The Cowboy — Music by the “Kid”
| Download Finale | View/Download PDF
BILL PETERS, THE STAGE DRIVER
Bill Peters was a hustler
From Independence town;
He warn’t a college scholar
Nor man of great renown,
But Bill had a way o’ doing things
And doin’ ’em up brown.
Bill driv the stage from Independence
Up to the Smokey Hill;
And everybody knowed him thar
As Independence Bill,—
Thar warn’t no feller on the route
That driv with half the skill.
Bill driv four pair of horses,
Same as you’d drive a team,
And you’d think you was a-travelin’
On a railroad driv by steam;
And he’d git thar on time, you bet,
Or Bill ‘u’d bust a seam.
He carried mail and passengers,
And he started on the dot,
And them teams o’ his’n, so they say,
Was never known to trot;
But they went it in a gallop
And kept their axles hot.
When Bill’s stage ‘u’d bust a tire,
Or something ‘u’d break down,
He’d hustle round and patch her up
And start off with a bound;
And the wheels o’ that old shack o’ his
Scarce ever touched the ground.
And Bill didn’t low no foolin’,
And when Inguns hove in sight
And bullets rattled at the stage,
He druv with all his might;
He’d holler, “Fellers, give ’em hell,
I ain’t got time to fight.”
Then the way them wheels ‘u’d rattle,
And the way the dust ‘u’d fly,
You’d think a million cattle,
Had stampeded and gone by;
But the mail ‘u’d get thar just the same,
If the horses had to die.
He driv that stage for many a year
Along the Smokey Hill,
And a pile o’ wild Comanches
Did Bill Peters have to kill,—
And I reckon if he’d had good luck
He’d been a drivin’ still.
But he chanced one day to run agin
A bullet made o’ lead,
Which was harder than he bargained for
And now poor Bill is dead;
And when they brung his body home
A barrel of tears was shed.
HARD TIMES
Come listen a while and I’ll sing you a song
Concerning the times—it will not be long—
When everybody is striving to buy,
And cheating each other, I cannot tell why,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
From father to mother, from sister to brother,
From cousin to cousin, they’re cheating each other.
Since cheating has grown to be so much the fashion,
I believe to my soul it will run the whole Nation,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
Now there is the talker, by talking he eats,
And so does the butcher by killing his meats.
He’ll toss the steelyards, and weigh it right down,
And swear it’s just right if it lacks forty pounds,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
And there is the merchant, as honest, we’re told.
Whatever he sells you, my friend, you are sold;
Believe what I tell you, and don’t be surprised
To find yourself cheated half out of your eyes,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
And there is the lawyer you plainly will see,
He will plead your case for a very large fee,
He’ll law you and tell you the wrong side is right,
And make you believe that a black horse is white,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
And there is the doctor, I like to forgot,
I believe to my soul he’s the worst of the lot;
He’ll tell you he’ll cure you for half you possess,
And when you’re buried he’ll take all the rest,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
And there’s the old bachelor, all hated with scorn,
He’s like an old garment all tattered and torn,
The girls and the widows all toss him a sigh,
And think it quite right, and so do I,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
And there’s the young widow, coquettish and shy,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye,
But when she gets married she’ll cut quite a dash,
She’ll give him the reins and she’ll handle the cash,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
And there’s the young lady I like to have missed,
And I believe to my soul she’d like to be kissed;
She’ll tell you she loves you with all pretence
And ask you to call again some time hence,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
And there’s the young man, the worst of the whole.
Oh, he will tell you with all of his soul,
He’ll tell you he loves you and for you will die,
And when he’s away he will swear it’s a lie,—
And it’s hard, hard times.
COLE YOUNGER
Am one of a band of highwaymen, Cole Younger is my name;
My crimes and depredations have brought my friends to shame;
The robbing of the Northfield Bank, the same I can’t deny,
For now I am a prisoner, in the Stillwater jail I lie.
’Tis of a bold, high robbery, a story to you I’ll tell,
Of a California miner who unto us befell;
We robbed him of his money and bid him go his way,
For which I will be sorry until my dying day.
And then we started homeward, when brother Bob did say:
“Now, Cole, we will buy fast horses and on them ride away.
We will ride to avenge our father’s death and try to win the prize;
We will fight those anti-guerrillas until the day we die.”
And then we rode towards Texas, that good old Lone Star State,
But on Nebraska’s prairies the James boys we did meet;
With knives, guns, and revolvers we all sat down to play,
A-drinking of good whiskey to pass the time away.
A Union Pacific railway train was the next we did surprise,
And the crimes done by our bloody hands bring tears into my eyes.
The engineerman and fireman killed, the conductor escaped alive,
And now their bones lie mouldering beneath Nebraska’s skies.
