and beckoned

And the free wind blowed so sweet,

That life's gayest tune, I reckoned,

Was my hawse's ringin' feet.

Forever—forever—Oh, stars, look down and sigh,For a poison spring will sparkleAnd the trustin' drinker die.And a rovin' bird will twitterAnd a worthless rock will glitterAnd the maiden's love is bitterWhen the man's is proved a lie.

Forever—forever—

Oh, stars, look down and sigh,

For a poison spring will sparkle

And the trustin' drinker die.

And a rovin' bird will twitter

And a worthless rock will glitter

And the maiden's love is bitter

When the man's is proved a lie.

Last the rover's circle guidin'Brought me where I used to be,And I met her, gaily ridin'With a smarter man than me.Then I raised my dusty coverBut she didn't see nor hear,So I hummed the old tune over,Laughin' in my hawse's ear:

Last the rover's circle guidin'

Brought me where I used to be,

And I met her, gaily ridin'

With a smarter man than me.

Then I raised my dusty cover

But she didn't see nor hear,

So I hummed the old tune over,

Laughin' in my hawse's ear:

If the snowflake specks the desertOr the yucca blooms awhile.Ay! what gloom the mountain coversWhere the driftin' cloud shade hovers!Ay! the trail o' parted lovers,Where "forever" lasts a mile!

If the snowflake specks the desert

Or the yucca blooms awhile.

Ay! what gloom the mountain covers

Where the driftin' cloud shade hovers!

Ay! the trail o' parted lovers,

Where "forever" lasts a mile!

Our lives are hid; our trails are strange;We're scattered through the WestIn canyon cool, on blistered rangeOr windy mountain crest.Wherever Nature drops her earsAnd bares her claws to scratch,From Yuma to the north frontiers,You'll likely find the bach',You will,The shy and sober bach'!Our days are sun and storm and mist,The same as any life,Except that in our trouble listWe never count a wife.Each has a reason why he's lone,But keeps it 'neath his hat;Or, if he's got to tell some one,Confides it to his cat,He does,Just tells it to his cat.We're young or old or slow or fast,But all plumb versatyle.The mighty bach' that fires the blastKin serve up beans in style.The bach' that ropes the plungin' cowsKin mix the biscuits true—We earn our grub by drippin' browsAnd cook it by 'em too,We do,We cook it by 'em too.We like to breathe unbranded air,Be free of foot and mind,And go or stay, or sing or swear,Whichever we're inclined.An appetite, a conscience clear,A pipe that's rich and oldAre loves that always bless and cheerAnd never cry nor scold,They don't.They never cry nor scold.Old Adam bached some ages backAnd smoked his pipe so free,A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shackBeneath a mango tree.He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways,And scripture proves the same,For Adam's only happy daysWas 'fore the woman came,They was,All 'fore the woman came.

Our lives are hid; our trails are strange;

We're scattered through the West

In canyon cool, on blistered range

Or windy mountain crest.

Wherever Nature drops her ears

And bares her claws to scratch,

From Yuma to the north frontiers,

You'll likely find the bach',

You will,

The shy and sober bach'!

Our days are sun and storm and mist,The same as any life,Except that in our trouble listWe never count a wife.Each has a reason why he's lone,But keeps it 'neath his hat;Or, if he's got to tell some one,Confides it to his cat,He does,Just tells it to his cat.

Our days are sun and storm and mist,

The same as any life,

Except that in our trouble list

We never count a wife.

Each has a reason why he's lone,

But keeps it 'neath his hat;

Or, if he's got to tell some one,

Confides it to his cat,

He does,

Just tells it to his cat.

We're young or old or slow or fast,But all plumb versatyle.The mighty bach' that fires the blastKin serve up beans in style.The bach' that ropes the plungin' cowsKin mix the biscuits true—We earn our grub by drippin' browsAnd cook it by 'em too,We do,We cook it by 'em too.

We're young or old or slow or fast,

But all plumb versatyle.

The mighty bach' that fires the blast

Kin serve up beans in style.

The bach' that ropes the plungin' cows

Kin mix the biscuits true—

We earn our grub by drippin' brows

And cook it by 'em too,

We do,

We cook it by 'em too.

