Root Hog or Die
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SWEET BETSY FROM PIKE
“A California Immigrant Song of the Fifties”
Oh, don’t you remember sweet Betsy from Pike
Who crossed the big mountains with her lover Ike,
And two yoke of cattle, a large yellow dog,
A tall, shanghai rooster, and one spotted hog?
Saying, good-bye, Pike County,
Farewell for a while;
We’ll come back again
When we’ve panned out our pile.
One evening quite early they camped on the Platte,
’Twas near by the road on a green shady flat;
Where Betsy, quite tired, lay down to repose,
While with wonder Ike gazed on his Pike County rose.
They soon reached the desert, where Betsy gave out,
And down in the sand she lay rolling about;
While Ike in great terror looked on in surprise,
Saying “Betsy, get up, you’ll get sand in your eyes.”
Saying, good-bye, Pike County,
Farewell for a while;
I’d go back to-night
If it was but a mile.
Sweet Betsy got up in a great deal of pain
And declared she’d go back to Pike County again;
Then Ike heaved a sigh and they fondly embraced,
And she traveled along with his arm around her waist.
The wagon tipped over with a terrible crash,
And out on the prairie rolled all sorts of trash;
A few little baby clothes done up with care
Looked rather suspicious,—though ’twas all on the square.
The shanghai ran off and the cattle all died,
The last piece of bacon that morning was fried;
Poor Ike got discouraged, and Betsy got mad,
The dog wagged his tail and looked wonderfully sad.
One morning they climbed up a very high hill,
And with wonder looked down into old Placerville;
Ike shouted and said, as he cast his eyes down,
“Sweet Betsy, my darling, we’ve got to Hangtown.”
Long Ike and sweet Betsy attended a dance,
Where Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants;
Sweet Betsy was covered with ribbons and rings.
Quoth Ike, “You’re an angel, but where are your wings?”
A miner said, “Betsy, will you dance with me?”
“I will that, old hoss, if you don’t make too free;
But don’t dance me hard. Do you want to know why?
Dog on ye, I’m chock full of strong alkali.”
Long Ike and sweet Betsy got married of course,
But Ike getting jealous obtained a divorce;
And Betsy, well satisfied, said with a shout,
“Good-bye, you big lummax, I’m glad you backed out.”
Saying, good-bye, dear Isaac,
Farewell for a while,
But come back in time
To replenish my pile.
THE DISHEARTENED RANGER
Come listen to a ranger, you kind-hearted stranger,
This song, though a sad one, you’re welcome to hear;
We’ve kept the Comanches away from your ranches,
And followed them far o’er the Texas frontier.
We’re weary of scouting, of traveling, and routing
The blood-thirsty villains o’er prairie and wood;
No rest for the sinner, no breakfast or dinner,
But he lies in a supperless bed in the mud.
No corn nor potatoes, no bread nor tomatoes,
But jerked beef as dry as the sole of your shoe;
All day without drinking, all night without winking,
I’ll tell you, kind stranger, this never will do.
Those great alligators, the State legislators,
Are puffing and blowing two-thirds of their time,
But windy orations about rangers and rations
Never put in our pockets one-tenth of a dime.
They do not regard us, they will not reward us,
Though hungry and haggard with holes in our coats;
But the election is coming and they will be drumming
And praising our valor to purchase our votes.
For glory and payment, for vittles and raiment,
No longer we’ll fight on the Texas frontier.
So guard your own ranches, and mind the Comanches
Or surely they’ll scalp you in less than a year.
Though sore it may grieve you, the rangers must leave you
Exposed to the arrows and knife of the foe;
So herd your own cattle and fight your own battle,
For home to the States I’m determined to go,—
Where churches have steeples and laws are more equal,
Where houses have people and ladies are kind;
Where work is regarded and worth is rewarded;
Where pumpkins are plenty and pockets are lined.
Your wives and your daughters we have guarded from slaughter,
Through conflicts and struggles I shudder to tell;
No more well defend them, to God we’ll commend them.
To the frontier of Texas we bid a farewell.
THE MELANCHOLY COWBOY
Come all you melancholy folks and listen unto me,
I will sing you about the cowboy whose heart’s so light and free;
He roves all over the prairie and at night when he lays down
His heart’s as gay as the flowers of May with his bed spread on the ground.
They are a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them at least;
But as long as you do not cross their trail, you can live with them in peace.
But if you do, they’re sure to rule, the day you come to their land,
For they’ll follow you up and shoot it out, they’ll do it man to man.
You can go to a cowboy hungry, go to him wet or dry,
And ask him for a few dollars in change and he will not deny;
He will pull out his pocket-book and hand you out a note,—
Oh, they are the fellows to strike, boys, whenever you are broke.
