Chapter III: Part 3

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 were 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 falling,
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,
And 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 LONE BUFFALO HUNTER

It's of those Texas cowboys, a story I'll tell;
No name I will mention though in Texas they do dwell.
Go find them where you will, they are all so very brave,
And when in good society they seldom misbehave.

When the fall work is all over in the line-camp they'll be found,
For they have to ride those lonesome lines the long winter round;
They prove loyal to a comrade, no matter what's to do;
And when in love with a fair one they seldom prove untrue.

But springtime comes at last and finds them glad and gay;
They ride out to the round-up about the first of May;
About the first of August they start up the trail,
They have to stay with the cattle, no matter rain or hail.

But when they get to the shipping point, then they receive their tens,
Straightway to the bar-room and gently blow them in;
It's the height of their ambition, so I've been truly told,
To ride good horses and saddles and spend the silver and gold.

Those last two things I've mentioned, it is their heart's desire,
And when they leave the shipping point, their eyes are like balls
of fire.
It's of those fighting cattle, they seem to have no fear,
A-riding bucking broncos oft is their heart's desire.

They will ride into the branding pen, a rope within their hands,
They will catch them by each forefoot and bring them to the sands;
It's altogether in practice with a little bit of sleight,
A-roping Texas cattle, it is their heart's delight.

But now comes the rising generation to take the cowboy's place,
Likewise the corn-fed granger, with his bold and cheeky face;
It's on those plains of Texas a lone buffalo hunter does stand
To tell the fate of the cowboy that rode at his right hand.

THE CROOKED TRAIL TO HOLBROOK

Come all you jolly cowboys that follow the bronco steer,
I'll sing to you a verse or two your spirits for to cheer;
It's all about a trip, a trip that I did undergo
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.

It's on the seventeenth of February, our herd it started out,
It would have made your hearts shudder to hear them bawl and shout,
As wild as any buffalo that ever rode the Platte,
Those dogies we were driving, and every one was fat.

We crossed the Mescal Mountains on the way to Gilson Flats,
And when we got to Gilson Flats, Lord, how the wind did blow;
It blew so hard, it blew so fierce, we knew not where to go,
But our spirits never failed us as onward we did go,--
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.

That night we had a stampede; Christ, how the cattle run!
We made it to our horses; I tell you, we had no fun;
Over the prickly pear and catclaw brush we quickly made our way;
We thought of our long journey and the girls we'd left one day.

It's long by Sombserva we slowly punched along,
While each and every puncher would sing a hearty song
To cheer up his comrade as onward we did go,
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.

We crossed the Mongollen Mountains where the tall pines do grow,
Grass grows in abundance, and rippling streams do flow;
Our packs were always turning, of course our gait was slow,
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.

At last we got to Holbrook, a little gale did blow;
It blew up sand and pebble stones and it didn't blow them slow.
We had to drink the water from that muddy little stream
And swallowed a peck of dirt when we tried to eat a bean.

But the cattle now are shipped and homeward we are bound
With a lot of as tired horses as ever could be found;
Across the reservation no danger did we fear,
But thought of wives and sweethearts and the ones we love so dear.
Now we are back in Globe City, our friendship there to share;
Here's luck to every puncher that follows the bronco steer.

ONLY A COWBOY

Away out in old Texas, that great lone star state,
Where the mocking bird whistles both early and late;
It was in Western Texas on the old N A range
The boy fell a victim on the old staked plains.

He was only a cowboy gone on before,
He was only a cowboy, we will never see more;
He was doing his duty on the old N A range
But now he is sleeping on the old staked plains.

His crew they were numbered twenty-seven or eight,
The boys were like brothers, their friendship was great,
When "O God, have mercy" was heard from behind,--
The cattle were left to drift on the line.

He leaves a dear wife and little ones, too,
To earn them a living, as fathers oft do;
For while he was working for the loved ones so dear
He was took without warning or one word of cheer.

And while he is sleeping where the sun always shines,
The boys they go dashing along on the line;
The look on their faces it speaks to us all
Of one who departed to the home of the soul.

He was only a cowboy gone on before,
He was only a cowboy, we will never see more;
He was doing his duty on the old N A range
But now he is sleeping on the old staked plains.

FULLER AND WARREN

Ye sons of Columbia, your attention I do crave,
While a sorrowful story I do tell,
Which happened of late, in the Indiana state,
And a hero not many could excel;
Like Samson he courted, made choice of the fair,
And intended to make her his wife;
But she, like Delilah, his heart did ensnare,
Which cost him his honor and his life.