We like to breathe unbranded air,Be free of foot and mind,And go or stay, or sing or swear,Whichever we're inclined.An appetite, a conscience clear,A pipe that's rich and oldAre loves that always bless and cheerAnd never cry nor scold,They don't.They never cry nor scold.

We like to breathe unbranded air,

Be free of foot and mind,

And go or stay, or sing or swear,

Whichever we're inclined.

An appetite, a conscience clear,

A pipe that's rich and old

Are loves that always bless and cheer

And never cry nor scold,

They don't.

They never cry nor scold.

Old Adam bached some ages backAnd smoked his pipe so free,A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shackBeneath a mango tree.He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways,And scripture proves the same,For Adam's only happy daysWas 'fore the woman came,They was,All 'fore the woman came.

Old Adam bached some ages back

And smoked his pipe so free,

A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shack

Beneath a mango tree.

He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways,

And scripture proves the same,

For Adam's only happy days

Was 'fore the woman came,

They was,

All 'fore the woman came.

'Way high up the Mogollons,Among the mountain tops,A lion cleaned a yearlin's bonesAnd licked his thankful chops,When on the picture who should ride,A-trippin' down a slope,But High-Chin Bob, with sinful prideAnd mav'rick-hungry rope."Oh, glory be to me," says he,"And fame's unfadin' flowers!All meddlin' hands are far away;I ride my good top-hawse todayAnd I'm top-rope of the Lazy J——Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!"That lion licked his paw so brownAnd dreamed soft dreams of veal—And then the circlin' loop sung downAnd roped him 'round his meal.He yowled quick fury to the worldTill all the hills yelled back;The top-hawse gave a snort and whirledAnd Bob caught up the slack."Oh, glory be to me," laughs he."We hit the glory trail.No human man as I have readDarst loop a ragin' lion's head,Nor ever hawse could drag one deadUntil we told the tale."'Way high up the MogollonsThat top-hawse done his best,Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,From canyon-floor to crest.But ever when Bob turned and hopedA limp remains to find,A red-eyed lion, belly ropedBut healthy, loped behind."Oh, glory be to me" grunts he."This glory trail is rough,Yet even till the Judgment MornI'll keep this dally 'round the horn,For never any hero bornCould stoop to holler: Nuff!'"Three suns had rode their circle homeBeyond the desert's rim,And turned their star-herds loose to roamThe ranges high and dim;Yet up and down and 'round and 'crossBob pounded, weak and wan,For pride still glued him to his hawseAnd glory drove him on."Oh, glory be to me," sighs he."He kaint be drug to death,But now I know beyond a doubtThem heroes I have read aboutWas only fools that stuck it outTo end of mortal breath."'Way high up the MogollonsA prospect man did swearThat moon dreams melted down his bonesAnd hoisted up his hair:A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,A lion trailed along,A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,Yelled out a crazy song."Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,"And to my noble noose!Oh, stranger, tell my pards belowI took a rampin' dream in tow,And if I never lay him low,I'll never turn him loose!"

'Way high up the Mogollons,

Among the mountain tops,

A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones

And licked his thankful chops,

When on the picture who should ride,

A-trippin' down a slope,

But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride

And mav'rick-hungry rope.

"Oh, glory be to me," says he,"And fame's unfadin' flowers!All meddlin' hands are far away;I ride my good top-hawse todayAnd I'm top-rope of the Lazy J——Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!"

"Oh, glory be to me," says he,

"And fame's unfadin' flowers!

All meddlin' hands are far away;

I ride my good top-hawse today

And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J——

Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!"

That lion licked his paw so brownAnd dreamed soft dreams of veal—And then the circlin' loop sung downAnd roped him 'round his meal.He yowled quick fury to the worldTill all the hills yelled back;The top-hawse gave a snort and whirledAnd Bob caught up the slack.

That lion licked his paw so brown

And dreamed soft dreams of veal—

And then the circlin' loop sung down

And roped him 'round his meal.

He yowled quick fury to the world

Till all the hills yelled back;

The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled

And Bob caught up the slack.

"Oh, glory be to me," laughs he."We hit the glory trail.No human man as I have readDarst loop a ragin' lion's head,Nor ever hawse could drag one deadUntil we told the tale."