You can go to their ranches and often stay for weeks,
And when you go to leave, boys, they’ll never charge you a cent;
But when they go to town, boys, you bet their money is spent.
They walk right up, they take their drinks and they pay for every one.
They never ask your pardon, boys, for a thing that they have done.
They go to the ball-room, and swing the pretty girls around;
They ride their bucking broncos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats;
Their California saddles, their pants below their boots,
You can hear their spurs go jing-a-ling, or perhaps somebody shoots.
Come all you soft and tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun,
Come go among the cowboys and they’ll show you how it’s done;
But take the kind advice of me as I gave it to you before,
For if you don’t, they’ll order you off with an old Colt’s forty-four.
BOB STANFORD
Bob Stanford, he’s a Texas boy,
He lives down on the flat;
His trade is running a well-drill,
But he’s none the worse for that.
He is neither rich nor handsome,
But, unlike the city dude,
His manners they are pleasant
Instead of flip and rude.
His people live in Texas,
That is his native home,
But like many other Western lads
He drifted off from home.
He came out to New Mexico
A fortune for to make,
He punched the bottom out of the earth
And never made a stake.
So he came to Arizona
And again set up his drill
To punch a hole for water,
And he’s punching at it still.
He says he is determined
To make the business stick
Or spend that derned old well machine
And all he can get on tick.
I hope he is successful
And I’ll help him if I can,
For I admire pluck and ambition
In an honest working man.
So keep on going down,
Punch the bottom out, or try,
There is nothing in a hole in the ground
That continues being dry.
CHARLIE RUTLAGE
Another good cow-puncher has gone to meet his fate,
I hope he’ll find a resting place within the golden gate.
Another place is vacant on the ranch of the X I T,
’Twill be hard to find another that’s liked as well as he.
The first that died was Kid White, a man both tough and brave,
While Charlie Rutlage makes the third to be sent to his grave,
Caused by a cow-horse falling while running after stock;
’Twas on the spring round-up,—a place where death men mock.
He went forward one morning on a circle through the hills,
He was gay and full of glee, and free from earthly ills;
But when it came to finish up the work on which he went,
Nothing came back from him; for his time on earth was spent.
’Twas as he rode the round-up, an X I T turned back to the herd;
Poor Charlie shoved him in again, his cutting horse he spurred;
Another turned; at that moment his horse the creature spied
And turned and fell with him, and beneath, poor Charlie died.
His relations in Texas his face never more will see,
But I hope he will meet his loved ones beyond in eternity.
I hope he will meet his parents, will meet them face to face,
And that they will grasp him by the right hand at the shining throne of grace.
THE RANGE RIDERS
Come all you range riders and listen to me,
I will relate you a story of the saddest degree,
I will relate you a story of the deepest distress,—
I love my poor Lulu, boys, of all girls the best.
When you are out riding, boys, upon the highway,
Meet a fair damsel, a lady so gay,
With her red, rosy cheeks and her sparkling dark eyes,
Just think of my Lulu, boys, and your bosoms will rise.
While you live single, boys, you are just in your prime;
You have no wife to scold, you have nothing to bother your minds;
You can roam this world over and do just as you will,
Hug and kiss the pretty girls and be your own still.
But when you get married, boys, you are done with this life,
You have sold your sweet comfort for to gain you a wife;
Your wife she will scold you, and the children will cry,
It will make those fair faces look withered and dry.
You can scarcely step aside, boys, to speak to a friend
But your wife is at your elbow saying what do you mean.
With her nose turned upon you it will look like sad news,—
I advise you by experience that life to refuse.
Come fill up your bottles, boys, drink Bourbon around;
Here is luck to the single wherever they are found.
Here is luck to the single and I wish them success,
Likewise to the married ones, I wish them no less.
I have one more request to make, boys, before we part.
Never place your affection on a charming sweetheart.
She is dancing before you your affections to gain;
Just turn your back on them with scorn and disdain.
HER WHITE BOSOM BARE
The sun had gone down
O’er the hills of the west,
And the last beams had faded
O’er the mossy hill’s crest,
O’er the beauties of nature
And the charms of the fair,
And Amanda was bound
With her white bosom bare.
At the foot of the mountain
Amanda did sigh
At the hoot of an owl
Or the catamount’s cry;
Or the howl of some wolf
In its low, granite cell,
Or the crash of some large
Forest tree as it fell.
Amanda was there
All friendless and forlorn
With her face bathed in blood
And her garments all torn.
The sunlight had faded
O’er the hills of the green,
And fierce was the look
Of the wild, savage scene.
For it was out in the forest
Where the wild game springs,
Where low in the branches
The rude hammock swings;
The campfire was kindled,
Well fanned by the breeze,
And the light of the campfire
Shone round on the trees.
The campfire was kindled,
Well fanned by the breeze,
And the light of the fire
Shone round on the trees;
And grim stood the circle
Of the warrior throng,
Impatient to join
In the war-dance and song.
