The Dying Ranger
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THE FAIR FANNIE MOORE
Yonder stands a cottage,
All deserted and alone,
Its paths are neglected,
With grass overgrown;
Go in and you will see
Some dark stains on the floor,—
Alas! it is the blood
Of fair Fannie Moore.
To Fannie, so blooming,
Two lovers they came;
One offered young Fannie
His wealth and his name;
But neither his money
Nor pride could secure
A place in the heart
Of fair Fannie Moore.
The first was young Randell,
So bold and so proud,
Who to the fair Fannie
His haughty head bowed;
But his wealth and his house
Both failed to allure
The heart from the bosom
Of fair Fannie Moore.
The next was young Henry,
Of lowest degree.
He won her fond love
And enraptured was he;
And then at the altar
He quick did secure
The hand with the heart
Of the fair Fannie Moore.
As she was alone
In her cottage one day,
When business had called
Her fond husband away,
Young Randell, the haughty,
Came in at the door
And clasped in his arms
The fair Fannie Moore.
“O Fannie, O Fannie,
Reflect on your fate
And accept of my offer
Before it’s too late;
For one thing to-night
I am bound to secure,—
’Tis the love or the life
Of the fair Fannie Moore.”
“Spare me, Oh, spare me!”
The young Fannie cries,
While the tears swiftly flow
From her beautiful eyes;
“Oh, no!” cries young Randell,
“Go home to your rest,”
And he buried his knife
In her snowy white breast.
So Fannie, so blooming,
In her bright beauty died;
Young Randell, the haughty,
Was taken and tried;
At length he was hung
On a tree at the door,
For shedding the blood
Of the fair Fannie Moore.
Young Henry, the shepherd,
Distracted and wild,
Did wander away
From his own native isle.
Till at length, claimed by death,
He was brought to this shore
And laid by the side
Of the fair Fannie Moore.
HELL IN TEXAS
The devil, we’re told, in hell was chained,
And a thousand years he there remained;
He never complained nor did he groan,
But determined to start a hell of his own,
Where he could torment the souls of men
Without being chained in a prison pen.
So he asked the Lord if he had on hand
Anything left when he made the land.
The Lord said, “Yes, I had plenty on hand,
But I left it down on the Rio Grande;
The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor
I don’t think you could use it in hell anymore.”
But the devil went down to look at the truck,
And said if it came as a gift he was stuck;
For after examining it carefully and well
He concluded the place was too dry for hell.
So, in order to get it off his hands,
The Lord promised the devil to water the lands;
For he had some water, or rather some dregs,
A regular cathartic that smelled like bad eggs.
Hence the deal was closed and the deed was given
And the Lord went back to his home in heaven.
And the devil then said, “I have all that is needed
To make a good hell,” and hence he succeeded.
He began to put thorns in all of the trees,
And mixed up the sand with millions of fleas;
And scattered tarantulas along all the roads;
Put thorns on the cactus and horns on the toads.
He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers,
And put an addition on the rabbit’s ears;
He put a little devil in the broncho steed,
And poisoned the feet of the centipede.
The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings,
The mosquito delights you with buzzing wings;
The sand-burrs prevail and so do the ants,
And those who sit down need half-soles on their pants.
The devil then said that throughout the land
He’d managed to keep up the devil’s own brand,
And all would be mavericks unless they bore
The marks of scratches and bites and thorns by the score.
The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten,
Too hot for the devil and too hot for men.
The wild boar roams through the black chaparral,—
It’s a hell of a place he has for a hell.
The red pepper grows on the banks of the brook;
The Mexicans use it in all that they cook.
Just dine with a Greaser and then you will shout,
“I’ve hell on the inside as well as the out!”
BY MARKENTURA’S FLOWERY MARGE
By Markentura’s flowery marge the Red Chief’s wigwam stood,
Before the white man’s rifle rang, loud echoing through the wood;
The tommy-hawk and scalping knife together lay at rest,
And peace was in the forest shade and in the red man’s breast.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn,
The life and light of the forest shade,—
The Red Chief’s child is gone!
By Markentura’s flowery marge the Spotted Fawn had birth
And grew as fair an Indian maid as ever graced the earth.
She was the Red Chief’s only child and sought by many a brave,
But to the gallant young White Cloud her plighted troth she gave.
By Markentura’s flowery marge the bridal song arose,
Nor dreamed they in that festive night of near approaching woes;
But through the forest stealthily the white man came in wrath.
And fiery darts before them spread, and death was in their path.
By Markentura’s flowery marge next morn no strife was seen,
But a wail went up, for the young Fawn’s blood and White Cloud’s dyed the green.
A burial in their own rude way the Indians gave them there,
And a low sweet requiem the brook sang and the air.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn,
The life and light of the forest shade,—
The Red Chief’s child is gone!
THE STATE OF ARKANSAW
My name is Stamford Barnes, I come from Nobleville town;
I’ve traveled this wide world over, I’ve traveled this wide world round.
I’ve met with ups and downs in life but better days I’ve saw,
But I’ve never knew what misery were till I came to Arkansaw.
I landed in St. Louis with ten dollars and no more;
I read the daily papers till both my eyes were sore;
I read them evening papers until at last I saw
Ten thousand men were wanted in the state of Arkansaw.
I wiped my eyes with great surprise when I read this grateful news,
And straightway off I started to see the agent, Billy Hughes.
He says, “Pay me five dollars and a ticket to you I’ll draw,
It’ll land you safe upon the railroad in the State of Arkansaw.”