"Oh, glory be to me," laughs he.

"We hit the glory trail.

No human man as I have read

Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,

Nor ever hawse could drag one dead

Until we told the tale."

'Way high up the MogollonsThat top-hawse done his best,Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,From canyon-floor to crest.But ever when Bob turned and hopedA limp remains to find,A red-eyed lion, belly ropedBut healthy, loped behind.

'Way high up the Mogollons

That top-hawse done his best,

Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,

From canyon-floor to crest.

But ever when Bob turned and hoped

A limp remains to find,

A red-eyed lion, belly roped

But healthy, loped behind.

"Oh, glory be to me" grunts he."This glory trail is rough,Yet even till the Judgment MornI'll keep this dally 'round the horn,For never any hero bornCould stoop to holler: Nuff!'"

"Oh, glory be to me" grunts he.

"This glory trail is rough,

Yet even till the Judgment Morn

I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,

For never any hero born

Could stoop to holler: Nuff!'"

Three suns had rode their circle homeBeyond the desert's rim,And turned their star-herds loose to roamThe ranges high and dim;Yet up and down and 'round and 'crossBob pounded, weak and wan,For pride still glued him to his hawseAnd glory drove him on.

Three suns had rode their circle home

Beyond the desert's rim,

And turned their star-herds loose to roam

The ranges high and dim;

Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross

Bob pounded, weak and wan,

For pride still glued him to his hawse

And glory drove him on.

"Oh, glory be to me," sighs he."He kaint be drug to death,But now I know beyond a doubtThem heroes I have read aboutWas only fools that stuck it outTo end of mortal breath."

"Oh, glory be to me," sighs he.

"He kaint be drug to death,

But now I know beyond a doubt

Them heroes I have read about

Was only fools that stuck it out

To end of mortal breath."

'Way high up the MogollonsA prospect man did swearThat moon dreams melted down his bonesAnd hoisted up his hair:A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,A lion trailed along,A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,Yelled out a crazy song.

'Way high up the Mogollons

A prospect man did swear

That moon dreams melted down his bones

And hoisted up his hair:

A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,

A lion trailed along,

A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,

Yelled out a crazy song.

"Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,"And to my noble noose!Oh, stranger, tell my pards belowI took a rampin' dream in tow,And if I never lay him low,I'll never turn him loose!"

"Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,

"And to my noble noose!

Oh, stranger, tell my pards below

I took a rampin' dream in tow,

And if I never lay him low,

I'll never turn him loose!"

You're salty and greasy and smoky as sinBut of all grub we love you the best.You stuck to us closer than nighest of kinAnd helped us win out in the West,You froze with us up on the Laramie trail;You sweat with us down at Tucson;When Injun was painted and white man was paleYou nerved us to grip our last chance by the tailAnd load up our Colts and hang on.You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plainOver campfires of sagebrush and oak;The breezes that blow from the Platte to the mainHave carried your savory smoke.You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest;You're as good in December as May;You always came in when the fresh meat had ceasedAnd the rough course of empire to westward was greasedBy the bacon we fried on the way.We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eatAnd your virtues we often forget.We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat,But we love you and swear by you yet.Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin',All the westerners join in the toast,From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine,From Canada down to the Mexican Line,From Omaha out to the coast!

You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin

But of all grub we love you the best.

You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin

And helped us win out in the West,

You froze with us up on the Laramie trail;

You sweat with us down at Tucson;

When Injun was painted and white man was pale

You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail

And load up our Colts and hang on.

You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plainOver campfires of sagebrush and oak;The breezes that blow from the Platte to the mainHave carried your savory smoke.You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest;You're as good in December as May;You always came in when the fresh meat had ceasedAnd the rough course of empire to westward was greasedBy the bacon we fried on the way.

You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain

Over campfires of sagebrush and oak;

The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main

Have carried your savory smoke.

You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest;

You're as good in December as May;

You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased

And the rough course of empire to westward was greased

By the bacon we fried on the way.

We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eatAnd your virtues we often forget.We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat,But we love you and swear by you yet.Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin',All the westerners join in the toast,From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine,From Canada down to the Mexican Line,From Omaha out to the coast!

We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eat

And your virtues we often forget.

