Jack o’ Diamonds
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THE COWBOY’S MEDITATION
At midnight when the cattle are sleeping
On my saddle I pillow my head,
And up at the heavens lie peeping
From out of my cold, grassy bed,—
Often and often I wondered
At night when lying alone
If every bright star up yonder
Is a big peopled world like our own.
Are they worlds with their ranges and ranches?
Do they ring with rough rider refrains?
Do the cowboys scrap there with Comanches
And other Red Men of the plains?
Are the hills covered over with cattle
In those mystic worlds far, far away?
Do the ranch-houses ring with the prattle
Of sweet little children at play?
At night in the bright stars up yonder
Do the cowboys lie down to their rest?
Do they gaze at this old world and wonder
If rough riders dash over its breast?
Do they list to the wolves in the canyons?
Do they watch the night owl in its flight,
With their horse their only companion
While guarding the herd through the night?
Sometimes when a bright star is twinkling
Like a diamond set in the sky,
I find myself lying and thinking,
It may be God’s heaven is nigh.
I wonder if there I shall meet her,
My mother whom God took away;
If in the star-heavens I’ll greet her
At the round-up that’s on the last day.
In the east the great daylight is breaking
And into my saddle I spring;
The cattle from sleep are awakening,
The heaven-thoughts from me take wing,
The eyes of my bronco are flashing,
Impatient he pulls at the reins,
And off round the herd I go dashing,
A reckless cowboy of the plains.
BILLY VENERO
Billy Venero heard them say,
In an Arizona town one day.
That a band of Apache Indians were upon the trail of death;
Heard them tell of murder done,
Three men killed at Rocky Run,
“They’re in danger at the cow-ranch,” said Venero, under breath.
Cow-Ranch, forty miles away,
Was a little place that lay
In a deep and shady valley of the mighty wilderness;
Half a score of homes were there,
And in one a maiden fair
Held the heart of Billy Venero, Billy Venero’s little Bess.
So no wonder he grew pale
When he heard the cowboy’s tale
Of the men that he’d seen murdered the day before at Rocky Run.
“Sure as there’s a God above,
I will save the girl I love;
By my love for little Bessie I will see that something’s done.”
Not a moment he delayed
When his brave resolve was made.
“Why man,” his comrades told him when they heard of his daring plan,
“You are riding straight to death.”
But he answered, “Save your breath;
I may never reach the cow-ranch but I’ll do the best I can.”
As he crossed the alkali
All his thoughts flew on ahead
To the little band at cow-ranch thinking not of danger near;
With his quirt’s unceasing whirl
And the jingle of his spurs
Little brown Chapo bore the cowboy o’er the far away frontier.
Lower and lower sank the sun;
He drew rein at Rocky Run;
“Here those men met death, my Chapo,” and he stroked his glossy mane;
“So shall those we go to warn
Ere the coming of the morn
If we fail,—God help my Bessie,” and he started on again.
Sharp and clear a rifle shot
Woke the echoes of the spot.
“I am wounded,” cried Venero, as he swayed from side to side;
“While there’s life there’s always hope;
Slowly onward I will lope,—
If I fail to reach the cow-ranch, Bessie Lee shall know I tried.
“I will save her yet,” he cried,
“Bessie Lee shall know I tried,”
And for her sake then he halted in the shadow of a hill;
From his chapareras he took
With weak hands a little book;
Tore a blank leaf from its pages saying, “This shall be my will.”
From a limb a pen he broke,
And he dipped his pen of oak
In the warm blood that was spurting from a wound above his heart.
“Rouse,” he wrote before too late;
“Apache warriors lie in wait.
Good-bye, Bess, God bless you darling,” and he felt the cold tears start.
Then he made his message fast,
Love’s first message and its last,
To the saddle horn he tied it and his lips were white with pain,
“Take this message, if not me,
Straight to little Bessie Lee;”
Then he tied himself to the saddle, and he gave his horse the rein.
Just at dusk a horse of brown
Wet with sweat came panting down
The little lane at the cow-ranch, stopped in front of Bessie’s door;
But the cowboy was asleep,
And his slumbers were so deep,
Little Bess could never wake him though she tried for evermore.
You have heard the story told
By the young and by the old,
Away down yonder at the cow-ranch the night the Apaches came;
Of that sharp and bloody fight,
How the chief fell in the fight
And the panic-stricken warriors when they heard Venero’s name.
And the heavens and earth between
Keep a little flower so green
That little Bess had planted ere they laid her by his side.
DOGIE SONG
The cow-bosses are good-hearted chunks,
Some short, some heavy, more long;
But don’t matter what he looks like,
They all sing the same old song.
On the plains, in the mountains, in the valleys,
In the south where the days are long,
The bosses are different fellows;
Still they sing the same old song.
“Sift along, boys, don’t ride so slow;
Haven’t got much time but a long round to go.
Quirt him in the shoulders and rake him down the hip;
I’ve cut you toppy mounts, boys, now pair off and rip.
Bunch the herd at the old meet,
Then beat ’em on the tail;
Whip ’em up and down the sides
And hit the shortest trail.”
THE BOOZER
I’m a howler from the prairies of the West.
If you want to die with terror, look at me.
I’m chain-lightning—if I ain’t, may I be blessed.
I’m the snorter of the boundless prairie.
He’s a killer and a hater!
He’s the great annihilator!
He’s a terror of the boundless prairie.
I’m the snoozer from the upper trail!
I’m the reveler in murder and in gore!
I can bust more Pullman coaches on the rail
Than anyone who’s worked the job before.
He’s a snorter and a snoozer.
He’s the great trunk line abuser.
He’s the man who puts the sleeper on the rail.
I’m the double-jawed hyena from the East.
I’m the blazing, bloody blizzard of the States.
I’m the celebrated slugger; I’m the Beast.
I can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits.
He’s a double-jawed hyena!
He’s the villain of the scena!
He can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits.
DRINKING SONG
Drink that rot gut, drink that rot gut,
Drink that red eye, boys;
It don’t make a damn wherever we land,
We hit her up for joy.
We’ve lived in the saddle and ridden trail,
Drink old Jordan, boys,
We’ll go whooping and yelling, we’ll all go a-helling;
Drink her to our joy.
Whoop-ee! drink that rot gut, drink that red nose,
Whenever you get to town;
Drink it straight and swig it mighty,
Till the world goes round and round!
A FRAGMENT
I’d rather hear a rattler rattle,
I’d rather buck stampeding cattle,
I’d rather go to a greaser battle,
Than—
Than to—
Than to fight—
Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
I’d rather eat a pan of dope,
I’d rather ride without a rope,
I’d rather from this country lope,
Than—
Than to—
Than to fight—
Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
A MAN NAMED HODS
Come, all you old cowpunchers, a story I will tell,
And if you’ll all be quiet, I sure will sing it well;
And if you boys don’t like it, you sure can go to hell.
Back in the day when I was young, I knew a man named Hods;
He wasn’t fit fer nothin’ ‘cep turnin’ up the clods.
But he came west in fifty-three, behind a pair of mules,
And ’twas hard to tell between the three which was the biggest fools.
Up on the plains old Hods he got and there his trouble began.
Oh, he sure did get in trouble,—and old Hodsie wasn’t no man.
He met a bunch of Indian bucks led by Geronimo,
And what them Indians did to him, well, shorely I don’t know.
But they lifted off old Hodsie’s skelp and left him out to die,
And if it hadn’t been for me, he’d been in the sweet by and by.
But I packed him back to Santa Fé and there I found his mules,
For them dad-blamed two critters had got the Indians fooled.
I don’t know how they done it, but they shore did get away,
And them two mules is livin’ up to this very day.
Old Hodsie’s feet got toughened up, he got to be a sport,
He opened up a gamblin’ house and a place of low resort;
He got the prettiest dancing girls that ever could be found,—
Them girls’ feet was like rubber balls and they never staid on the ground.
And then thar came Billy the Kid, he envied Hodsie’s wealth,
He told old Hods to leave the town, ’twould be better for his health;
Old Hodsie took the hint and got, but he carried all his wealth.
And he went back to Noo York State with lots of dinero,
And now they say he’s senator, but of that I shore don’t know.
A FRAGMENT
I am fur from my sweetheart
And she is fur from me,
And when I’ll see my sweetheart
I can’t tell when ’twill be.
But I love her just the same,
No matter where I roam;
And that there girl will wait fur me
Whenever I come home.
I’ve roamed the Texas prairies,
I’ve followed the cattle trail,
I’ve rid a pitching pony
Till the hair came off his tail.
I’ve been to cowboy dances,
I’ve kissed the Texas girls,
But they ain’t none what can compare
With my own sweetheart’s curls.
THE LONE STAR TRAIL
I’m a rowdy cowboy just off the stormy plains,
My trade is girting saddles and pulling bridle reins.
Oh, I can tip the lasso, it is with graceful ease;
I rope a streak of lightning, and ride it where I please.