A gold ring he gave her in token of his love,
On the face was the image of the dove;
They mutually agreed to get married with speed
And were promised by the powers above.
But the fickle-minded maiden vowed again to wed
To young Warren who lived in that place;
It was a fatal blow that caused his overthrow
And added to her shame and disgrace.

When Fuller came to hear he was deprived of his dear
Whom he vowed by the powers to wed,
With his heart full of woe unto Warren he did go,
And smilingly unto him he said:
"Young man, you have injured me to gratify your cause
By reporting that I left a prudent wife;
Acknowledge now that you have wronged me, for although
I break the laws,
Young Warren, I'll deprive you of your life."

Then Warren, he replied: "Your request must be denied,
For your darling to my heart she is bound;
And further I can say that this is our wedding day,
In spite of all the heroes in town."
Then Fuller in the passion of his love and anger bound,--
Alas! it caused many to cry,--
At one fatal shot killed Warren on the spot,
And smilingly said, "I'm ready now to die."

The time was drawing nigh when Fuller had to die;
He bid the audience adieu.
Like an angel he did stand, for he was a handsome man,
On his breast he had a ribbon of blue.
Ten thousand spectators did smite him on the breast,
And the guards dropped a tear from the eye,
Saying, "Cursed be she who caused this misery,
Would to God in his stead she had to die."

The gentle god of Love looked with anger from above
And the rope flew asunder like the sand.
Two doctors for the pay they murdered him, they say,
They hung him by main strength of hand.
But the corpse it was buried and the doctors lost their prey,
Oh, that harlot was bribed, I do believe;
Bad women to a certainty are the downfall of men,
As Adam was beguiled by Eve.

Fuller and Warren (Mus. Not.)

Ye sons of Co-lum-bia, your at-ten-tion I do crave,
While a sor-ri-ful sto-ry I do tell,
Which hap-pened of late in the In-di-an-a state,
And a he-ro ... not ma-ny could ex-cel.
Like Sam-son he court-ed, made choice of the fair,
And in-tend-ed ... to make her his wife;
But she, like De-li-la,... his heart did en-snare,
Which cost him his hon-or and his life.

THE TRAIL TO MEXICO

I made up my mind to change my way
And quit my crowd that was so gay,
To leave my native home for a while
And to travel west for many a mile.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

'Twas all in the merry month of May
When I started for Texas far away,
I left my darling girl behind,--
She said her heart was only mine.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

Oh, it was when I embraced her in my arms
I thought she had ten thousand charms;
Her caresses were soft, her kisses were sweet,
Saying, "We will get married next time we meet."

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

It was in the year of eighty-three
That A.J. Stinson hired me.
He says, "Young fellow, I want you to go
And drive this herd to Mexico."

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

The first horse they gave me was an old black
With two big set-fasts on his back;
I padded him with gunny-sacks and my bedding all;
He went up, then down, and I got a fall.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

The next they gave me was an old gray,
I'll remember him till my dying day.
And if I had to swear to the fact,
I believe he was worse off than the black.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

Oh, it was early in the year
When I went on trail to drive the steer.
I stood my guard through sleet and snow
While on the trail to Mexico.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

Oh, it was a long and lonesome go
As our herd rolled on to Mexico;
With laughter light and the cowboy's song
To Mexico we rolled along.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

When I arrived in Mexico
I wanted to see my love but could not go;
So I wrote a letter, a letter to my dear,
But not a word from her could I hear.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

When I arrived at the once loved home
I called for the darling of my own;
They said she had married a richer life,
Therefore, wild cowboy, seek another wife.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

Oh, the girl she is married I do adore,
And I cannot stay at home any more;
I'll cut my way to a foreign land
Or I'll go back west to my cowboy band.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

I'll go back to the Western land,
I'll hunt up my old cowboy band,--
Where the girls are few and the boys are true
And a false-hearted love I never knew.

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

"O Buddie, O Buddie, please stay at home,
Don't be forever on the roam.
There is many a girl more true than I,
So pray don't go where the bullets fly."

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

"It's curse your gold and your silver too,
God pity a girl that won't prove true;
I'll travel West where the bullets fly,
I'll stay on the trail till the day I die."

Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.