I started off one morning a quarter after five;
I started from St. Louis, half dead and half alive;
I bought me a quart of whiskey my misery to thaw,
I got as drunk as a biled owl when I left for old Arkansaw.
I landed in Ft. Smith one sultry Sunday afternoon,
It was in the month of May, the early month of June,
Up stepped a walking skeleton with a long and lantern jaw,
Invited me to his hotel, “The best in Arkansaw.”
I followed my conductor into his dwelling place;
Poverty were depictured in his melancholy face.
His bread it was corn dodger, his beef I could not chaw;
This was the kind of hash they fed me in the State of Arkansaw.
I started off next morning to catch the morning train,
He says to me, “You’d better work, for I have some land to drain.
I’ll pay you fifty cents a day, your board, washing, and all,—
You’ll find yourself a different man when you leave old Arkansaw.”
I worked six weeks for the son of a gun, Jesse Herring was his name,
He was six foot seven in his stocking feet and taller than any crane;
His hair hung down in strings over his long and lantern jaw,—
He was a photograph of all the gents who lived in Arkansaw.
He fed me on corn dodgers as hard as any rock,
Until my teeth began to loosen and my knees began to knock;
I got so thin on sassafras tea I could hide behind a straw,
And indeed I was a different man when I left old Arkansaw.
Farewell to swamp angels, cane brakes, and chills;
Farewell to sage and sassafras and corn dodger pills.
If ever I see this land again, I’ll give to you my paw;
It will be through a telescope from here to Arkansaw.
THE TEXAS COWBOY
Oh, I am a Texas cowboy,
Far away from home,
If ever I get back to Texas
I never more will roam.
Montana is too cold for me
And the winters are too long;
Before the round-ups do begin
Our money is all gone.
Take this old hen-skin bedding,
Too thin to keep me warm,—
I nearly freeze to death, my boys.
Whenever there’s a storm.
And take this old “tarpoleon,”
Too thin to shield my frame,—
I got it down in Nebraska
A-dealin’ a Monte game.
Now to win these fancy leggins
I’ll have enough to do;
They cost me twenty dollars
The day that they were new.
I have an outfit on the Mussel Shell,
But that I’ll never see,
Unless I get sent to represent
The Circle or D.T.
I’ve worked down in Nebraska
Where the grass grows ten feet high,
And the cattle are such rustlers
That they seldom ever die;
I’ve worked up in the sand hills
And down upon the Platte,
Where the cowboys are good fellows
And the cattle always fat;
I’ve traveled lots of country,—
Nebraska’s hills of sand,
Down through the Indian Nation,
And up the Rio Grande;—
But the Bad Lands of Montana
Are the worst I ever seen,
The cowboys are all tenderfeet
And the dogies are too lean.
If you want to see some bad lands,
Go over on the Dry;
You will bog down in the coulees
Where the mountains reach the sky.
A tenderfoot to lead you
Who never knows the way,
You are playing in the best of luck
If you eat more than once a day.
Your grub is bread and bacon
And coffee black as ink;
The water is so full of alkali
It is hardly fit to drink.
They will wake you in the morning
Before the break of day,
And send you on a circle
A hundred miles away.
All along the Yellowstone
’Tis cold the year around;
You will surely get consumption
By sleeping on the ground.
Work in Montana
Is six months in the year;
When all your bills are settled
There is nothing left for beer.
Work down in Texas
Is all the year around;
You will never get consumption
By sleeping on the ground.
Come all you Texas cowboys
And warning take from me,
And do not go to Montana
To spend your money free.
But stay at home in Texas
Where work lasts the year around,
And you will never catch consumption
By sleeping on the ground.
THE DREARY, DREARY LIFE
A cowboy’s life is a dreary, dreary life,
Some say it’s free from care;
Rounding up the cattle from morning till night
In the middle of the prairie so bare.
Half-past four, the noisy cook will roar,
“Whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!”
Slowly you will rise with sleepy-feeling eyes,
The sweet, dreamy night passed away.
The greener lad he thinks it’s play,
He’ll soon peter out on a cold rainy day,
With his big bell spurs and his Spanish hoss,
He’ll swear to you he was once a boss.
The cowboy’s life is a dreary, dreary life,
He’s driven through the heat and cold;
While the rich man’s a-sleeping on his velvet couch,
Dreaming of his silver and gold.
Spring-time sets in, double trouble will begin,
The weather is so fierce and cold;
Clothes are wet and frozen to our necks,
The cattle we can scarcely hold.
The cowboy’s life is a dreary one,
He works all day to the setting of the sun;
And then his day’s work is not done,
For there’s his night herd to go on.
The wolves and owls with their terrifying howls
Will disturb us in our midnight dream,
As we lie on our slickers on a cold, rainy night
Way over on the Pecos stream.
You are speaking of your farms, you are speaking of your charms,
You are speaking of your silver and gold;
But a cowboy’s life is a dreary, dreary life,
He’s driven through the heat and cold.
Some folks say that we are free from care,
Free from all other harm;
But we round up the cattle from morning till night
Way over on the prairie so dry.
I used to run about, now I stay at home,
Take care of my wife and child;
Nevermore to roam, always stay at home,
Take care of my wife and child.
Half-past four the noisy cook will roar,
“Hurrah, boys! she’s breaking day!”
Slowly we will rise and wipe our sleepy eyes,
The sweet, dreamy night passed away.