We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat,

But we love you and swear by you yet.

Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin',

All the westerners join in the toast,

From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine,

From Canada down to the Mexican Line,

From Omaha out to the coast!

I ride alone and hate the boys I meet.Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so.I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite—And yet I liked 'em just a week ago.I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares!The bird songs make me sore.I seem the only thing on earth that cares'Cause Al ain't here no more!'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur—And, when I raised him up so limp and weak,One look before his eyes begun to blurAnd then—the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak!And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,And after year on yearWhen we had always trailed it side by side,He went—and left me here!We loved each other in the way men doAnd never spoke about it, Al and me,But we bothknowed, and knowin' it so trueWas more than any woman's kiss could be.We knowed—and if the way was smooth or rough,The weather shine or pour,While I had him the rest seemed good enough—But he ain't here no more!What is there out beyond the last divide?Seems like that country must be cold and dim.He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride,And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.It's no use thinkin'—all I'd think or sayCould never make it clear.Out that dim trail that only leads one wayHe's gone—and left me here!

I ride alone and hate the boys I meet.

Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so.

I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite—

And yet I liked 'em just a week ago.

I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares!

The bird songs make me sore.

I seem the only thing on earth that cares

'Cause Al ain't here no more!

'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur—And, when I raised him up so limp and weak,One look before his eyes begun to blurAnd then—the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak!And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,And after year on yearWhen we had always trailed it side by side,He went—and left me here!

'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur—

And, when I raised him up so limp and weak,

One look before his eyes begun to blur

And then—the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak!

And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,

And after year on year

When we had always trailed it side by side,

He went—and left me here!

We loved each other in the way men doAnd never spoke about it, Al and me,But we bothknowed, and knowin' it so trueWas more than any woman's kiss could be.We knowed—and if the way was smooth or rough,The weather shine or pour,While I had him the rest seemed good enough—But he ain't here no more!

We loved each other in the way men do

And never spoke about it, Al and me,

But we bothknowed, and knowin' it so true

Was more than any woman's kiss could be.

We knowed—and if the way was smooth or rough,

The weather shine or pour,

While I had him the rest seemed good enough—

But he ain't here no more!

What is there out beyond the last divide?Seems like that country must be cold and dim.He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride,And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.It's no use thinkin'—all I'd think or sayCould never make it clear.Out that dim trail that only leads one wayHe's gone—and left me here!

What is there out beyond the last divide?

Seems like that country must be cold and dim.

He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride,

And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.

It's no use thinkin'—all I'd think or say

Could never make it clear.

Out that dim trail that only leads one way

He's gone—and left me here!

I wait to hear him ridin' up behind."I wait to hear him ridin' up behind."

"I wait to hear him ridin' up behind."

The range is empty and the trails are blind,And I don't seem but half myself today.I wait to hear him ridin' up behindAnd feel his knee rub mine the good old way.He's dead—and what that means no man kin tell.Some call it "gone before."Where? I don't know, but God! I know so wellThat he ain't here no more!

The range is empty and the trails are blind,

And I don't seem but half myself today.

I wait to hear him ridin' up behind

And feel his knee rub mine the good old way.

He's dead—and what that means no man kin tell.

Some call it "gone before."

Where? I don't know, but God! I know so well

That he ain't here no more!

One time, 'way back where the year marks fade,God said: "I see I must lose my West,The prettiest part of the world I made,The place where I've always come to rest,For the White Man grows till he fights for breadAnd he begs and prays for a chance to spread."Yet I won't give all of my last retreat;I'll help him to fight his long trail through,But I'll keep some land from his field and streetThe way that it was when the world was new.He'll cry for it all, for that's his way,And yet he may understand some day."And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'wayTo the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin,God stripped some places to sand and clayAnd dried up the beds where the streams had been.He marked His reserves with these plain signsAnd stationed His rangers to guard the lines.Then the White Man came, as the East growed old,And blazed his trail with the wreck of war.He riled the rivers to hunt for goldAnd found the stuff he was lookin' for;Then he trampled the Injun trails to rutsAnd gashed through the hills with railroad cuts.He flung out his barb-wire fences wideAnd plowed up the ground where the grass was high.He stripped off the trees from the mountain sideAnd ground out his ore where the streams run by,Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar,And the White Man was feelin' at home once more.But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike thingsThat gall and grate on the White Man's nerves,Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springsAnd guarded the lines of God's reserves.So the folks all shy from the desert land,'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand.There the world's the same as the day 'twas new,With the land as clean as the smokeless skyAnd never a noise as the years have flew,But the sound of the warm wind driftin' by;And there, alone, with the man's world far,There's a chance to think who you really are.And over the reach of the desert bare,When the sun drops low and the day wind stills,Sometimes you kin almost see Him there,As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills,A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our kenAnd restin' Himself from the noise of men.