My bosses they all like me, they say I am hard to beat;
I give them the bold standoff, you bet I have got the cheek.
I always work for wages, my pay I get in gold;
I am bound to follow the longhorn steer until I am too old.
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
I am a Texas cowboy and I do ride the range;
My trade is cinches and saddles and ropes and bridle reins;
With Stetson hat and jingling spurs and leather up to the knees,
Gray backs as big as chili beans and fighting like hell with fleas.
And if I had a little stake, I soon would married be,
But another week and I must go, the boss said so to-day.
My girl must cheer up courage and choose some other one,
For I am bound to follow the Lone Star Trail until my race is run.
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
It almost breaks my heart for to have to go away,
And leave my own little darling, my sweetheart so far away.
But when I’m out on the Lone Star Trail often I’ll think of thee,
Of my own dear girl, the darling one, the one I would like to see.
And when I get to a shipping point, I’ll get on a little spree
To drive away the sorrow for the girl that once loved me.
And though red licker stirs us up we’re bound to have our fun,
And I intend to follow the Lone Star Trail until my race is run.
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
I went up the Lone Star Trail in eighteen eighty-three;
I fell in love with a pretty miss and she in love with me.
“When you get to Kansas write and let me know;
And if you get in trouble, your bail I’ll come and go.”
When I got up in Kansas, I had a pleasant dream;
I dreamed I was down on Trinity, down on that pleasant stream;
I dreampt my true love right beside me, she come to go my bail;
I woke up broken hearted with a yearling by the tail.
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
In came my jailer about nine o’clock,
A bunch of keys was in his hand, my cell door to unlock,
Saying, “Cheer up, my prisoner, I heard some voice say
You’re bound to hear your sentence some time to-day.”
In came my mother about ten o’clock,
Saying, “O my loving Johnny, what sentence have you got?”
“The jury found me guilty and the judge a-standin’ by
Has sent me down to Huntsville to lock me up and die.”
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
Down come the jailer, just about eleven o’clock,
With a bunch of keys all in his hand the cell doors to unlock,
Saying, “Cheer up, my prisoner, I heard the jury say
Just ten long years in Huntsville you’re bound to go and stay.”
Down come my sweetheart, ten dollars in her hand,
Saying, “Give this to my cowboy, ’tis all that I command;
O give this to my cowboy and think of olden times,
Think of the darling that he has left behind.”
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
WAY DOWN IN MEXICO
O boys, we’re goin’ far to-night,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
We’ll take the greasers now in hand
And drive ’em in the Rio Grande,
Way down in Mexico.
We’ll hang old Santa Anna soon,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
And all the greaser soldiers, too,
To the chune of Yankee Doodle Doo,
Way down in Mexico.
We’ll scatter ’em like flocks of sheep,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
We’ll mow ’em down with rifle ball
And plant our flag right on their wall,
Way down in Mexico.
Old Rough and Ready, he’s a trump,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
He’ll wipe old Santa Anna out
And put the greasers all to rout,
Way down in Mexico.
Then we’ll march back by and by,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
And kiss the gals we left to home
And never more we’ll go and roam,
Way down in Mexico.
RATTLESNAKE—A RANCH HAYING SONG
A nice young ma-wa-wan
Lived on a hi-wi-will;
A nice young ma-wa-wan,
For I knew him we-we-well.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
This nice young ma-wa-wan
Went out to mo-wo-wow
To see if he-we-we
Could make a sho-wo-wow.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
He scarcely mo-wo-wowed
Half round the fie-we-wield
Till up jumped—come a rattle, come a sna-wa-wake,
And bit him on the he-we-weel.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
He laid right dow-we-wown
Upon the gro-wo-wound
And shut his ey-wy-wyes
And looked all aro-wo-wound.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
“O pappy da-wa-wad,
Go tell my ga-wa-wal
That I’m a-goin’ ter di-wi-wie,
For I know I sha-wa-wall.”
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
“O pappy da-wa-wad,
Go spread the ne-wu-wus;
And here come Sa-wa-wall
Without her sho-woo-woos.”
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
“O John, O Joh-wa-wahn,
Why did you go-wo-wo
Way down in the mea-we-we-dow
So far to mo-wo-wow?”
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
“O Sal, O Sa-wa-wall,
Why don’t you kno-wo-wow
When the grass gits ri-wi-wipe,
It must be mo-wo-woed?”
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
Come all young gir-wi-wirls
And shed a tea-we-wear
For this young ma-wa-wan
That died right he-we-were.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
Come all young me-we-wen
And warning ta-wa-wake,
And don’t get bi-wi-wit
By a rattle sna-wa-wake.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
THE RAILROAD CORRAL
Oh we’re up in the morning ere breaking of day,
The chuck wagon’s busy, the flapjacks in play;
The herd is astir o’er hillside and vale,
With the night riders rounding them into the trail.
Oh, come take up your cinches, come shake out your reins;
Come wake your old broncho and break for the plains;
Come roust out your steers from the long chaparral,
For the outfit is off to the railroad corral.
The sun circles upward; the steers as they plod
Are pounding to powder the hot prairie sod;
And it seems as the dust makes you dizzy and sick
That we’ll never reach noon and the cool, shady creek.
But tie up your kerchief and ply up your nag;
Come dry up your grumbles and try not to lag;
Come with your steers from the long chaparral,
For we’re far on the road to the railroad corral.
The afternoon shadows are starting to lean,
When the chuck wagon sticks in the marshy ravine;
The herd scatters farther than vision can look,
For you can bet all true punchers will help out the cook.
Come shake out your rawhide and snake it up fair;
Come break your old broncho to take in his share;
Come from your steers in the long chaparral,
For ’tis all in the drive to the railroad corral.
But the longest of days must reach evening at last,
The hills all climbed, the creeks all past;
The tired herd droops in the yellowing light;
Let them loaf if they will, for the railroad’s in sight
So flap up your holster and snap up your belt,
And strap up your saddle whose lap you have felt;
Good-bye to the steers from the long chaparral,
For there’s a town that’s a trunk by the railroad corral.
THE SONG OF THE “METIS” TRAPPER
By Rolette
Hurrah for the great white way!
Hurrah for the dog and sledge!
As we snow-shoe along,
We give them a song,
With a snap of the whip and an urgent “mush on,”—
Hurrah for the great white way! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the snow and the ice!
As we follow the trail,
We call to the dogs with whistle and song,
And reply to their talk
With only “mush on, mush on”!
Hurrah for the snow and the ice! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the gun and the trap,—
As we follow the lines
By the rays of the mystic light
That flames in the north with banners so bright,
As we list to its swish, swish, swish, through the air all night,
Hurrah for the gun and the trap! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the fire and cold!
As we lie in the robes all night.
And list to the howl of the wolf;
For we emptied the pot of the tea so hot,
And a king on his throne might envy our lot,—
Hurrah for the fire and cold! Hurrah!
Hurrah for our black-haired girls,
Who brave the storms of the mountain heights
And follow us on the great white way;
For their eyes so bright light the way all right
And guide us to shelter and warmth each night.
Hurrah for our black-haired girls! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
THE CAMP FIRE HAS GONE OUT
Through progress of the railroads our occupation’s gone;
So we will put ideas into words, our words into a song.
First comes the cowboy, he is pointed for the west;
Of all the pioneers I claim the cowboys are the best;
You will miss him on the round-up, it’s gone, his merry shout,—
The cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out.
There is the freighters, our companions, you’ve got to leave this land,
Can’t drag your loads for nothing through the gumbo and the sand.
The railroads are bound to beat you when you do your level best;
So give it up to the grangers and strike out for the west.
Bid them all adieu and give the merry shout,—
The cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out.
When I think of those good old days, my eyes with tears do fill;
When I think of the tin can by the fire and the cayote on the hill.
I’ll tell you, boys, in those days old-timers stood a show,—
Our pockets full of money, not a sorrow did we know.
But things have changed now, we are poorly clothed and fed.
Our wagons are all broken and our ponies most all dead.
Soon we will leave this country, you’ll hear the angels shout,
“Oh, here they come to Heaven, the campfire has gone out.”
NIGHT-HERDING SONG
By Harry Stephens
Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round,
You have wandered and tramped all over the ground;
Oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow,
And don’t forever be on the go,—
Oh, move slow, dogies, move slow.
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
I have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, and cross-herded, too,
But to keep you together, that’s what I can’t do;
My horse is leg weary and I’m awful tired,
But if I let you get away I’m sure to get fired,—
Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up.
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
O say, little dogies, when you goin’ to lay down
And quit this forever siftin’ around?
My limbs are weary, my seat is sore;
Oh, lay down, dogies, like you’ve laid before,—
Lay down, little dogies, lay down.
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
Oh, lay still, dogies, since you have laid down,
Stretch away out on the big open ground;
Snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild sound
That will all go away when the day rolls round,—
Lay still, little dogies, lay still.
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
......