THE HORSE WRANGLER

I thought one spring just for fun
I'd see how cow-punching was done,
And when the round-ups had begun
I tackled the cattle-king.
Says he, "My foreman is in town,
He's at the plaza, and his name is Brown,
If you'll see him, he'll take you down."
Says I, "That's just the thing."

We started for the ranch next day;
Brown augured me most all the way.
He said that cow-punching was nothing but play,
That it was no work at all,--
That all you had to do was ride,
And only drifting with the tide;
The son of a gun, oh, how he lied.
Don't you think he had his gall?

He put me in charge of a cavyard,
And told me not to work too hard,
That all I had to do was guard
The horses from getting away;
I had one hundred and sixty head,
I sometimes wished that I was dead;
When one got away, Brown's head turned red,
And there was the devil to pay.

Sometimes one would make a break,
Across the prairie he would take,
As if running for a stake,--
It seemed to them but play;
Sometimes I could not head them at all,
Sometimes my horse would catch a fall
And I'd shoot on like a cannon ball
Till the earth came in my way.

They saddled me up an old gray hack
With two set-fasts on his back,
They padded him down with a gunny sack
And used my bedding all.
When I got on he quit the ground,
Went up in the air and turned around,
And I came down and busted the ground,--
I got one hell of a fall.

They took me up and carried me in
And rubbed me down with an old stake pin.
"That's the way they all begin;
You're doing well," says Brown.
"And in the morning, if you don't die,
I'll give you another horse to try."
"Oh say, can't I walk?" says I.
Says he, "Yes, back to town."

I've traveled up and I've traveled down,
I've traveled this country round and round,
I've lived in city and I've lived in town,
But I've got this much to say:
Before you try cow-punching, kiss your wife,
Take a heavy insurance on your life,
Then cut your throat with a barlow knife,--
For it's easier done that way.

CALIFORNIA JOE

Well, mates, I don't like stories;
Or am I going to act
A part around the campfire
That ain't a truthful fact?
So fill your pipes and listen,
I'll tell you--let me see--
I think it was in fifty,
From that till sixty-three.

You've all heard tell of Bridger;
I used to run with Jim,
And many a hard day's scouting
I've done longside of him.
Well, once near old Fort Reno,
A trapper used to dwell;
We called him old Pap Reynolds,
The scouts all knew him well.

One night in the spring of fifty
We camped on Powder River,
And killed a calf of buffalo
And cooked a slice of liver.
While eating, quite contented,
I heard three shots or four;
Put out the fire and listened,--
We heard a dozen more.

We knew that old man Reynolds
Had moved his traps up here;
So picking up our rifles
And fixing on our gear
We moved as quick as lightning,
To save was our desire.
Too late, the painted heathens
Had set the house on fire.

We hitched our horses quickly
And waded up the stream;
While down close beside the waters
I heard a muffled scream.
And there among the bushes
A little girl did lie.
I picked her up and whispered,
"I'll save you or I'll die."

Lord, what a ride! Old Bridger
Had covered my retreat;
Sometimes that child would whisper
In voice low and sweet,
"Poor Papa, God will take him
To Mama up above;
There is no one left to love me,
There is no one left to love."

The little one was thirteen
And I was twenty-two;
I says, "I'll be your father
And love you just as true."
She nestled to my bosom,
Her hazel eyes so bright,
Looked up and made me happy,--
The close pursuit that night.

One month had passed and Maggie,
We called her Hazel Eye,
In truth was going to leave me,
Was going to say good-bye.
Her uncle, Mad Jack Reynolds,
Reported long since dead,
Had come to claim my angel,
His brother's child, he said.

What could I say? We parted,
Mad Jack was growing old;
I handed him a bank note
And all I had in gold.
They rode away at sunrise,
I went a mile or two,
And parting says, "We will meet again;
May God watch over you."

By a laughing, dancing brook
A little cabin stood,
And weary with a long day's scout,
I spied it in the wood.
The pretty valley stretched beyond,
The mountains towered above,
And near its willow banks I heard
The cooing of a dove.

'Twas one grand pleasure;
The brook was plainly seen,
Like a long thread of silver
In a cloth of lovely green;
The laughter of the water,
The cooing of the dove,
Was like some painted picture,
Some well-told tale of love.

While drinking in the country
And resting in the saddle,
I heard a gentle rippling
Like the dipping of a paddle,
And turning to the water,
A strange sight met my view,--
A lady with her rifle
In a little bark canoe.

