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 TRIP[13]

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.

[Footnote 13: To tune of Pop Goes the Weasel.]



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-dogs[14] 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 14: Cowboy Dude.]

[Footnote 15: Pancake.]

THE END