TAIL PIECE
Oh, the cow-puncher loves the whistle of his rope,
As he races over the plains;
And the stage-driver loves the popper of his whip,
And the rattle of his concord chains;
And we’ll all pray the Lord that we will be saved,
And we’ll keep the golden rule;
But I’d rather be home with the girl I love
Than to monkey with this goddamn’d mule.
...........
THE HABIT5
I’ve beat my way wherever any winds have blown,
I’ve bummed along from Portland down to San Antone,
From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill;
For once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.
I settles down quite frequent and I says, says I,
“I’ll never wander further till I comes to die.”
But the wind it sorta chuckles, “Why, o’ course you will,”
And shure enough I does it, cause I can’t keep still.
I’ve seed a lot o’ places where I’d like to stay,
But I gets a feelin’ restless and I’m on my way.
I was never meant for settin’ on my own door sill,
And once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.
I’ve been in rich men’s houses and I’ve been in jail,
But when it’s time for leavin’, I jes hits the trail;
I’m a human bird of passage, and the song I trill,
Is, “Once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.”
The sun is sorta coaxin’ and the road is clear
And the wind is singin’ ballads that I got to hear.
It ain’t no use to argue when you feel the thrill;
For once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.
OLD PAINT6
REFRAIN:
Goodbye, Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne,
Goodbye, Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne,—
My foot in the stirrup, my pony won’t stand;
Goodbye, Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne.
I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne, I’m off for Montan’;
Goodbye, Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne.
I’m a ridin’ Old Paint, I’m a-leadin’ old Fan;
Goodbye, Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne.
With my feet in the stirrups, my bridle in my hand;
Goodbye, Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne.
Old Paint’s a good pony, he paces when he can;
Goodbye, little Annie, I’m off for Cheyenne.
Oh, hitch up your horses and feed ’em some hay,
And seat yourself by me so long as you stay.
My horses ain’t hungry, they’ll not eat your hay;
My wagon is loaded and rolling away.
My foot in my stirrup, my reins in my hand;
Good-morning, young lady, my horses won’t stand.
Goodbye, Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne.
Goodbye, Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne.
DOWN SOUTH ON THE RIO GRANDE
From way down south on the Rio Grande,
Roll on steers for the Post Oak Sand,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
You’d laugh fur to see that fellow a-straddle
Of a mustang mare on a raw-hide saddle,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Rich as a king, and he wouldn’t be bigger
Fur a pitchin’ hoss and a lame old nigger,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Ole Abe kep’ gettin’ bigger an’ bigger,
’Til he bust hisself ’bout a lame old nigger,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Old Jeff swears he’ll sew him together
With powder and shot instead of leather,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Kin cuss an’ fight an’ hold or free ’em,
But I know them mavericks when I see ’em,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
SILVER JACK7
I was on the drive in eighty
Working under Silver Jack,
Which the same is now in Jackson
And ain’t soon expected back,
And there was a fellow ’mongst us
By the name of Robert Waite;
Kind of cute and smart and tonguey
Guess he was a graduate.
He could talk on any subject
From the Bible down to Hoyle,
And his words flowed out so easy,
Just as smooth and slick as oil,
He was what they call a skeptic,
And he loved to sit and weave
Hifalutin’ words together
Tellin’ what he didn’t believe.
One day we all were sittin’ round
Smokin’ nigger head tobacco
And hearing Bob expound;
Hell, he said, was all a humbug,
And he made it plain as day
That the Bible was a fable;
And we lowed it looked that way.
Miracles and such like
Were too rank for him to stand,
And as for him they called the Savior
He was just a common man.
“You’re a liar,” someone shouted,
“And you’ve got to take it back.”
Then everybody started,—
’Twas the words of Silver Jack.
And he cracked his fists together
And he stacked his duds and cried,
“’Twas in that thar religion
That my mother lived and died;
And though I haven’t always
Used the Lord exactly right,
Yet when I hear a chump abuse him
He’s got to eat his words or fight.”
Now, this Bob he weren’t no coward
And he answered bold and free:
“Stack your duds and cut your capers,
For there ain’t no flies on me.”
And they fit for forty minutes
And the crowd would whoop and cheer
When Jack spit up a tooth or two,
Or when Bobby lost an ear.
But at last Jack got him under
And he slugged him onct or twict,
And straightway Bob admitted
The divinity of Christ.
But Jack kept reasoning with him
Till the poor cuss gave a yell
And lowed he’d been mistaken
In his views concerning hell.
Then the fierce encounter ended
And they riz up from the ground
And someone brought a bottle out
And kindly passed it round.
And we drank to Bob’s religion
In a cheerful sort o’ way,
But the spread of infidelity
Was checked in camp that day.
THE COWBOY’S CHRISTMAS BALL8
Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork’s waters flow,
Where the cattle are a-browzin’ and the Spanish ponies grow;
Where the Northers come a-whistlin’ from beyond the Neutral Strip;
And the prairie dogs are sneezin’, as though they had the grip;
Where the coyotes come a-howlin’ round the ranches after dark,
And the mockin’ birds are singin’ to the lovely medder lark;
Where the ’possum and the badger and the rattlesnakes abound,
And the monstrous stars are winkin’ o’er a wilderness profound;
Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams,
While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams;
Where the antelope is grazin’ and the lonely plovers call,—
It was there I attended the Cowboy’s Christmas Ball.
The town was Anson City, old Jones’ county seat,
Where they raised Polled Angus cattle and waving whiskered wheat;
Where the air is soft and bammy and dry and full of health,
Where the prairies is explodin’ with agricultural wealth;
Where they print the Texas Western, that Hec McCann supplies
With news and yarns and stories, of most amazing size;
Where Frank Smith “pulls the badger” on knowing tenderfeet,
And Democracy’s triumphant and mighty hard to beat;
Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap, from Lamar,
Who used to be the sheriff “back east in Paris, sah”!
’Twas there, I say, at Anson with the lovely Widder Wall,
That I went to that reception, the Cowboy’s Christmas Ball.
The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles;
The ladies, kinder scatterin’, had gathered in for miles.
And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well,
’Twas gave on this occasion at the Morning Star Hotel.
The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine,
And a viol came imported, by the stage from Abilene.
The room was togged out gorgeous—with mistletoe and shawls,
And the candles flickered festious, around the airy walls.
The wimmen folks looked lovely—the boys looked kinder treed,
Till the leader commenced yelling, “Whoa, fellers, let’s stampede,”
And the music started sighing and a-wailing through the hall
As a kind of introduction to the Cowboy’s Christmas Ball.
The leader was a feller that came from Swenson’s ranch,—
They called him Windy Billy from Little Deadman’s Branch.
His rig was kinder keerless,—big spurs and high heeled boots;
He had the reputation that comes when fellers shoots.
His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain height;
His feet were animated, and a mighty movin’ sight,
When he commenced to holler, “Now fellers, shake your pen!
Lock horns ter all them heifers and rustle them like men;
Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing and let ’em go;
Climb the grapevine round ’em; neow all hands do-ce-do!
You maverick, jine the round-up,—jes skip the waterfall,”
Huh! hit was getting active, the Cowboy’s Christmas Ball.
The boys was tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat,
That old bass viol’s music just got there with both feet!
That wailin’, frisky fiddle, I never shall forget;
And Windy kept a-singin’—I think I hear him yet—
“Oh, X’s, chase yer squirrels, and cut ’em to our side;
Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley’s bride,
Doc Hollis down the center, and twine the ladies’ chain,
Van Andrews, pen the fillies in big T Diamond’s train.
All pull your freight together, neow swallow fork and change;
Big Boston, lead the trail herd through little Pitchfork’s range.
Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope and balance all!”
Huh! Hit were gettin’ active—the Cowboy’s Christmas Ball.
The dust riz fast and furious; we all jes galloped round,
Till the scenery got so giddy that T Bar Dick was downed.
We buckled to our partners and told ’em to hold on,
Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.
Don’t tell me ’bout cotillions, or germans. No sir-ee!
That whirl at Anson City jes takes the cake with me.
I’m sick of lazy shufflin’s, of them I’ve had my fill,
Give me a frontier break-down backed up by Windy Bill.
McAllister ain’t nowhere, when Windy leads the show;
I’ve seen ’em both in harness and so I ought ter know.
Oh, Bill, I shan’t forget yer, and I oftentimes recall
That lively gaited sworray—the Cowboy’s Christmas Ball.
PINTO
I am a vaquero by trade;
To handle my rope I’m not afraid.
I lass’ an otero by the two horns
Throw down the biggest that ever was born.
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
My name to you I will not tell;
For what’s the use, you know me so well.
The girls all love me, and cry
When I leave them to join the rodero.
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
I am a vaquero, and here I reside;
Show me the broncho I cannot ride.
They say old Pinto with one split ear
Is the hardest jumping broncho on the rodero.
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
There strayed to our camp an iron gray colt;
The boys were all fraid him so on him I bolt.