She stood up in the center,
With her rifle to her eye;
I thought just for a second
My time had come to die.
I doffed my hat and told her,
If it was just the same,
To drop her little shooter,
For I was not her game.

She dropped the deadly weapon
And leaped from the canoe.
Says she, "I beg your pardon;
I thought you was a Sioux.
Your long hair and your buckskin
Looked warrior-like and rough;
My bead was spoiled by sunshine,
Or I'd have killed you sure enough."

"Perhaps it would've been better
If you'd dropped me then," says I;
"For surely such an angel
Would bear me to the sky."
She blushingly dropped her eyelids,
Her cheeks were crimson red;
One half-shy glance she gave me
And then hung down her head.

I took her little hand in mine;
She wondered what it meant,
And yet she drew it not away,
But rather seemed content.
We sat upon the mossy bank,
Her eyes began to fill;
The brook was rippling at our feet,
The dove was cooing still.

'Tis strong arms were thrown around her.
"I'll save you or I'll die."
I clasped her to my bosom,
My long lost Hazel Eye.
The rapture of that moment
Was almost heaven to me;
I kissed her 'mid the tear-drops,
Her merriment and glee.

Her heart near mine was beating
When sobbingly she said,
"My dear, my brave preserver,
They told me you were dead.
But oh, those parting words, Joe,
Have never left my mind,
You said, 'We'll meet again, Mag,'
Then rode off like the wind.

"And oh, how I have prayed, Joe,
For you who saved my life,
That God would send an angel
To guide you through all strife.
The one who claimed me from you,
My Uncle, good and true,
Is sick in yonder cabin;
Has talked so much of you.

"'If Joe were living darling,'
He said to me last night,
'He would care for you, Maggie,
When God puts out my light.'"
We found the old man sleeping.
"Hush, Maggie, let him rest."
The sun was slowly setting
In the far-off, glowing West.

And though we talked in whispers
He opened wide his eyes:
"A dream, a dream," he murmured;
"Alas, a dream of lies."
She drifted like a shadow
To where the old man lay.
"You had a dream, dear Uncle,
Another dream to-day?"

"Oh yes, I saw an angel
As pure as mountain snow,
And near her at my bedside
Stood California Joe."
"I'm sure I'm not an angel,
Dear Uncle, that you know;
These hands that hold your hand, too,
My face is not like snow.

"Now listen while I tell you,
For I have news to cheer;
Hazel Eye is happy,
For Joe is truly here."
It was but a few days after
The old man said to me,
"Joe, boy, she is an angel,
And good as angels be.

"For three long months she hunted,
And trapped and nursed me too;
God bless you, boy, I believe it,
She's safe along with you."
The sun was slowly sinking,
When Maggie, my wife, and I
Went riding through the valley,
The tear-drops in her eye.

"One year ago to-day, Joe,
I saw the mossy grave;
We laid him neath the daisies,
My Uncle, good and brave."
And comrade, every springtime
Is sure to find me there;
There is something in the valley
That is always fresh and fair.

Our love is always kindled
While sitting by the stream,
Where two hearts were united
In love's sweet happy dream.

THE BOSTON BURGLAR

I was born in Boston City, a city you all know well,
Brought up by honest parents, the truth to you I'll tell,
Brought up by honest parents and raised most tenderly,
Till I became a roving man at the age of twenty-three.

My character was taken then, and I was sent to jail.
My friends they found it was in vain to get me out on bail.
The jury found me guilty, the clerk he wrote it down,
The judge he passed me sentence and I was sent to Charleston town.

You ought to have seen my aged father a-pleading at the bar,
Also my dear old mother a-tearing of her hair,
Tearing of her old gray locks as the tears came rolling down,
Saying, "Son, dear son, what have you done, that you are sent to
Charleston town?"

They put me aboard an eastbound train one cold December day,
And every station that we passed, I'd hear the people say,
"There goes a noted burglar, in strong chains he'll be bound,--
For the doing of some crime or other he is sent to Charleston town."

There is a girl in Boston, she is a girl that I love well,
And if I ever gain my liberty, along with her I'll dwell;
And when I regain my liberty, bad company I will shun,
Night-walking, gambling, and also drinking rum.

Now, you who have your liberty, pray keep it if you can,
And don't go around the streets at night to break the laws of man;
For if you do you'll surely rue and find yourself like me,
A-serving out my twenty-one years in the penitentiary.