Then we saddled horses, northwestward we did go,
To the God-forsaken country called Min-ne-so-te-o;
I had my eye on the Northfield bank when brother Bob did say,
“Now, Cole, if you undertake the job, you will surely curse the day.”
But I stationed out my pickets and up to the bank did go,
And there upon the counter I struck my fatal blow.
“Just hand us over your money and make no further delay,
We are the famous Younger brothers, we spare no time to pray.”
MISSISSIPPI GIRLS
Come, all you Mississippi girls, and listen to my noise,
If you happen to go West, don’t you marry those Texian boys;
For if you do, your fortune will be
Cold jonny-cake and beefsteak, that’s all that you will see,—
Cold jonny-cake and beefsteak, that’s all that you will see.
When they go courting, here’s what they wear:
An old leather coat, and it’s all ripped and tore;
And an old brown hat with the brim tore down,
And a pair of dirty socks, they’ve worn the winter round.
When one comes in, the first thing you hear
Is, “Madam, your father has killed a deer”;
And the next thing they say when they sit down
Is, “Madam, the jonny-cake is too damned brown.”
They live in a hut with hewed log wall,
But it ain’t got any windows at all;
With a clap-board roof and a puncheon floor,
And that’s the way all Texas o’er.
They will take you out on a live-oak hill
And there they will leave you much against your will.
They will leave you on the prairie, starve you on the plains,
For that is the way with the Texians,—
For that is the way with the Texians.
When they go to preaching let me tell you how they dress;
Just an old black shirt without any vest,
Just an old straw hat more brim than crown
And an old sock leg that they wear the winter round,—
And an old sock leg that they wear the winter round.
For your wedding supper, there’ll be beef and cornbread;
There it is to eat when the ceremony’s said.
And when you go to milk you’ll milk into a gourd;
And set it in the corner and cover it with a board;
Some gets little and some gets none,
For that is the way with the Texians,—
For that is the way with the Texians.
THE OLD MAN UNDER THE HILL
There was an old man who lived under the hill,
Chir-u-ra-wee, lived under the hill,
And if he ain’t dead he’s living there still,
Chir-u-ra-wee, living there still.
One day the old man went out to plow,
Chir-u-ra-wee, went out to plow;
’Tis good-bye the old fellow, and how are you now,
Sing chir-u-ra-wee, and how are you now.
And then another came to his house,
Chir-u-ra-wee, came to his house;
“There’s one of your family I’ve got to have now,
Sing chir-u-ra-wee, got to have now.
“It’s neither you nor your oldest son,
Chir-u-ra-wee, nor your oldest son.”
“Then take my old woman and take her for fun,
Sing chir-u-ra-wee, take her for fun.”
He takened her all upon his back,
Chir-u-ra-wee, upon his back,
And like an old rascal went rickity rack,
Sing chir-u-ra-wee, went rickity rack.
But when he got half way up the road,
Chir-u-ra-wee, up the road,
Says he, “You old lady, you’re sure a load,”
Sing chir-u-ra-wee, you’re sure a load.
He set her down on a stump to rest,
Chir-u-ra-wee, stump to rest;
She up with a stick and hit him her best.
Sing chir-u-ra-wee, hit him her best.
He taken her on to hell’s old gate,
Chir-u-ra-wee, hell’s old gate,
But when he got there he got there too late,
Sing chir-u-ra-wee, got there too late.
And so he had to keep his wife,
Chir-u-ra-wee, had to keep his wife,
And keep her he did for the rest of his life.
Sing chir-u-ra-wee, for the rest of his life.
JERRY, GO ILE THAT CAR
Come all ye railroad section men an’ listen to my song,
It is of Larry O’Sullivan who now is dead and gone.
For twinty years a section boss, he niver hired a tar—
Oh, it’s “j’int ahead and cinter back,
An’ Jerry, go ile that car!”
For twinty years a section boss, he niver hired a tar,
But it’s “j’int ahead an cinter back,
An’ Jerry, go ile that car-r-r!”
For twinty years a section boss, he worked upon the track,
And be it to his cred-i-it he niver had a wrack.
For he kept every j’int right up to the p’int wid the tap of the tampin-bar-r-r;
And while the byes was a-swimmin’ up the ties,
It’s “Jerry, wud yez ile that car-r-r!”
God rest ye, Larry O’Sullivan, to me ye were kind and good;
Ye always made the section men go out and chop me wood;
An’ fetch me wather from the well an’ chop me kindlin’ fine;
And any man that wouldn’t lind a hand, ’twas Larry give him his Time.
And ivery Sunday morni-i-ing unto the gang he’d say:
“Me byes, prepare—yez be aware the ould lady goes to church the day.
Now, I want ivery man to pump the best he can, for the distance it is far-r-r;
An’ we have to get in ahead of number tin—
So, Jerry, go an’ ile that car-r-r!”
’Twas in November in the winter time and the ground all covered wid snow,
“Come put the hand-car-r-r on the track an’ over the section go!”