You bet I stayed with him till cheer after cheer,—
“He’s the broncho twister that’s on the rodero.”
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
My story is ended, old Pinto is dead;
I’m going down Laredo and paint the town red.
I’m going up to Laredo and set up the beer
To all the cowboys that’s on the rodero.
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
The Gal I LEFT BEHIND ME
I struck the trail in seventy-nine,
The herd strung out behind me;
As I jogged along my mind ran back
For the gal I left behind me.
That sweet little gal, that true little gal,
The gal I left behind me!
If ever I get off the trail
And the Indians they don’t find me,
I’ll make my way straight back again
To the gal I left behind me.
That sweet little gal, that true little gal,
The gal I left behind me!
The wind did blow, the rain did flow,
The hail did fall and blind me;
I thought of that gal, that sweet little gal,
That gal I’d left behind me!
That sweet little gal, that true little gal,
The gal I left behind me!
She wrote ahead to the place I said,
I was always glad to find it.
She says, “I am true, when you get through
Right back here you will find me.”
That sweet little gal, that true little gal,
The gal I left behind me!
When we sold out I took the train,
I knew where I would find her;
When I got back we had a smack
And that was no gol-darned liar.
That sweet little gal, that true little gal,
The gal I left behind me!
BILLY THE KID
Billy was a bad man
And carried a big gun,
He was always after Greasers
And kept ’em on the run.
He shot one every morning,
For to make his morning meal.
And let a white man sass him,
He was shore to feel his steel.
He kept folks in hot water,
And he stole from many a stage;
And when he was full of liquor
He was always in a rage.
But one day he met a man
Who was a whole lot badder.
And now he’s dead,
And we ain’t none the sadder.
THE HELL-BOUND TRAIN
A Texas cowboy lay down on a bar-room floor.
Having drunk so much he could drink no more;
So he fell asleep with a troubled brain
To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.
The engine with murderous blood was damp
And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp;
An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones,
While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.
The boiler was filled with lager beer
And the devil himself was the engineer;
The passengers were a most motley crew,—
Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew,
Rich men in broadcloth, beggars in rags,
Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags,
Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white.
All chained together,—O God, what a sight!
While the train rushed on at an awful pace,
The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face;
Wider and wider the country grew,
As faster and faster the engine flew.
Louder and louder the thunder crashed
And brighter and brighter the lightning flashed;
Hotter and hotter the air became
Till the clothes were burnt from each quivering frame.
And out of the distance there arose a yell,
“Ha, ha,” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell!”
Then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with pain
And begged the devil to stop the train.
But he capered about and danced for glee
And laughed and joked at their misery.
“My faithful friends, you have done the work
And the devil never can a payday shirk.
“You’ve bullied the weak, you’ve robbed the poor;
The starving brother you’ve turned from the door,
You’ve laid up gold where the canker rust,
And have given free vent to your beastly lust.
“You’ve justice scorned, and corruption sown,
And trampled the laws of nature down.
You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied,
And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.
“You have paid full fare so I’ll carry you through;
For it’s only right you should have your due.
Why, the laborer always expects his hire,
So I’ll land you safe in the lake of fire.
“Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar,
And my imps torment you forever more.”
Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry,
His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high.
Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour
To be saved from his sin and the demon’s power.
And his prayers and his vows were not in vain;
For he never rode the hell-bound train.
THE OLD SCOUT’S LAMENT
Come all of you, my brother scouts,
And listen to my song;
Come, let us sing 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 are 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 failing,
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,
We 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 DESERTED ADOBE
Round the ‘dobe rank sands are thickly blowin’,
Its ridges fill the deserted field;
Yet on this claim young lives once hope were sowing
For all the years might yield;
And in strong hands the echoing hoof pursuin’
A wooden share turned up the sod,
The toiler brave drank deep the fresh air’s brewin’
And sang content to God.
The toiler brave drank deep the fresh air’s brewin’
And sang content to God.
A woman fair and sweet has smilin’ striven
Through long and lonesome hours;
A blue-eyed babe, a bit of earthly heaven,
Laughed at the sun’s hot towers;
A bow of promise made this desert splendid,
This ‘dobe was their pride.
But what began so well, alas, has ended—,
The promise died.
But what began so well alas soon ended—,
The promise died.
Their plans and dreams, their cheerful labor wasted
In dry and mis-spent years;
The spring was sweet, the summer bitter tasted,
The autumn salt with tears.
Now “gyp” and sand do hide their one-time yearnin’;
’Twas theirs; ’tis past.
God’s ways are strange, we take so long in learnin’,
To fail at last.
God’s ways are strange, we take so long in learnin’,
To fail at last.
THE COWBOY AT WORK
You may call the cowboy horned and think him hard to tame,
You may heap vile epithets upon his head;
But to know him is to like him, notwithstanding his hard name,
For he will divide with you his beef and bread.
If you see him on his pony as he scampers o’er the plain,
You would think him wild and woolly, to be sure;
But his heart is warm and tender when he sees a friend in need,
Though his education is but to endure.
When the storm breaks in its fury and the lightning’s vivid flash
Makes you thank the Lord for shelter and for bed,
Then it is he mounts his pony and away you see him dash,
No protection but the hat upon his head.
Such is life upon a cow ranch, and the half was never told;
But you never find a kinder-hearted set
Than the cattleman at home, be he either young or old,
He’s a “daisy from away back,” don’t forget.
When you fail to find a pony or a cow that’s gone a-stray,
Be that cow or pony wild or be it tame,
The cowboy, like the drummer,—and the bed-bug, too, they say,—
Brings him to you, for he gets there just the same.
HERE’S TO THE RANGER!
He leaves unplowed his furrow,
He leaves his books unread
For a life of tented freedom
By lure of danger led.
He’s first in the hour of peril,
He’s gayest in the dance,
Like the guardsman of old England
Or the beau sabreur of France.
He stands our faithful bulwark
Against our savage foe;
Through lonely woodland places
Our children come and go;
Our flocks and herds untended
O’er hill and valley roam,
The Ranger in the saddle
Means peace for us at home.
Behold our smiling farmsteads
Where waves the golden grain!
Beneath yon tree, earth’s bosom
Was dark with crimson stain.
That bluff the death-shot echoed
Of husband, father, slain!
God grant such sight of horror
We never see again!
The gay and hardy Ranger,
His blanket on the ground,
Lies by the blazing camp-fire
While song and tale goes round;
And if one voice is silent,
One fails to hear the jest,
They know his thoughts are absent
With her who loves him best.
Our state, her sons confess it,
That queenly, star-crowned brow,
Has darkened with the shadow
Of lawlessness ere now;
And men of evil passions
On her reproach have laid,
But that the ready Ranger
Rode promptly to her aid.
He may not win the laurel
Nor trumpet tongue of fame;
But beauty smiles upon him,
And ranchmen bless his name.
Then here’s to the Texas Ranger,
Past, present and to come!
Our safety from the savage,
The guardian of our home.
MUSTER OUT THE RANGER
Yes, muster them out, the valiant band
That guards our western home.
What matter to you in your eastern land
If the raiders here should come?
No danger that you shall awake at night
To the howls of a savage band;
So muster them out, though the morning light
Find havoc on every hand.
Some dear one is sick and the horses all gone,
So we can’t for a doctor send;
The outlaws were in in the light of the morn
And no Rangers here to defend.
For they’ve mustered them out, the brave true band,
Untiring by night and day.
The fearless scouts of this border land
Made the taxes high, they say.
Have fewer men in the capitol walls,
Fewer tongues in the war of words,
But add to the Rangers, the living wall
That keeps back the bandit hordes.
Have fewer dinners, less turtle soup,
If the taxes are too high.
There are many other and better ways
To lower them if they try.
Don’t waste so much of your money
Printing speeches people don’t read.
If you’d only take off what’s used for that
’Twould lower the tax indeed.
Don’t use so much sugar and lemons;
Cold water is just as good
For a constant drink in the summer time
And better for the blood.
But leave us the Rangers to guard us still,
Nor think that they cost too dear;
For their faithful watch over vale and hill
Gives our loved ones naught to fear.
A COW CAMP ON THE RANGE
Oh, the prairie dogs are screaming,
And the birds are on the wing,
See the heel fly chase the heifer, boys!
’Tis the first class sign of spring.
The elm wood is budding,
The earth is turning green.
See the pretty things of nature
That make life a pleasant dream!
I’m just living through the winter
To enjoy the coming change,
For there is no place so homelike
As a cow camp on the range.
The boss is smiling radiant,
Radiant as the setting sun;
For he knows he’s stealing glories,
For he ain’t a-cussin’ none.
The cook is at the chuck-box
Whistling “Heifers in the Green,”
Making baking powder biscuits, boys,
While the pot is biling beans.
The boys untie their bedding
And unroll it on the run,
For they are in a monstrous hurry
For the supper’s almost done.
“Here’s your bloody wolf bait,”
Cried the cook’s familiar voice
As he climbed the wagon wheel
To watch the cowboys all rejoice.