The campfire was kindled,
Each warrior was there,
And Amanda was bound
With her white bosom bare.
She counted the vengeance
In the face of her foes
And sighed for the moment
When her sufferings might close.
Young Albon, he gazed
On the face of the fair
While her dark hazel eyes
Were uplifted in prayer;
And her dark waving tresses
In ringlets did flow
Which hid from the gazer
A bosom of snow.
Then young Albon, the chief
Of the warriors, drew near,
With an eye like an eagle
And a step like a deer.
“Forbear,” cried he,
“Your torture forbear;
This maiden shall live.
By my wampum I swear.
“It is for this maiden’s freedom
That I do crave;
Give a sigh for her suffering
Or a tear for her grave.
If there is a victim
To be burned at that tree,
Young Albon, your leader,
That victim shall be.”
Then quick to the arms
Of Amanda he rushed;
The rebel was dead,
And the tumult was hushed;
And grim stood the circle
Of warriors around
While the cords of Amanda
Young Albon unbound.
So it was early next morning
The red, white, and blue
Went gliding o’er the waters
In a small birch canoe;
Just like the white swan
That glides o’er the tide,
Young Albon and Amanda
O’er the waters did ride.
O’er the blue, bubbling water,
Neath the evergreen trees,
Young Albon and Amanda
Did ride at their ease;
And great was the joy
When she stepped on the shore
To embrace her dear father
And mother once more.
Young Albon, he stood
And enjoyed their embrace,
With a sigh in his heart
And a tear on his face;
And all that he asked
Was kindness and food
From the parents of Amanda
To the chief of the woods.
Young Amanda is home now,
As you all know,
Enjoying the friends
Of her own native shore;
Nevermore will she roam
O’er the hills or the plains;
She praises the chief
That loosened her chains.
JUAN MURRAY
My name is Juan Murray, and hard for my fate,
I was born and raised in Texas, that good old lone star state.
I have been to many a round-up, boys, have worked on the trail,
Have stood many a long old guard through the rain, yes, sleet, and hail;
I have rode the Texas broncos that pitched from morning till noon,
And have seen many a storm, boys, between sunrise, yes, and noon.
I am a jolly cowboy and have roamed all over the West,
And among the bronco riders I rank among the best.
But when I left old Midland, with voice right then I spoke,—
“I never will see you again until the day I croak.”
But since I left old Texas so many sights I have saw
A-traveling from my native state way out to Mexico,—
I am looking all around me and cannot help but smile
To see my nearest neighbors all in the Mexican style.
I left my home in Texas to dodge the ball and chain.
In the State of Sonora I will forever remain.
Farewell to my mother, my friends that are so dear,
I would like to see you all again, my lonesome heart to cheer.
I have a word to speak, boys, only another to say,—
Don’t never be a cow-thief, don’t never ride a stray;
Be careful of your line, boys, and keep it on your tree,—
Just suit yourself about it, for it is nothing to me.
But if you start to rustling you will come to some sad fate,
You will have to go to prison and work for the state.
Don’t think that I am lying and trying to tell a joke,
For the writer has experienced just every word he’s spoke.
It is better to be honest and let other’s stock alone
Than to leave your native country and seek a Mexican home.
For if you start to rustling you will surely come to see
The State of Sonora,—be an outcast just like me.
GREER COUNTY
Tom Hight is my name, an old bachelor I am,
You’ll find me out West in the country of fame,
You’ll find me out West on an elegant plain,
And starving to death on my government claim.
Hurrah for Greer County!
The land of the free,
The land of the bed-bug,
Grass-hopper and flea;
I’ll sing of its praises
And tell of its fame,
While starving to death
On my government claim.
My house is built of natural sod,
Its walls are erected according to hod;
Its roof has no pitch but is level and plain,
I always get wet if it happens to rain.
How happy am I on my government claim,
I’ve nothing to lose, and nothing to gain;
I’ve nothing to eat, I’ve nothing to wear,—
From nothing to nothing is the hardest fare.
How happy am I when I crawl into bed,—
A rattlesnake hisses a tune at my head,
A gay little centipede, all without fear,
Crawls over my pillow and into my ear.
Now all you claim holders, I hope you will stay
And chew your hard tack till you’re toothless and gray;
But for myself, I’ll no longer remain
To starve like a dog on my government claim.
My clothes are all ragged as my language is rough,
My bread is corn dodgers, both solid and tough;
But yet I am happy, and live at my ease
On sorghum molasses, bacon, and cheese.
Good-bye to Greer County where blizzards arise,
Where the sun never sinks and a flea never dies,
And the wind never ceases but always remains
Till it starves us all out on our government claims.