SAM BASS

Sam Bass was born in Indiana, it was his native home,
And at the age of seventeen young Sam began to roam.
Sam first came out to Texas a cowboy for to be,--
A kinder-hearted fellow you seldom ever see.

Sam used to deal in race stock, one called the Denton mare,
He matched her in scrub races, and took her to the Fair.
Sam used to coin the money and spent it just as free,
He always drank good whiskey wherever he might be.

Sam left the Collin's ranch in the merry month of May
With a herd of Texas cattle the Black Hills for to see,
Sold out in Custer City and then got on a spree,--
A harder set of cowboys you seldom ever see.

On their way back to Texas they robbed the U.P. train,
And then split up in couples and started out again.
Joe Collins and his partner were overtaken soon,
With all their hard-earned money they had to meet their doom.

Sam made it back to Texas all right side up with care;
Rode into the town of Denton with all his friends to share.
Sam's life was short in Texas; three robberies did he do,
He robbed all the passenger, mail, and express cars too.

Sam had four companions--four bold and daring lads--
They were Richardson, Jackson, Joe Collins, and Old Dad;
Four more bold and daring cowboys the rangers never knew,
They whipped the Texas rangers and ran the boys in blue.

Sam had another companion, called Arkansas for short,
Was shot by a Texas ranger by the name of Thomas Floyd;
Oh, Tom is a big six-footer and thinks he's mighty fly,
But I can tell you his racket,--he's a deadbeat on the sly.

Jim Murphy was arrested, and then released on bail;
He jumped his bond at Tyler and then took the train for
Terrell;
But Mayor Jones had posted Jim and that was all a stall,
'Twas only a plan to capture Sam before the coming fall.

Sam met his fate at Round Rock, July the twenty-first,
They pierced poor Sam with rifle balls and emptied out his purse.
Poor Sam he is a corpse and six foot under clay,
And Jackson's in the bushes trying to get away.

Jim had borrowed Sam's good gold and didn't want to pay,
The only shot he saw was to give poor Sam away.
He sold out Sam and Barnes and left their friends to mourn,--
Oh, what a scorching Jim will get when Gabriel blows his horn.

And so he sold out Sam and Barnes and left their friends to mourn,
Oh, what a scorching Jim will get when Gabriel blows his horn.
Perhaps he's got to heaven, there's none of us can say,
But if I'm right in my surmise he's gone the other way.

Sam Bass (Mus. Not.)

Sam Bass was born in In-di-an-a, It
was his na-tive home; And at the age of
sev-en-teen, Young Sam be-gan to roam. Sam
first came out to Tex-as, A cow-boy for to be; A
kind-er-heart-ed fel-low You sel-dom ev-er see.

THE ZEBRA DUN

We were camped on the plains at the head of the Cimarron
When along came a stranger and stopped to arger some.
He looked so very foolish that we began to look around,
We thought he was a greenhorn that had just 'scaped from town.

We asked if he had been to breakfast; he hadn't had a smear,
So we opened up the chuck-box and bade him have his share.
He took a cup of coffee and some biscuits and some beans,
And then began to talk and tell about foreign kings and queens,--

About the Spanish war and fighting on the seas
With guns as big as steers and ramrods big as trees,--
And about old Paul Jones, a mean, fighting son of a gun,
Who was the grittiest cuss that ever pulled a gun.

Such an educated feller his thoughts just came in herds,
He astonished all them cowboys with them jaw-breaking words.
He just kept on talking till he made the boys all sick,
And they began to look around just how to play a trick.

He said he had lost his job upon the Santa Fe
And was going across the plains to strike the 7-D.
He didn't say how come it, some trouble with the boss,
But said he'd like to borrow a nice fat saddle hoss.

This tickled all the boys to death, they laughed way down in their
sleeves,--
"We will lend you a horse just as fresh and fat as you please."
Shorty grabbed a lariat and roped the Zebra Dun
And turned him over to the stranger and waited for the fun.

Old Dunny was a rocky outlaw that had grown so awful wild
That he could paw the white out of the moon every jump for a mile.
Old Dunny stood right still,--as if he didn't know,--
Until he was saddled and ready for to go.

When the stranger hit the saddle, old Dunny quit the earth
And traveled right straight up for all that he was worth.
A-pitching and a-squealing, a-having wall-eyed fits,
His hind feet perpendicular, his front ones in the bits.