Then all thoughts were turned from reverence
To a plate of beef and beans,
As we graze on beef and biscuits
Like yearlings on the range.
To the dickens with your city
Where they herd the brainless brats,
On a range so badly crowded
There ain’t room to cuss the cat.
This life is not so sumptuous,
I’m not longing for a change,
For there is no place so homelike
As a cow camp on the range.
FRECKLES. A FRAGMENT
He was little an’ peaked an’ thin, an’ narry a no account horse,—
Least that’s the way you’d describe him in case that the beast had been lost;
But, for single and double cussedness an’ for double fired sin,
The horse never came out o’ Texas that was half-way knee-high to him!
The first time that ever I saw him was nineteen years ago last spring;
’Twas the year we had grasshoppers, that come an’ et up everything,
That a feller rode up here one evenin’ an’ wanted to pen over night
A small bunch of horses, he said; an’ I told him I guessed ’twas all right.
Well, the feller was busted, the horses was thin, an’ the grass round here kind of good,
An’ he said if I’d let him hold here a few days he’d settle with me when he could.
So I told him all right, turn them loose down the draw, that the latch string was always untied,
He was welcome to stop a few days if he wished and rest from his weary ride.
Well, the cuss stayed around for two or three weeks, till at last he was ready to go;
And that cuss out yonder bein’ too poor to move, he gimme,—the cuss had no dough.
Well, at first the darn brute was as wild as a deer, an’ would snort when he came to the branch,
An’ it took two cow punchers, on good horses, too, to handle him here at the ranch.
Well, the winter came on an’ the range it got hard, an’ my mustang commenced to get thin,
So I fed him some an’ rode him around, an’ found out old Freckles was game.
For that was what the other cuss called him,—just Freckles, no more or no less,—
His color,—couldn’t describe it,—something like a paint shop in distress.
Them was Indian times, young feller, that I am telling about;
An’ oft’s the time I’ve seen the red man fight an’ put the boys to rout.
A good horse in them days, young feller, would save your life,—
One that in any race could hold the pace when the red-skin bands were rife.
WHOSE OLD COW?
’Twas the end of round-up, the last day of June,
Or maybe July, I don’t remember,
Or it might have been August, ’twas some time ago,
Or perhaps ’twas the first of September.
Anyhow, ’twas the round-up we had at Mayou
On the Lightning Rod’s range, near Cayo;
There were some twenty wagons, more or less, camped about
On the temporal in the cañon.
First night we’d no cattle, so we only stood guard
On the horses, somewhere near two hundred head;
So we side-lined and hoppled, we belled and we staked,
Loosed our hot-rolls and fell into bed.
Next morning ’bout day break we started our work,
Our horses, like ‘possums, felt fine.
Each one “tendin’ knittin’,” none tryin’ to shirk!
So the round-up got on in good time.
Well, we worked for a week till the country was clean
And the bosses said, “Now, boys, we’ll stay here.
We’ll carve and we’ll trim ’em and start out a herd
Up the east trail from old Abilene.”
Next morning all on herd, and but two with the cut,
And the boss on Piute, carving fine,
Till he rode down his horse and had to pull out,
And a new man went in to clean up.
Well, after each outfit had worked on the band
There was only three head of them left;
When Nig Add from L F D outfit rode in,—
A dictionary on earmarks and brands.
He cut the two head out, told where they belonged;
But when the last cow stood there alone
Add’s eyes bulged so he didn’t know just what to say,
’Ceptin’, “Boss, dere’s something here monstrous wrong!
“White folks smarter’n Add, and maybe I’se wrong;
But here’s six months’ wages dat I’ll give
If anyone’ll tell me when I reads dis mark
To who dis longhorned cow belong!
“Overslope in right ear an’ de underbill,
Lef’ ear swaller fork an’ de undercrop,
Hole punched in center, an’ de jinglebob
Under half crop, an’ de slash an’ split.
“She’s got O Block an’ Lightnin’ Rod,
Nine Forty-Six an’ A Bar Eleven,
T Terrapin an’ Ninety-Seven,
Rafter Cross an’ de Double Prod.
“Half circle A an’ Diamond D,
Four Cross L and Three P Z,
B W I bar, X V V,
Bar N cross an’ A L C.
“So, if none o’ you punchers claims dis cow,
Mr. Stock ‘Sociation needn’t git ’larmed;
For one more brand more or less won’t do no harm,
So old Nigger Add’l just brand her now.”
OLD TIME COWBOY
Come all you melancholy folks wherever you may be,
I’ll sing you about the cowboy whose life is light and free.
He roams about the prairie, and, at night when he lies down,
His heart is as gay as the flowers in May in his bed upon the ground.
They’re a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them, at least;
But if you do not hunt a quarrel you can live with them in peace;
For if you do, you’re sure to rue the day you joined their band.
They will follow you up and shoot it out with you just man to man.
Did you ever go to a cowboy whenever hungry and dry,
Asking for a dollar, and have him you deny?
He’ll just pull out his pocket book and hand you a note,—
They are the fellows to help you whenever you are broke.
Go to their ranches and stay a while, they never ask a cent;
And when they go to town, their money is freely spent.
They walk straight up and take a drink, paying for every one,
And they never ask your pardon for anything they’ve done.
When they go to their dances, some dance while others pat
They ride their bucking bronchos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats;
With their California saddles, and their pants stuck in their boots,
You can hear their spurs a-jingling, and perhaps some of them shoots.
Come all soft-hearted tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun;
Go live among the cowboys, they’ll show you how it’s done.
They’ll treat you like a prince, my boys, about them there’s nothing mean;
But don’t try to give them too much advice, for all of them ain’t green.
BUCKING BRONCHO
My love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks,
Though he’s promised to quit it, just for my sake.
He ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,
With a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.
The first time I met him, ’twas early one spring,
Riding a broncho, a high-headed thing.
He tipped me a wink as he gaily did go;
For he wished me to look at his bucking broncho.
The next time I saw him ’twas late in the fall,
Swinging the girls at Tomlinson’s ball.
He laughed and he talked as we danced to and fro,
Promised never to ride on another broncho.
He made me some presents, among them a ring;
The return that I made him was a far better thing;
’Twas a young maiden’s heart, I’d have you all know;
He’s won it by riding his bucking broncho.
My love has a gun, and that gun he can use,
But he’s quit his gun fighting as well as his booze;
And he’s sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope,
And there’s no more cow punching, and that’s what I hope.
My love has a gun that has gone to the bad,
Which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad;
For the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low,
And it wobbles about like a bucking broncho.
Now all you young maidens, where’er you reside,
Beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide;
He’ll court you and pet you and leave you and go
In the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho.
THE PECOS QUEEN
Where the Pecos River winds and turns in its journey to the sea,
From its white walls of sand and rock striving ever to be free,
Near the highest railroad bridge that all these modern times have seen,
Dwells fair young Patty Morehead, the Pecos River queen.
She is known by every cowboy on the Pecos River wide,
They know full well that she can shoot, that she can rope and ride.
She goes to every round-up, every cow work without fail,
Looking out for her cattle, branded “walking hog on rail.”
She made her start in cattle, yes, made it with her rope;
Can tie down every maverick before it can strike a lope.
She can rope and tie and brand it as quick as any man;
She’s voted by all cowboys an A-1 top cow hand.
Across the Comstock railroad bridge, the highest in the West,
Patty rode her horse one day, a lover’s heart to test;
For he told her he would gladly risk all dangers for her sake—
But the puncher wouldn’t follow, so she’s still without a mate.
CHOPO
Through rocky arroyas so dark and so deep,
Down the sides of the mountains so slippery and steep,—
You’ve good judgment, sure-footed, wherever you go,
You’re a safety conveyance, my little Chopo.
Refrain:—
Chopo, my pony, Chopo, my pride,
Chopo, my amigo, Chopo I will ride.
From Mexico’s borders ‘cross Texas’ Llano
To the salt Pecos River, I ride you, Chopo.
Whether single or double or in the lead of the team,
Over highways or byways or crossing a stream,—
You’re always in fix and willing to go,
Whenever you’re called on, my chico Chopo.
You’re a good roping horse, you were never jerked down,
When tied to a steer, you will circle him round;
Let him once cross the string and over he’ll go,—
You sabe the business, my cow-horse, Chopo.
One day on the Llano a hailstorm began,
The herds were stampeded, the horses all ran,
The lightning it glittered, a cyclone did blow,
But you faced the sweet music, my little Chopo.
TOP HAND
While you’re all so frisky I’ll sing a little song,—
Think a little horn of whiskey will help the thing along?
It’s all about the Top Hand, when he busted flat
Bummin’ round the town, in his Mexican hat.
He’s laid up all winter, and his pocket book is flat,
His clothes are all tatters, but he don’t mind that.
See him in town with a crowd that he knows,
Rollin’ cigarettes and smokin’ through his nose.