Wid his big soger coat buttoned up to his t’roat, all weathers he would dare—
An’ it’s “Paddy Mack, will yez walk the track,
An’ Jerry, go an’ ile that car-r-r!”
“Give my respects to the roadmas-ther,” poor Larry he did cry,
“An lave me up that I may see the ould hand-car before I die.
Come, j’int ahead an’ cinter back,
An’ Jerry, go an’ ile that car-r-r!”
Then lay the spike maul upon his chist, the gauge, and the ould claw-bar-r-r,
And while the byes do be fillin’ up his grave,
“Oh, Jerry, go an’ ile that car-r-r!”
JOHN GARNER’S TRAIL HERD
Come all you old timers and listen to my song;
I’ll make it short as possible and I’ll not keep you long;
I’ll relate to you about the time you all remember well
When we, with old Joe Garner, drove a beef herd up the trail.
When we left the ranch it was early in the spring,
We had as good a corporal as ever rope did swing,
Good hands and good horses, good outfit through and through,—
We went well equipped, we were a jolly crew.
We had no little herd—two thousand head or more—
And some as wild a brush beeves as you ever saw before.
We swung to them all the way and sometimes by the tail,—
Oh, you know we had a circus as we all went up the trail.
All things went on well till we reached the open ground,
And then them cattle turned in and they gave us merry hell.
They stampeded every night that came and did it without fail,—
Oh, you know we had a circus as we all went up the trail.
We would round them up at morning and the boss would make a count,
And say, “Look here, old punchers, we are out quite an amount;
You must make all losses good and do it without fail
Or you will never get another job of driving up the trail.”
When we reached Red River we gave the Inspector the dodge.
He swore by God Almighty, in jail old John should lodge.
We told him if he’d taken our boss and had him locked in jail,
We would shore get his scalp as we all came down the trail.
When we reached the Reservation, how squirmish we did feel,
Although we had tried old Garner and knew him true as steel.
And if we would follow him and do as he said do,
That old bald-headed cow-thief would surely take us through.
When we reached Dodge City we drew our four months’ pay.
Times was better then, boys, that was a better day.
The way we drank and gambled and threw the girls around,—
“Say, a crowd of Texas cowboys has come to take our town.”
The cowboy sees many hardships although he takes them well;
The fun we had upon that trip, no human tongue can tell.
The cowboy’s life is a dreary life, though his mind it is no load,
And he always spends his money like he found it in the road.
If ever you meet old Garner, you must meet him on the square,
For he is the biggest cow-thief that ever tramped out there.
But if you want to hear him roar and spin a lively tale,
Just ask him about the time we all went up the trail.
THE OLD SCOUT’S LAMENT
Come all of you, my brother scouts,
And join me in my song;
Come, let us sing together
Though the shadows fall so long.
Of all the old frontiersmen
That used to scour the plain,
There are but very few of them
That 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 were many of our number
That never wore the blue,
But, faithfully, they did their part,
As brave men, tried and true.
They never joined the army,
But had other work to do
In piloting the coming folks,
To help them safely through.
But, brothers, we are falling,
Our race is almost run;
The days of elk and buffalo
And beaver traps are gone.
Oh, the days of elk and buffalo!
It fills my heart with pain
To know these days are past and gone
To never come again.
We fought the red-skin rascals
Over valley, hill, and plain;
We fought him in the mountain top,
And fought him down again.
These fighting days are over;
The Indian yell resounds
No 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 LONE BUFFALO HUNTER
It’s of those Texas cowboys, a story I’ll tell;
No name I will mention though in Texas they do dwell.
Go find them where you will, they are all so very brave,
And when in good society they seldom misbehave.
When the fall work is all over in the line-camp they’ll be found,
For they have to ride those lonesome lines the long winter round;
They prove loyal to a comrade, no matter what’s to do;
And when in love with a fair one they seldom prove untrue.
But springtime comes at last and finds them glad and gay;
They ride out to the round-up about the first of May;
About the first of August they start up the trail,
They have to stay with the cattle, no matter rain or hail.
But when they get to the shipping point, then they receive their tens,
Straightway to the bar-room and gently blow them in;
It’s the height of their ambition, so I’ve been truly told,
To ride good horses and saddles and spend the silver and gold.
Those last two things I’ve mentioned, it is their heart’s desire,
And when they leave the shipping point, their eyes are like balls of fire.
It’s of those fighting cattle, they seem to have no fear,
A-riding bucking broncos oft is their heart’s desire.
They will ride into the branding pen, a rope within their hands,
They will catch them by each forefoot and bring them to the sands;
It’s altogether in practice with a little bit of sleight,
A-roping Texas cattle, it is their heart’s delight.