Farewell to Greer County, farewell to the West,
I’ll travel back East to the girl I love best,
I’ll travel back to Texas and marry me a wife,
And quit corn bread for the rest of my life.
ROSIN THE BOW
I live for the good of my nation
And my sons are all growing low,
But I hope that my next generation
Will resemble Old Rosin the Bow.
I have traveled this wide world all over,
And now to another I’ll go,
For I know that good quarters are waiting
To welcome Old Rosin the Bow.
The gay round of delights I have traveled,
Nor will I behind leave a woe,
For while my companions are jovial
They’ll drink to Old Rosin the Bow.
This life now is drawn to a closing,
All will at last be so,
Then we’ll take a full bumper at parting
To the name of Old Rosin the Bow.
When I am laid out on the counter,
And the people all anxious to know,
Just raise up the lid of the coffin
And look at Old Rosin the Bow.
And when through the streets my friends bear me,
And the ladies are filled with deep woe,
They’ll come to the doors and the windows
And sigh for Old Rosin the Bow.
Then get some fine, jovial fellows,
And let them all staggering go;
Then dig a deep hole in the meadow
And in it toss Rosin the Bow.
Then get a couple of dornicks,
Place one at my head and my toe,
And do not forget to scratch on them,
“Here lies Old Rosin the Bow.”
Then let those same jovial fellows
Surround my lone grave in a row,
While they drink from my favorite bottle
The health of Old Rosin the Bow.
THE GREAT ROUND-UP
When I think of the last great round-up
On the eve of eternity’s dawn,
I think of the past of the cowboys
Who have been with us here and are gone.
And I wonder if any will greet me
On the sands of the evergreen shore
With a hearty, “God bless you, old fellow,”
That I’ve met with so often before.
I think of the big-hearted fellows
Who will divide with you blanket and bread,
With a piece of stray beef well roasted,
And charge for it never a red.
I often look upward and wonder
If the green fields will seem half so fair,
If any the wrong trail have taken
And fail to “be in” over there.
For the trail that leads down to perdition
Is paved all the way with good deeds,
But in the great round-up of ages,
Dear boys, this won’t answer your needs.
But the way to the green pastures, though narrow,
Leads straight to the home in the sky,
And Jesus will give you the passports
To the land of the sweet by and by.
For the Savior has taken the contract
To deliver all those who believe,
At the headquarters ranch of his Father,
In the great range where none can deceive.
The Inspector will stand at the gateway
And the herd, one by one, will go by,—
The round-up by the angels in judgment
Must pass ’neath his all-seeing eye.
No maverick or slick will be tallied
In the great book of life in his home,
For he knows all the brands and the earmarks
That down through the ages have come.
But, along with the tailings and sleepers,
The strays must turn from the gate;
No road brand to gain them admission,
But the awful sad cry “too late.”
Yet I trust in the last great round-up
When the rider shall cut the big herd,
That the cowboys shall be represented
In the earmark and brand of the Lord,
To be shipped to the bright, mystic regions
Over there in green pastures to lie,
And led by the crystal still waters
In that home of the sweet by and by.
THE JOLLY COWBOY
My lover, he is a cowboy, he’s brave and kind and true,
He rides a Spanish pony, he throws a lasso, too;
And when he comes to see me our vows we do redeem,
He throws his arms around me and thus begins to sing:
“Ho, I’m a jolly cowboy, from Texas now I hail,
Give me my quirt and pony, I’m ready for the trail;
I love the rolling prairies, they’re free from care and strife,
Behind a herd of longhorns I’ll journey all my life.
“When early dawn is breaking and we are far away,
We fall into our saddles, we round-up all the day;
We rope, we brand, we ear-mark, I tell you we are smart,
And when the herd is ready, for Kansas then we start.
“Oh, I am a Texas cowboy, lighthearted, brave, and free,
To roam the wide, wide prairie, ’tis always joy to me.
My trusty little pony is my companion true,
O’er creeks and hills and rivers he’s sure to pull me through.
“When threatening clouds do gather and herded lightnings flash,
And heavy rain drops splatter, and rolling thunders crash;
What keeps the herd from running, stampeding far and wide?
The cowboy’s long, low whistle and singing by their side.
“When in Kansas City, our boss he pays us up,
We loaf around the city and take a parting cup;
We bid farewell to city life, from noisy crowds we come,
And back to dear old Texas, the cowboy’s native home.”
Oh, he is coming back to marry the only girl he loves,
He says I am his darling, I am his own true love;
Some day we two will marry and then no more he’ll roam,
But settle down with Mary in a cozy little home.
“Ho, I’m a jolly cowboy, from Texas now I hail,
Give me my bond to Mary, I’ll quit the Lone Star trail.
I love the rolling prairies, they’re free from care and strife,
But I’ll quit the herd of longhorns for the sake of my little wife.”