First thing he tells you, he owns a certain brand,—
Leads you to think he is a daisy hand;
Next thing he tells you ’bout his trip up the trail,
All the way to Kansas, to finish out his tale.
Put him on a hoss, he’s a handy hand to work;
Put him in the brandin’-pen, he’s dead sure to shirk.
With his natural leaf tobacco in the pockets of his vest
He’ll tell you his California pants are the best.
He’s handled lots of cattle, hasn’t any fears,
Can draw his sixty dollars for the balance of his years.
Put him on herd, he’s a-cussin’ all day;
Anything he tries, it’s sure to get away.
When you have a round-up, he tells it all about
He’s goin’ to do the cuttin’ an’ you can’t keep him out.
If anything goes wrong, he lays it on the screws,
Says the lazy devils were tryin’ to take a snooze.
When he meets a greener he ain’t afraid to rig,
Stands him on a chuck box and makes him dance a jig,—
Waves a loaded cutter, makes him sing and shout,—
He’s a regular Ben Thompson when the boss ain’t about.
When the boss ain’t about he leaves his leggins in camp,
He swears a man who wears them is worse than a tramp.
Says he’s not carin’ for the wages he earns,
For Dad’s rich in Texas,—got wagon loads to burn;
But when he goes to town, he’s sure to take it in,
He’s always been dreaded wherever he’s been.
He rides a fancy horse, he’s a favorite man,
Can get more credit than a common waddie can.
When you ship the cattle he’s bound to go along
To keep the boss from drinking and see that nothing’s wrong.
Wherever he goes, catch on to his name,
He likes to be called with a handle to his name.
He’s always primping with a pocket looking-glass,
From the top to the bottom he’s a bold Jackass.
CALIFORNIA TRAIL
List all you California boys
And open wide your ears,
For now we start across the plains
With a herd of mules and steers.
Now, bear in mind before you start,
That you’ll eat jerked beef, not ham,
And antelope steak, Oh cuss the stuff!
It often proves a sham.
You cannot find a stick of wood
On all this prairie wide;
Whene’er you eat you’ve got to stand
Or sit on some old bull hide.
It’s fun to cook with buffalo chips
Or mesquite, green as corn,—
If I’d once known what I know now
I’d have gone around Cape Horn.
The women have the hardest time
Who emigrate by land;
For when they cook out in the wind
They’re sure to burn their hand.
Then they scold their husbands round,
Get mad and spill the tea,—
I’d have thanked my stars if they’d not come out
Upon this bleak prairie.
Most every night we put out guards
To keep the Indians off.
When night comes round some heads will ache,
And some begin to cough.
To be deprived of help at night,
You know is mighty hard,
But every night there’s someone sick
To keep from standing guard.
Then they’re always talking of what they’ve got,
And what they’re going to do;
Some will say they’re content,
For I’ve got as much as you.
Others will say, “I’ll buy or sell,
I’m damned if I care which.”
Others will say, “Boys, buy him out,
For he doesn’t own a stitch.”
Old raw-hide shoes are hell on corns
While tramping through the sands,
And driving jackass by the tail,—
Damn the overland!
I would as leaf be on a raft at sea
And there at once be lost.
John, let’s leave the poor old mule,
We’ll never get him across!
BRONC PEELER’S SONG
I’ve been upon the prairie,
I’ve been upon the plain,
I’ve never rid a steam-boat,
Nor a double-cinched-up train.
But I’ve driv my eight-up to wagon
That were locked three in a row,
And that through blindin’ sand storms,
And all kinds of wind and snow.
Cho:—
Goodbye, Liza, poor gal,
Goodbye, Liza Jane,
Goodbye, Liza, poor gal,
She died on the plain.
There never was a place I’ve been
Had any kind of wood.
We burn the roots of bar-grass
And think it’s very good.
I’ve never tasted home bread,
Nor cakes, nor muss like that;
But I know fried dough and beef
Pulled from red-hot tallow fat.
I hate to see the wire fence
A-closin’ up the range;
And all this fillin’ in the trail
With people that is strange.
We fellers don’t know how to plow,
Nor reap the golden grain;
But to round up steers and brand the cows
To us was allus plain.
So when this blasted country
Is all closed in with wire,
And all the top, as trot grass,
Is burnin’ in Sol’s fire,
I hope the settlers will be glad
When rain hits the land.
And all us cowdogs are in hell
With a “set”9 joined hand in hand.
A DEER HUNT
One pleasant summer day it came a storm of snow;
I picked my old gun and a-hunting I did go.
I came across a herd of deer and I trailed them through the snow,
I trailed them to the mountains where straight up they did go.
I trailed them o’er the mountains, I trailed them to the brim,
And I trailed them to the waters where they jumped in to swim.
I cocked both my pistols and under water went,—
To kill the fattest of them deer, that was my whole intent.
While I was under water five hundred feet or more
I fired both my pistols; like cannons did they roar.
I picked up my venison and out of water came,—
To kill the balance of them deer, I thought it would be fun.
So I bent my gun in circles and fired round a hill.
And, out of three or four deer, ten thousand I did kill.
Then I picked up my venison and on my back I tied
And as the sun came passing by I hopped up there to ride.
The sun she carried me o’er the globe, so merrily I did roam
That in four and twenty hours I landed safe at home.
And the money I received for my venison and skin,
I taken it all to the barn door and it would not all go in.
And if you doubt the truth of this I tell you how to know:
Just take my trail and go my rounds, as I did, long ago.
WINDY BILL
Windy Bill was a Texas man,—
Well, he could rope, you bet.
He swore the steer he couldn’t tie,—
Well, he hadn’t found him yet.
But the boys they knew of an old black steer,
A sort of an old outlaw
That ran down in the malpais
At the foot of a rocky draw.
This old black steer had stood his ground
With punchers from everywhere;
So they bet old Bill at two to one
That he couldn’t quite get there.
Then Bill brought out his old gray hoss,
His withers and back were raw,
And prepared to tackle the big black brute
That ran down in the draw.
With his brazen bit and his Sam Stack tree
His chaps and taps to boot,
And his old maguey tied hard and fast,
Bill swore he’d get the brute.
Now, first Bill sort of sauntered round
Old Blackie began to paw,
Then threw his tail straight in the air
And went driftin’ down the draw.
The old gray plug flew after him,
For he’d been eatin’ corn;
And Bill, he piled his old maguey
Right round old Blackie’s horns.
The old gray hoss he stopped right still;
The cinches broke like straw,
And the old maguey and the Sam Stack tree
Went driftin’ down the draw.
Bill, he lit in a flint rock pile,
His face and hands were scratched.
He said he thought he could rope a snake
But he guessed he’d met his match.
He paid his bets like a little man
Without a bit of jaw,
And lowed old Blackie was the boss
Of anything in the draw.
There’s a moral to my story, boys,
And that you all must see.
Whenever you go to tie a snake,10
Don’t tie it to your tree;
But take your dolly welters11
‘Cordin’ to California law,
And you’ll never see your old rim-fire12
Go drifting down the draw.
WILD ROVERS
Come all you wild rovers
And listen to me
While I retail to you
My sad history.
I’m a man of experience
Your favors to gain,
Oh, love has been the ruin
Of many a poor man.
When you are single
And living at your ease
You can roam this world over
And do as you please;
You can roam this world over
And go where you will
And slyly kiss a pretty girl
And be your own still.
But when you are married
And living with your wife,
You’ve lost all the joys
And comforts of life.
Your wife she will scold you,
Your children will cry,
And that will make papa
Look withered and dry.
You can’t step aside, boys,
To speak to a friend
Without your wife at your elbow
Saying, “What does this mean?”
Your wife, she will scold
And there is sad news.
Dear boys, take warning;
’Tis a life to refuse.
If you chance to be riding
Along the highway
And meet a fair maiden,
A lady so gay,
With red, rosy cheeks
And sparkling blue eyes,—
Oh, heavens! what a tumult
In your bosom will rise!
One more request, boys,
Before we must part:
Don’t place your affections
On a charming sweetheart;
She’ll dance before you
Your favors to gain.
Oh, turn your back on them
With scorn and disdain!
Come close to the bar, boys,
We’ll drink all around.
We’ll drink to the pure,
If any be found;
We’ll drink to the single,
For I wish them success;
Likewise to the married,
For I wish them no less.
LIFE IN A HALF-BREED SHACK
’Tis life in a half-breed shack,
The rain comes pouring down;
“Drip” drops the mud through the roof,
And the wind comes through the wall.
A tenderfoot cursed his luck
And feebly cried out “yah!”
Refrain:
Yah! Yah! I want to go home to my ma!
Yah! Yah! this bloomin’ country’s a fraud!
Yah! Yah! I want to go home to my ma!
He tries to kindle a fire
When it’s forty-five below;
He aims to chop at a log
And amputates his toe;
He hobbles back to the shack
And feebly cries out “yah”!