But now comes the rising generation to take the cowboy’s place,
Likewise the corn-fed granger, with his bold and cheeky face;
It’s on those plains of Texas a lone buffalo hunter does stand
To tell the fate of the cowboy that rode at his right hand.
THE CROOKED TRAIL TO HOLBROOK
Come all you jolly cowboys that follow the bronco steer,
I’ll sing to you a verse or two your spirits for to cheer;
It’s all about a trip, a trip that I did undergo
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.
It’s on the seventeenth of February, our herd it started out,
It would have made your hearts shudder to hear them bawl and shout,
As wild as any buffalo that ever rode the Platte,
Those dogies we were driving, and every one was fat.
We crossed the Mescal Mountains on the way to Gilson Flats,
And when we got to Gilson Flats, Lord, how the wind did blow;
It blew so hard, it blew so fierce, we knew not where to go,
But our spirits never failed us as onward we did go,—
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.
That night we had a stampede; Christ, how the cattle run!
We made it to our horses; I tell you, we had no fun;
Over the prickly pear and catclaw brush we quickly made our way;
We thought of our long journey and the girls we’d left one day.
It’s long by Sombserva we slowly punched along,
While each and every puncher would sing a hearty song
To cheer up his comrade as onward we did go,
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.
We crossed the Mongollen Mountains where the tall pines do grow,
Grass grows in abundance, and rippling streams do flow;
Our packs were always turning, of course our gait was slow,
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.
At last we got to Holbrook, a little gale did blow;
It blew up sand and pebble stones and it didn’t blow them slow.
We had to drink the water from that muddy little stream
And swallowed a peck of dirt when we tried to eat a bean.
But the cattle now are shipped and homeward we are bound
With a lot of as tired horses as ever could be found;
Across the reservation no danger did we fear,
But thought of wives and sweethearts and the ones we love so dear.
Now we are back in Globe City, our friendship there to share;
Here’s luck to every puncher that follows the bronco steer.
ONLY A COWBOY
Away out in old Texas, that great lone star state,
Where the mocking bird whistles both early and late;
It was in Western Texas on the old N A range
The boy fell a victim on the old staked plains.
He was only a cowboy gone on before,
He was only a cowboy, we will never see more;
He was doing his duty on the old N A range
But now he is sleeping on the old staked plains.
His crew they were numbered twenty-seven or eight,
The boys were like brothers, their friendship was great,
When “O God, have mercy” was heard from behind,—
The cattle were left to drift on the line.
He leaves a dear wife and little ones, too,
To earn them a living, as fathers oft do;
For while he was working for the loved ones so dear
He was took without warning or one word of cheer.
And while he is sleeping where the sun always shines,
The boys they go dashing along on the line;
The look on their faces it speaks to us all
Of one who departed to the home of the soul.
He was only a cowboy gone on before,
He was only a cowboy, we will never see more;
He was doing his duty on the old N A range
But now he is sleeping on the old staked plains.
FULLER AND WARREN
Ye sons of Columbia, your attention I do crave,
While a sorrowful story I do tell,
Which happened of late, in the Indiana state,
And a hero not many could excel;
Like Samson he courted, made choice of the fair,
And intended to make her his wife;
But she, like Delilah, his heart did ensnare,
Which cost him his honor and his life.
A gold ring he gave her in token of his love,
On the face was the image of the dove;
They mutually agreed to get married with speed
And were promised by the powers above.
But the fickle-minded maiden vowed again to wed
To young Warren who lived in that place;
It was a fatal blow that caused his overthrow
And added to her shame and disgrace.
When Fuller came to hear he was deprived of his dear
Whom he vowed by the powers to wed,
With his heart full of woe unto Warren he did go,
And smilingly unto him he said:
“Young man, you have injured me to gratify your cause
By reporting that I left a prudent wife;
Acknowledge now that you have wronged me, for although I break the laws,
Young Warren, I’ll deprive you of your life.”
Then Warren, he replied: “Your request must be denied,
For your darling to my heart she is bound;
And further I can say that this is our wedding day,
In spite of all the heroes in town.”
Then Fuller in the passion of his love and anger bound,—
Alas! it caused many to cry,—
At one fatal shot killed Warren on the spot,
And smilingly said, “I’m ready now to die.”
The time was drawing nigh when Fuller had to die;
He bid the audience adieu.
Like an angel he did stand, for he was a handsome man,
On his breast he had a ribbon of blue.
Ten thousand spectators did smite him on the breast,
And the guards dropped a tear from the eye,
Saying, “Cursed be she who caused this misery,
Would to God in his stead she had to die.”
The gentle god of Love looked with anger from above
And the rope flew asunder like the sand.
Two doctors for the pay they murdered him, they say,
They hung him by main strength of hand.
But the corpse it was buried and the doctors lost their prey,
Oh, that harlot was bribed, I do believe;
Bad women to a certainty are the downfall of men,
As Adam was beguiled by Eve.