One time, 'way back where the year marks fade,

God said: "I see I must lose my West,

The prettiest part of the world I made,

The place where I've always come to rest,

For the White Man grows till he fights for bread

And he begs and prays for a chance to spread.

"Yet I won't give all of my last retreat;I'll help him to fight his long trail through,But I'll keep some land from his field and streetThe way that it was when the world was new.He'll cry for it all, for that's his way,And yet he may understand some day."

"Yet I won't give all of my last retreat;

I'll help him to fight his long trail through,

But I'll keep some land from his field and street

The way that it was when the world was new.

He'll cry for it all, for that's his way,

And yet he may understand some day."

And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'wayTo the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin,God stripped some places to sand and clayAnd dried up the beds where the streams had been.He marked His reserves with these plain signsAnd stationed His rangers to guard the lines.

And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'way

To the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin,

God stripped some places to sand and clay

And dried up the beds where the streams had been.

He marked His reserves with these plain signs

And stationed His rangers to guard the lines.

Then the White Man came, as the East growed old,And blazed his trail with the wreck of war.He riled the rivers to hunt for goldAnd found the stuff he was lookin' for;Then he trampled the Injun trails to rutsAnd gashed through the hills with railroad cuts.

Then the White Man came, as the East growed old,

And blazed his trail with the wreck of war.

He riled the rivers to hunt for gold

And found the stuff he was lookin' for;

Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts

And gashed through the hills with railroad cuts.

He flung out his barb-wire fences wideAnd plowed up the ground where the grass was high.He stripped off the trees from the mountain sideAnd ground out his ore where the streams run by,Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar,And the White Man was feelin' at home once more.

He flung out his barb-wire fences wide

And plowed up the ground where the grass was high.

He stripped off the trees from the mountain side

And ground out his ore where the streams run by,

Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar,

And the White Man was feelin' at home once more.

But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike thingsThat gall and grate on the White Man's nerves,Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springsAnd guarded the lines of God's reserves.So the folks all shy from the desert land,'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand.

But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things

That gall and grate on the White Man's nerves,

Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs

And guarded the lines of God's reserves.

So the folks all shy from the desert land,

'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand.

There the world's the same as the day 'twas new,With the land as clean as the smokeless skyAnd never a noise as the years have flew,But the sound of the warm wind driftin' by;And there, alone, with the man's world far,There's a chance to think who you really are.

There the world's the same as the day 'twas new,

With the land as clean as the smokeless sky

And never a noise as the years have flew,

But the sound of the warm wind driftin' by;

And there, alone, with the man's world far,

There's a chance to think who you really are.

And over the reach of the desert bare,When the sun drops low and the day wind stills,Sometimes you kin almost see Him there,As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills,A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our kenAnd restin' Himself from the noise of men.

And over the reach of the desert bare,

When the sun drops low and the day wind stills,

Sometimes you kin almost see Him there,

As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills,

A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our ken

And restin' Himself from the noise of men.