He gets on a bucking cayuse
And thinks to flourish around,
But the buzzard-head takes to bucking
And lays him flat out on the ground.
As he picks himself up with a curse,
He feebly cries out “yah”!
He buys all the town lots he can get
In the wrong end of Calgary,
And he waits and he waits for the boom
Until he’s dead broke like me.
He couldn’t get any tick
So he feebly cries out “yah”!
He couldn’t do any work
And he wouldn’t know how if he could;
So the police run him for a vag
And set him to bucking wood.
As he sits in the guard room cell,
He feebly cries out “yah”!
Come all ye tenderfeet
And listen to what I say,
If you can’t get a government job
You had better remain where you be.
Then you won’t curse your luck
And cry out feebly “yah”!
THE ROAD TO COOK’S PEAK
If you’ll listen a while I’ll sing you a song,
And as it is short it won’t take me long.
There are some things of which I will speak
Concerning the stage on the road to Cook’s Peak.
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
Concerning the stage on the road to Cook’s Peak.
It was in the morning at eight-forty-five,
I was hooking up all ready to drive
Out where the miners for minerals seek,
With two little mules on the road to Cook’s Peak—
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
With two little mules on the road to Cook’s Peak.
With my two little mules I jog along
And try to cheer them with ditty and song;
O’er the wide prairie where coyotes sneak,
While driving the stage on the road to Cook’s Peak.
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
While driving the stage on the road to Cook’s Peak.
Sometimes I have to haul heavy freight,
Then it is I get home very late.
In rain or shine, six days in the week,
’Tis the same little mules on the road to Cook’s Peak.
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
’Tis the same little mules on the road to Cook’s Peak.
And when with the driving of stage I am through
I will to my two little mules bid adieu.
And hope that those creatures, so gentle and meek,
Will have a good friend on the road to Cook’s Peak.
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
Will have a good friend on the road to Cook’s Peak.
Now all kind friends that travel about,
Come take a trip on the Wallis stage route.
With a plenty of grit, they never get weak,—
Those two little mules on the road to Cook’s Peak.
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
On the road to Cook’s Peak,—
Those two little mules on the road to Cook’s Peak.
ARAPHOE, OR BUCKSKIN JOE
’Twas a calm and peaceful evening in a camp called Araphoe,
And the whiskey was a running with a soft and gentle flow,
The music was a-ringing in a dance hall cross the way,
And the dancers was a-swinging just as close as they could lay.
People gathered round the tables, a-betting with their wealth,
And near by stood a stranger who had come there for his health.
He was a peaceful little stranger though he seemed to be unstrung;
For just before he’d left his home he’d separated with one lung.
Nearby at a table sat a man named Hankey Dean,
A tougher man says Hankey, buckskin chaps had never seen.
But Hankey was a gambler and he was plum sure to lose;
For he had just departed with a sun-dried stack of blues.
He rose from the table, on the floor his last chip flung,
And cast his fiery glimmers on the man with just one lung.
“No wonder I’ve been losing every bet I made tonight
When a sucker and a tenderfoot was between me and the light.
Look here, little stranger, do you know who I am?”
“Yes, and I don’t care a copper colored damn.”
The dealers stopped their dealing and the players held their breath;
For words like those to Hankey were a sudden flirt with death.
“Listen, gentle stranger, I’ll read my pedigree:
I’m known on handling tenderfeet and worser men than thee;
The lions on the mountains, I’ve drove them to their lairs;
The wild-cats are my playmates, and I’ve wrestled grizzly bears;
“Why, the centipedes can’t mar my tough old hide,
And rattle snakes have bit me and crawled off and died.
I’m as wild as the horse that roams the range;
The moss grows on my teeth and wild blood flows through my veins.
“I’m wild and woolly and full of fleas
And never curried below the knees.
Now, little stranger, if you’ll give me your address,—
How would you like to go, by fast mail or express?”
The little stranger who was leaning on the door
Picked up a hand of playing cards that were scattered on the floor.
Picking out the five of spades, he pinned it to the door
And then stepped back some twenty paces or more.
He pulled out his life-preserver, and with a “one, two, three, four,”
Blotted out a spot with every shot;
For he had traveled with a circus and was a fancy pistol shot.
“I have one more left, kind sir, if you wish to call the play.”
Then Hanke stepped up to the stranger and made a neat apology,
“Why, the lions in the mountains,—that was nothing but a joke.
Never mind about the extra, you are a bad shooting man,
And I’m a meek little child and as harmless as a lamb.”
ROUNDED UP IN GLORY
I have been thinking to-day,
As my thoughts began to stray,
Of your memory to me worth more than gold.
As you ride across the plain,
’Mid the sunshine and the rain,—
You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye.
Chorus:
You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye,
You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye,
When the milling time is o’er
And you will stampede no more,
When he rounds you up within the Master’s fold.
As you ride across the plain
With the cowboys that have fame,
And the storms and the lightning flash by.
We shall meet to part no more
Upon the golden shore
When he rounds us up in glory bye and bye.
May we lift our voices high
To that sweet bye and bye,
And be known by the brand of the Lord;
For his property we are,
And he will know us from afar
When he rounds us up in glory bye and bye.
THE DRUNKARD’S HELL
It was on a cold and stormy night
I saw and heard an awful sight;
The lightning flashed and thunder rolled
Around my poor benighted soul.
I thought I heard a mournful sound
Among the groans still lower down,
That awful sight no tongue can tell
Is this,—the place called Drunkard’s Hell.
I thought I saw the gulf below
Where all the dying drunkards go.
I raised my hand and sad to tell
It was the place called Drunkard’s Hell.
I traveled on and got there at last
And started to take a social glass;
But every time I started,—well,
I thought about the Drunkard’s Hell.
I dashed it down to leave that place
And started to seek redeeming grace.
I felt like Paul, at once I’d pray
Till all my sins were washed away.
I then went home to change my life
And see my long neglected wife.
I found her weeping o’er the bed
Because her infant babe was dead.
I told her not to mourn and weep
Because her babe had gone to sleep;
Its happy soul had fled away
To dwell with Christ till endless day.
I taken her by her pale white hand,
She was so weak she could not stand;
I laid her down and breathed a prayer
That God might bless and save her there.
I then went to the Temperance hall
And taken a pledge among them all.
They taken me in with a willing hand
And taken me in as a temperance man.
So seven long years have passed away
Since first I bowed my knees to pray;
So now I live a sober life
With a happy home and a loving wife.
RAMBLING BOY
I am a wild and roving lad,
A wild and rambling lad I’ll be;
For I do love a little girl
And she does love me.
“O Willie, O Willie, I love you so,
I love you more than I do know;
And if my tongue could tell you so
I’d give the world to let you know.”
When Julia’s old father came this to know,—
That Julia and Willie were loving so,—
He ripped and swore among them all,
And swore he’d use a cannon ball.
She wrote Willie a letter with her right hand
And sent it to him in the western land.
“Oh, read these lines, sweet William dear.
For this is the last of me you will hear.”
He read those lines while he wept and cried,
“Ten thousand times I wish I had died”,
He read those lines while he wept and said,
“Ten thousand times I wish I were dead.”
When her old father came home that night
He called for Julia, his heart’s delight,
He ran up stairs and her door he broke
And found her hanging by her own bed rope.
And with his knife he cut her down,
And in her bosom this note he found
Saying, “Dig my grave both deep and wide
And bury sweet Willie by my side.”
They dug her grave both deep and wide
And buried sweet Willie by her side;
And on her grave set a turtle dove
To show the world they died for love.
BRIGHAM YOUNG. I.
I’ll sing you a song that has often been sung
About an old Mormon they called Brigham Young.
Of wives he had many who were strong in the lungs,
Which Brigham found out by the length of their tongues.
Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
Oh, sad was the life of a Mormon to lead,
Yet Brigham adhered all his life to his creed.
He said ’twas such fun, and true, without doubt,
To see the young wives knock the old ones about.
Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
One day as old Brigham sat down to his dinner
He saw a young wife who was not getting thinner;
When the elders cried out, one after the other,
By the holy, she wants to go home to her mother.
Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
Old Brigham replied, which can’t be denied,
He couldn’t afford to lose such a bride.
Then do not be jealous but banish your fears;
For the tree is well known by the fruit that it bears.
Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
That I love one and all you very well know,
Then do not provoke me or my anger will show.
What must be our fate if found here in a row,
If Uncle Sam comes with his row-de-dow-dow.
Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
Then cease all your quarrels and do not despair,
To meet Uncle Sam I will quickly prepare.
Hark! I hear Yankee Doodle played over the hills!
Ah! here’s the enemy with their powder and pills.
Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.
BRIGHAM YOUNG. II.
Now Brigham Young is a Mormon bold,
And a leader of the roaring rams,
And shepherd of a lot of fine tub sheep
And a lot of pretty little lambs.
Oh, he lives with his five and forty wives,
In the city of the Great Salt Lake,
Where they breed and swarm like hens on a farm
And cackle like ducks to a drake.
