The good man prayed for all the world And all its motley crew, For pagan, Hindoo, sinners, Turk, And unbelieving Jew,— Though the congregation doubtless thought That the cowboys as a race Were a kind of moral outlaw With no good claim to grace.

Is it very strange that cowboys are A rough and reckless crew When their garb forbids their doing right As Christian people do? That they frequent scenes of revelry Where death is bought and sold, Where at least they get a welcome Though it's prompted by their gold?

Stranger, did it ever strike you, When the winter days are gone And the mortal grass is springing up To meet the judgment sun, And we 'tend mighty round-ups Where, according to the Word, The angel cowboy of the Lord Will cut the human herd,—

That a heap of stock that's lowing now Around the Master's pen And feeding at his fodder stack Will have the brand picked then? And brands that when the hair was long Looked like the letter C, Will prove to be the devil's, And the brand the letter D;

While many a long-horned coaster,— I mean, just so to speak,— That hasn't had the advantage Of the range and gospel creek Will get to crop the grasses In the pasture of the Lord If the letter C showed up Beneath the devil's checker board.



THE U. S. A. RECRUIT

Now list to my song, it will not take me long, And in some things with me you'll agree; A young man so green came in from Moline, And enlisted a soldier to be. He had lots of pluck, on himself he was stuck, In his Government straights he looked "boss," And he chewed enough beans for a hoss.

He was a rookey, so flukey, He was a jim dandy you all will agree, He said without fear, "Before I'm a year In the Army, great changes you'll see." He was a stone thrower, a foam blower, He was a Loo Loo you bet, He stood on his head and these words gently said, "I'll be second George Washington yet."

At his post he did land, they took him in hand, The old bucks they all gathered 'round, Saying "Give us your fist; where did you enlist? You'll take on again I'll be bound; I've a blanket to sell, it will fit you quite well, I'll sell you the whole or a piece. I've a dress coat to trade, or a helmet unmade, It will do you for kitchen police."

Then the top said, "My Son, here is a gun, Just heel ball that musket up bright. In a few days or more you'll be rolling in gore, A-chasing wild Goo Goos to flight. There'll be fighting, you see, and blood flowing free, We'll send you right on to the front; And never you fear, if you're wounded, my dear, You'll be pensioned eight dollars per month."

He was worried so bad, he blew in all he had; He went on a drunk with goodwill. And the top did report, "One private short." When he showed up he went to the mill. The proceedings we find were a ten dollar blind, Ten dollars less to blow foam. This was long years ago, and this rookey you know Is now in the old soldiers' home.



THE COWGIRL

My love is a rider and broncos he breaks, But he's given up riding and all for my sake; For he found him a horse and it suited him so He vowed he'd ne'er ride any other bronco.

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 bronco.

The cook is an unfortunate son of a gun; He has to be up e'er the rise of the sun; His language is awful, his curses are deep,— He is like cascarets, for he works while you sleep.



THE SHANTY BOY

I am a jolly shanty boy, As you will soon discover. To all the dodges I am fly, A hustling pine woods rover. A peavy hook it is my pride, An ax I well can handle; To fell a tree or punch a bull Get rattling Danny Randall.

Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.

I love a girl in Saginaw; She lives with her mother; I defy all Michigan To find such another. She's tall and fat, her hair is red, Her face is plump and pretty, She's my daisy, Sunday-best-day girl,— And her front name stands for Kitty.

Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.

I took her to a dance one night, A mossback gave the bidding; Silver Jack bossed the shebang And Big Dan played the fiddle. We danced and drank, the livelong night. With fights between the dancing— Till Silver Jack cleaned out the ranch And sent the mossbacks prancing.

Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.



ROOT HOG OR DIE

When I was a young man I lived on the square, I never had any pocket change and I hardly thought it fair; So out on the crosses I went to rob and to steal, And when I met a peddler oh, how happy I did feel.

One morning, one morning, one morning in May I seen a man a-coming, a little bit far away; I seen a man a-coming, come riding up to me "Come here, come here, young fellow, I'm after you to-day."

He taken me to the new jail, he taken me to the new jail, And I had to walk right in. There all my friends went back on me And also my kin.

I had an old rich uncle, who lived in the West, He heard of my misfortune, it wouldn't let him rest; He came to see me, he paid my bills and score,— I have been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.

There's Minnie and Alice and Lucy likewise, They heard of my misfortune brought tears to their eyes. I've told 'em my condition, I've told it o'er and o'er; So I've been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.

I will go to East Texas to marry me a wife, And try to maintain her the balance of my life; I'll try to maintain; I'll lay it up in store I've been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.

Young man, you robber, you had better take it fair, Leave off your marshal killing and live on the square; Should you meet the marshal, just pass him by; And travel on the muscular, for it's root hog or die.

When I drew my money I drew it all in cash And off to see my Susan, you bet I cut a dash; I spent my money freely and went it on a bum, And I love the pretty women and am bound to have my fun.