There's an old pard of mine that sits by his doorAnd watches the evenin' skies.He's sat there a thousand of evenin's beforeAnd I reckon he will till he dies.El pobre! I reckon he will till he dies,And hear through the dim, quiet airFar cattle that call and the crickets that cheepAnd his woman a-singin' a kid to sleepAnd the creak of her rockabye chair.Once we made camp where the last light would failAnd the east wasn't white till we'd start,But now he is deaf to the call of the trailAnd the song of the restless heart.El pobre! the song of the restless heartThat you hear in the wind from the dawn!He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things,For a slow little song that a tired woman singsAnd a smoke when his dry day is gone.I've rode in and told him of lands that were strange,Where I'd drifted from glory to dread.He'd tell me the news of his little old rangeAnd the cute things his kids had said!El pobre! the cute things his kids had said!And the way six-year Billy could ride!And the dark would creep in from the gray chaparralAnd the woman would hum, while I pitied my palAnd thought of him like he had died.He rides in old circles and looks at old sightsAnd his life is as flat as a pond.He loves the old skyline he watches of nightsAnd he don't seem to care for beyond.El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond,Nor the room he could find, there, for joy."Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day.But he only just smiled in a pityin' wayWhile he braided a quirt for his boy.He preaches that I orter fold up my wingsAnd that even wild geese find a nest.That "woman" and "wimmen" are different thingsAnd a saddle nap isn't a rest.El pobre! he's more for the shade and the restAnd he's less for the wind and the fight,Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows riseAnd I'm tired from the wind and the sun in my eyes,I wonder, sometimes, if he's right.I've courted the wind and I've followed her freeFrom the snows that the low stars have kissedTo the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea,Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed.El pobre! Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed,And it mebbe is more than I've won—Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows creep,And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleepWhen I'm tired from the wind and the sun.

There's an old pard of mine that sits by his door

And watches the evenin' skies.

He's sat there a thousand of evenin's before

And I reckon he will till he dies.

El pobre! I reckon he will till he dies,

And hear through the dim, quiet air

Far cattle that call and the crickets that cheep

And his woman a-singin' a kid to sleep

And the creak of her rockabye chair.

Once we made camp where the last light would failAnd the east wasn't white till we'd start,But now he is deaf to the call of the trailAnd the song of the restless heart.El pobre! the song of the restless heartThat you hear in the wind from the dawn!He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things,For a slow little song that a tired woman singsAnd a smoke when his dry day is gone.

Once we made camp where the last light would fail

And the east wasn't white till we'd start,

But now he is deaf to the call of the trail

And the song of the restless heart.

El pobre! the song of the restless heart

That you hear in the wind from the dawn!

He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things,

For a slow little song that a tired woman sings

And a smoke when his dry day is gone.

I've rode in and told him of lands that were strange,Where I'd drifted from glory to dread.He'd tell me the news of his little old rangeAnd the cute things his kids had said!El pobre! the cute things his kids had said!And the way six-year Billy could ride!And the dark would creep in from the gray chaparralAnd the woman would hum, while I pitied my palAnd thought of him like he had died.

I've rode in and told him of lands that were strange,

Where I'd drifted from glory to dread.

He'd tell me the news of his little old range

And the cute things his kids had said!

El pobre! the cute things his kids had said!

And the way six-year Billy could ride!

And the dark would creep in from the gray chaparral

And the woman would hum, while I pitied my pal

And thought of him like he had died.

He rides in old circles and looks at old sightsAnd his life is as flat as a pond.He loves the old skyline he watches of nightsAnd he don't seem to care for beyond.El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond,Nor the room he could find, there, for joy."Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day.But he only just smiled in a pityin' wayWhile he braided a quirt for his boy.

He rides in old circles and looks at old sights

And his life is as flat as a pond.

He loves the old skyline he watches of nights

And he don't seem to care for beyond.

El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond,

Nor the room he could find, there, for joy.

"Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day.

But he only just smiled in a pityin' way

While he braided a quirt for his boy.

He preaches that I orter fold up my wingsAnd that even wild geese find a nest.That "woman" and "wimmen" are different thingsAnd a saddle nap isn't a rest.El pobre! he's more for the shade and the restAnd he's less for the wind and the fight,Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows riseAnd I'm tired from the wind and the sun in my eyes,I wonder, sometimes, if he's right.

He preaches that I orter fold up my wings

And that even wild geese find a nest.

That "woman" and "wimmen" are different things

And a saddle nap isn't a rest.

El pobre! he's more for the shade and the rest

And he's less for the wind and the fight,

Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows rise

And I'm tired from the wind and the sun in my eyes,

I wonder, sometimes, if he's right.

I've courted the wind and I've followed her freeFrom the snows that the low stars have kissedTo the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea,Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed.El pobre! Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed,And it mebbe is more than I've won—Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows creep,And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleepWhen I'm tired from the wind and the sun.