Chorus:—
Oh Brigham, Brigham Young,
It’s a miracle how you survive,
With your roaring rams and your pretty little lambs
And your five and forty wives.
Number forty-five is about sixteen,
Number one is sixty and three;
And they make such a riot, how he keeps them quiet
Is a downright mystery to me.
For they clatter and they chaw and they jaw, jaw, jaw,
And each has a different desire;
It would aid the renown of the best shop in town
To supply them with half they desire.
Now, Brigham Young was a stout man once,
And now he is thin and old;
And I am sorry to state he is bald on the pate,
Which once had a covering of gold.
For his oldest wives won’t have white wool,
And his young ones won’t have red,
So, with tearing it out, and taking turn about,
They have torn all the hair off his head.
Now, the oldest wives sing songs all day,
And the young ones all sing songs;
And amongst such a crowd he has it pretty loud,—
They’re as noisy as Chinese gongs.
And when they advance for a Mormon dance
He is filled with the direst alarms;
For they are sure to end the night in a tabernacle fight
To see who has the fairest charms.
Now, if any man here envies Brigham Young
Let him go to the Great Salt Lake;
And if he has the leisure to enjoy his pleasure,
He’ll find it a great mistake.
One wife at a time, so says my rhyme,
Is enough,—there’s no denial;—
So, before you strive to be lord of forty-five,
Take two for a month on trial.
THE OLD GRAY MULE
I am an old man some sixty years old
And that you can plain-li see,
But when I was a young man ten years old
They made a stable boy of me.
I have seen the fastest horses
That made the fastest time,
But I never saw one in all my life
Like that old gray mule of mine.
On a Sunday morn I dress myself,
A-goin’ out to ride;
Now, my old mule is as gray as a bird,
Then he is full of his pride.
He never runs away with you,
Never cuts up any shine;
For the only friend I have on earth
Is this old gray mule of mine.
Now my old gray mule is dead and gone,
Gone to join the heavenly band,
With silver shoes upon his feet
To dance on the golden strand.
THE FOOLS OF FORTY-NINE
When gold was found in forty-eight the people thought ’twas gas,
And some were fools enough to think the lumps were only brass.
But soon they all were satisfied and started off to mine;
They bought their ships, came round the Horn, in the days of forty-nine.
Refrain:
Then they thought of what they’d been told
When they started after gold,—
That they never in the world would make a pile.
The people all were crazy then, they didn’t know what to do.
They sold their farms for just enough to pay their passage through.
They bid their friends a long farewell, said, “Dear wife, don’t you cry,
I’ll send you home the yellow lumps a piano for to buy.”
The poor, the old, and the rotten scows were advertised to sail
From New Orleans with passengers, but they must pump and bail.
The ships were crowded more than full, and some hung on behind,
And others dived off from the wharf and swam till they were blind.
With rusty pork and stinking beef and rotten, wormy bread!
The captains, too, that never were up as high as the main mast head!
The steerage passengers would rave and swear that they’d paid their passage
And wanted something more to eat beside bologna sausage.
They then began to cross the plain with oxen, hollowing “haw.”
And steamers then began to run as far as Panama.
And there for months the people staid, that started after gold,
And some returned disgusted with the lies that had been told.
The people died on every route, they sickened and died like sheep;
And those at sea before they died were launched into the deep;
And those that died while crossing the plains fared not so well as that,
For a hole was dug and they thrown in along the miserable Platte.
The ships at last began to arrive and the people began to inquire.
They say that flour is a dollar a pound, do you think it will be any higher?
And to carry their blankets and sleep outdoors, it seemed so very droll!
Both tired and mad, without a cent, they damned the lousy hole.
A RIPPING TRIP13
You go aboard a leaky boat
And sail for San Francisco,
You’ve got to pump to keep her afloat,
You’ve got that, by jingo!
The engine soon begins to squeak,
But nary a thing to oil her;
Impossible to stop the leak,—
Rip, goes the boiler.
The captain on the promenade
Looking very savage;
Steward and the cabin maid
Fightin’ ’bout the cabbage;
All about the cabin floor
Passengers lie sea-sick;
Steamer bound to go ashore,—
Rip, goes the physic.
Pork and beans they can’t afford,
The second cabin passengers;
The cook has tumbled overboard
With fifty pounds of sassengers;
The engineer, a little tight,
Bragging on the Mail Line,
Finally gets into a fight,—
Rip, goes the engine.
THE HAPPY MINER
I’m a happy miner,
I love to sing and dance.
I wonder what my love would say
If she could see my pants
With canvas patches on my knees
And one upon the stern?
I’ll wear them when I’m digging here
And home when I return.
Refrain:
So I get in a jovial way,
I spend my money free.
And I’ve got plenty!
Will you drink lager beer with me?
She writes about her poodle dog;
But never thinks to say,
“Oh, do come home, my honey dear,
I’m pining all away.”
I’ll write her half a letter,
Then give the ink a tip.
If that don’t bring her to her milk
I’ll coolly let her rip.
They wish to know if I can cook
And what I have to eat,
And tell me should I take a cold
Be sure and soak my feet.
But when they talk of cooking
I’m mighty hard to beat,
I’ve made ten thousand loaves of bread
The devil couldn’t eat.
I like a lazy partner
So I can take my ease,
Lay down and talk of golden home,
As happy as you please;
Without a thing to eat or drink,
Away from care and grief,—
I’m fat and sassy, ragged, too,
And tough as Spanish beef.
No matter whether rich or poor,
I’m happy as a clam.
I wish my friends at home could look
And see me as I am.
With woolen shirt and rubber boots,
In mud up to my knees,
And lice as large as chili beans
Fighting with the fleas.
I’ll mine for half an ounce a day,
Perhaps a little less;
But when it comes to China pay
I cannot stand the press.
Like thousands there, I’ll make a pile,
If I make one at all,
About the time the allied forces
Take Sepasterpol.
THE CALIFORNIA STAGE COMPANY
There’s no respect for youth or age
On board the California stage,
But pull and haul about the seats
As bed-bugs do about the sheets.
Refrain:
They started as a thieving line
In eighteen hundred and forty-nine;
All opposition they defy,
So the people must root hog or die.
You’re crowded in with Chinamen,
As fattening hogs are in a pen;
And what will more a man provoke
Is musty plug tobacco smoke.
The ladies are compelled to sit
With dresses in tobacco spit;
The gentlemen don’t seem to care,
But talk on politics and swear.
The dust is deep in summer time,
The mountains very hard to climb,
And drivers often stop and yell,
“Get out, all hands, and push up hill.”
The drivers, when they feel inclined,
Will have you walking on behind,
And on your shoulders lug a pole
To help them out some muddy hole.
They promise when your fare you pay,
“You’ll have to walk but half the way”;
Then add aside, with cunning laugh,
“You’ll have to push the other half.”
NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM
My country, ’tis of thee,
Land where things used to be
So cheap, we croak.
Land of the mavericks,
Land of the puncher’s tricks,
Thy culture-inroad pricks
The hide of this peeler-bloke.
Some of the punchers swear
That what they eat and wear
Takes all their calves.
Others vow that they
Eat only once a day
Jerked beef and prairie hay
Washed down with tallow salves.
These salty-dogs14 but crave
To pull them out the grave
Just one Kiowa spur.
They know they still will dine
On flesh and beef the time;
But give us, Lord divine,
One “hen-fruit stir.”15
Our father’s land, with thee,
Best trails of liberty,
We chose to stop.
We don’t exactly like
So soon to henceward hike,
But hell, we’ll take the pike
If this don’t stop.
Footnote 1: In this song, as in several others, the chorus should come in after each stanza. The arrangement followed has been adopted to illustrate versions current in different sections.(Back)
Footnote 2: Sung to the air of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.(Back)
Footnote 3: Attributed to James Barton Adams.(Back)
Footnote 4: Printed as a fugitive ballad in Grandon of Sierra, by Charles E. Winter.(Back)
Footnote 5: A song current in Arizona, probably written by Berton Braley. Cowboys and miners often take verses that please them and fit them to music.(Back)
Footnote 6: These verses are used in many parts of the West as a dance song. Sung to waltz music the song takes the place of “Home, Sweet Home” at the conclusion of a cowboy ball. The “fiddle” is silenced and the entire company sing as they dance.(Back)
Footnote 7: A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.(Back)
Footnote 8: This poem, one of the best in Larry Chittenden’s Ranch Verses, published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. I have heard it in New Mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,—always as a song. None of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.(Back)
Footnote 9: “set” means settler.(Back)
Footnote 10: snake, bad steer.(Back)
Footnote 11: Dolly welter, rope tied all around the saddle.(Back)
Footnote 12: rim-fire saddle, without flank girth.(Back)
Footnote 13: To tune of Pop Goes the Weasel.(Back)
Footnote 14: Cowboy Dude.(Back)
Footnote 15: Pancake.(Back)