I used to sport a white hat, a horse and buggy fine, Courted a pretty girl and always called her mine; But all my courtships proved to be in vain, For they sent me down to Huntsville to wear the ball and chain.

Along came my true love, about twelve o'clock, Saying, "Henry, O Henry, what sentence have you got?" The jury found me guilty, the judge would allow no stay, So they sent me down to Huntsville to wear my life away.



Root Hog or Die (Mus. Not.)

When I was a young man I lived up-on the square, I nev-er had a-ny pock-et change and I hard-ly thought it fair, But out up-on the highway I went to rob and to steal, And when I met a ped-dler, Oh, how hap-py I did feel.



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 dog? 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."



The Texas Cowboy (Mus. Not.)

Mrs. Robert Thomson

I am a Tex-as Cowboy, Light-hearted, gay and free, To roam the wide, wide prairie, Is always joy to me; My trust-y lit-tle po-ny Is my com-pan-ion true; O'er plain, thro' woods and river, He's sure to "pull me thro."

CHORUS

Allegro

I am a jol-ly cow-boy, From Tex-as now I hail, Give me my "quirt" and po-ny, I'm read-y for the "trail;" I love the roll-ing prairie, We're free from care and strife, Be-hind a herd of "long-horns" I'll journey all my life.



THE CONVICT

When slumbering In my convict cell my childhood days I see, When I was mother's little child and knelt at mother's knee. There my life was peace, I know, I knew no sorrow or pain. Mother dear never did think, I know, I would wear a felon's chain.

Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain? Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?

When I had grown to manhood and evil paths I trod, I learned to scorn my fellow-man and even curse my God; And in the evil course I ran for a great length of time Till at last I ran too long and was condemned for a felon's crime.

My prison life will soon be o'er, my life will soon be gone,— May the angels waft it heavenward to a bright and happy home. I'll be at rest, sweet, sweet rest, there is rest in the heavenly home; I'll be at rest, sweet, sweet rest, there is rest in the heavenly home.

Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain? Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?



JACK O' DIAMONDS

O Mollie, O Mollie, it is for your sake alone That I leave my old parents, my house and my home, That I leave my old parents, you caused me to roam,— I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.

Jack o' diamonds, Jack o' diamonds, I know you of old, You've robbed my poor pockets Of silver and gold. Whiskey, you villain, You've been my downfall, You've kicked me, you've cuffed me, But I love you for all.

My foot's in my stirrup, my bridle's in my hand, I'm going to leave sweet Mollie, the fairest in the land. Her parents don't like me, they say I'm too poor, They say I'm unworthy to enter her door.

They say I drink whiskey; my money is my own, And them that don't like me can leave me alone. I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry, And when I get thirsty I'll lay down and cry.

It's beefsteak when I'm hungry, And whiskey when I'm dry, Greenbacks when I'm hard up, And heaven when I die. Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, Rye whiskey I cry, If I don't get rye whiskey, I surely will die. O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before, Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.

I will build me a big castle on yonder mountain high, Where my true love can see me when she comes riding by, Where my true love can see me and help me to mourn,— I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.

I'll get up in my saddle, my quirt I'll take in hand, I'll think of you, Mollie, when in some far distant land, I'll think of you, Mollie, you caused me to roam,— I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.

If the ocean was whiskey, And I was a duck, I'd dive to the bottom To get one sweet sup; But the ocean ain't whiskey, And I ain't a duck, So I'll play Jack o' diamonds And then we'll get drunk. O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before, Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.

I've rambled and trambled this wide world around, But it's for the rabble army, dear Mollie, I'm bound, It is to the rabble army, dear Mollie, I roam,— I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.

I have rambled and gambled all my money away, But it's with the rabble army, O Mollie, I must stay, It is with the rabble army, O Mollie I must roam,— I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.

Jack o' diamonds, Jack o' diamonds, I know you of old, You've robbed my poor pockets Of silver and gold. Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, Rye whiskey I cry, If you don't give me rye whiskey I'll lie down and die. O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before, Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.



Jack o' Diamonds (Mus. Not.)

O Mol-lie, O Mol-lie, It's for your sake a-lone That I leave my old pa-rents, my house and my home; That I leave my old pa-rents, you caused me to roam— I am a rab-ble sol-dier, and Dix-ie is my home.

Repeat from first for Refrain



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 Fe 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 HABIT[5]

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.

[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.]



OLD PAINT[6]

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.

[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.]



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 JACK[7]

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.

[Footnote 7: A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.]



THE COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS BALL[8]

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.

[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.]



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 canon.

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.

[Footnote 9: "set" means settler.]



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 welters[11] 'Cordin' to California law, And you'll never see your old rim-fire[12] Go drifting down the draw.

[Footnote 10: snake, bad steer.]

[Footnote 11: Dolly welter, rope tied all around the saddle.]

[Footnote 12: rim-fire saddle, without flank girth.]



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.