I've courted the wind and I've followed her free

From the snows that the low stars have kissed

To the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea,

Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed.

El pobre! Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed,

And it mebbe is more than I've won—

Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows creep,

And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleep

When I'm tired from the wind and the sun.

Note.—"El pobre," Spanish, "Poor fellow."

I rode across a valley rangeI hadn't seen for years.The trail was all so spoilt and strangeIt nearly fetched the tears.I had to let ten fences down(The fussy lanes ran wrong)And each new line would make me frownAnd hum a mournin' song.Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!The nester brand is on the land;I reckon I'll retire,While progress toots her brassy hornAnd makes her motor buzz,I thank the Lord I wasn't bornNo later than I was.'Twas good to live when all the sod,Without no fence nor fuss,Belonged in pardnership to God,The Gover'ment and us.With skyline bounds from east to westAnd room to go and come,I loved my fellow man the bestWhen he was scattered some.Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!Close and closer cramps the wire.There's hardly play to back awayAnd call a man a liar.Their house has locks on every door;Their land is in a crate.These ain't the plains of God no more,They're only real estate.There's land where yet no ditchers digNor cranks experiment;It's only lovely, free and bigAnd isn't worth a cent.I pray that them who come to spoilMay wait till I am deadBefore they foul that blessed soilWith fence and cabbage head.Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!Far and farther crawls the wire.To crowd and pinch another inchIs all their heart's desire.The world is overstocked with menAnd some will see the dayWhen each must keep his little pen,But I'll be far away.

I rode across a valley range

I hadn't seen for years.

The trail was all so spoilt and strange

It nearly fetched the tears.

I had to let ten fences down

(The fussy lanes ran wrong)

And each new line would make me frown

And hum a mournin' song.

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!The nester brand is on the land;I reckon I'll retire,While progress toots her brassy hornAnd makes her motor buzz,I thank the Lord I wasn't bornNo later than I was.

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!

Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!

The nester brand is on the land;

I reckon I'll retire,

While progress toots her brassy horn

And makes her motor buzz,

I thank the Lord I wasn't born

No later than I was.

'Twas good to live when all the sod,Without no fence nor fuss,Belonged in pardnership to God,The Gover'ment and us.With skyline bounds from east to westAnd room to go and come,I loved my fellow man the bestWhen he was scattered some.

'Twas good to live when all the sod,

Without no fence nor fuss,

Belonged in pardnership to God,

The Gover'ment and us.

With skyline bounds from east to west

And room to go and come,

I loved my fellow man the best

When he was scattered some.

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!Close and closer cramps the wire.There's hardly play to back awayAnd call a man a liar.Their house has locks on every door;Their land is in a crate.These ain't the plains of God no more,They're only real estate.

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!

Close and closer cramps the wire.

There's hardly play to back away

And call a man a liar.

Their house has locks on every door;

Their land is in a crate.

These ain't the plains of God no more,

They're only real estate.

There's land where yet no ditchers digNor cranks experiment;It's only lovely, free and bigAnd isn't worth a cent.I pray that them who come to spoilMay wait till I am deadBefore they foul that blessed soilWith fence and cabbage head.

There's land where yet no ditchers dig

Nor cranks experiment;

It's only lovely, free and big

And isn't worth a cent.

I pray that them who come to spoil

May wait till I am dead

Before they foul that blessed soil

With fence and cabbage head.

Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!Far and farther crawls the wire.To crowd and pinch another inchIs all their heart's desire.The world is overstocked with menAnd some will see the dayWhen each must keep his little pen,But I'll be far away.

Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!

Far and farther crawls the wire.

To crowd and pinch another inch

Is all their heart's desire.

The world is overstocked with men

And some will see the day

When each must keep his little pen,

But I'll be far away.

There's land where yet no ditchers dig ..."There's land where yet no ditchers digNor cranks experiment;It's only lovely, free and bigAnd isn't worth a cent."

"There's land where yet no ditchers digNor cranks experiment;It's only lovely, free and bigAnd isn't worth a cent."

"There's land where yet no ditchers dig

Nor cranks experiment;

It's only lovely, free and big

And isn't worth a cent."

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