We could see the tops of the mountains under Dunny every jump,
But the stranger he was growed there just like the camel's hump;
The stranger sat upon him and curled his black mustache
Just like a summer boarder waiting for his hash.

He thumped him in the shoulders and spurred him when he whirled,
To show them flunky punchers that he was the wolf of the world.
When the stranger had dismounted once more upon the ground,
We knew he was a thoroughbred and not a gent from town;

The boss who was standing round watching of the show,
Walked right up to the stranger and told him he needn't go,--
"If you can use the lasso like you rode old Zebra Dun,
You are the man I've been looking for ever since the year one."

Oh, he could twirl the lariat and he didn't do it slow,
He could catch them fore feet nine out of ten for any kind of dough.
And when the herd stampeded he was always on the spot
And set them to nothing, like the boiling of a pot.

There's one thing and a shore thing I've learned since I've been born,
That every educated feller ain't a plumb greenhorn.

THE BUFFALO SKINNERS

Come all you jolly fellows and listen to my song,
There are not many verses, it will not detain you long;
It's concerning some young fellows who did agree to go
And spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the buffalo.

It happened in Jacksboro in the spring of seventy-three,
A man by the name of Crego came stepping up to me,
Saying, "How do you do, young fellow, and how would you like to go
And spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the buffalo?"

"It's me being out of employment," this to Crego I did say,
"This going out on the buffalo range depends upon the pay.
But if you will pay good wages and transportation too,
I think, sir, I will go with you to the range of the buffalo."

"Yes, I will pay good wages, give transportation too,
Provided you will go with me and stay the summer through;
But if you should grow homesick, come back to Jacksboro,
I won't pay transportation from the range of the buffalo."

It's now our outfit was complete--seven able-bodied men,
With navy six and needle gun--our troubles did begin;
Our way it was a pleasant one, the route we had to go,
Until we crossed Pease River on the range of the buffalo.

It's now we've crossed Pease River, our troubles have begun.
The first damned tail I went to rip, Christ! how I cut my thumb!
While skinning the damned old stinkers our lives wasn't a show,
For the Indians watched to pick us off while skinning the buffalo.

He fed us on such sorry chuck I wished myself most dead,
It was old jerked beef, croton coffee, and sour bread.
Pease River's as salty as hell fire, the water I could
never go,--
O God! I wished I had never come to the range of the buffalo.

Our meat it was buffalo hump and iron wedge bread,
And all we had to sleep on was a buffalo robe for a bed;
The fleas and gray-backs worked on us, O boys, it was not slow,
I'll tell you there's no worse hell on earth than the range of the
buffalo.

Our hearts were cased with buffalo hocks, our souls were cased with
steel,
And the hardships of that summer would nearly make us reel.
While skinning the damned old stinkers our lives they had no show,
For the Indians waited to pick us off on the hills of Mexico.

The season being near over, old Crego he did say
The crowd had been extravagant, was in debt to him that day,--
We coaxed him and we begged him and still it was no go,--
We left old Crego's bones to bleach on the range of the buffalo.

Oh, it's now we've crossed Pease River and homeward we are
bound,
No more in that hell-fired country shall ever we be found.
Go home to our wives and sweethearts, tell others not to go,
For God's forsaken the buffalo range and the damned old buffalo.

Range of the Buffalo (Mus. Not.)

'Twas in the town of Jacksbo-ro, In eigh-teen eigh-ty-
three, When a man by the name of Cre-go... Came
step-ping up to me; Say-ing, "How do you do, young
fel-low, And how would you like to go... And
spend one summer sea-son On the range of the Buf-fa-lo?"

MACAFFIE'S CONFESSION

Now come young men and list to me,
A sad and mournful history;
And may you ne'er forgetful be
Of what I tell this day to thee.

Oh, I was thoughtless, young, and gay
And often broke the Sabbath day,
In wickedness I took delight
And sometimes done what wasn't right.

I'd scarcely passed my fifteenth year,
My mother and my father dear
Were silent in their deep, dark grave,
Their spirits gone to Him who gave.

'Twas on a pleasant summer day
When from my home I ran away
And took unto myself a wife,
Which step was fatal to my life.

Oh, she was kind and good to me
As ever woman ought to be,
And might this day have been alive no doubt,
Had I not met Miss Hatty Stout.

Ah, well I mind the fatal day
When Hatty stole my heart away;
'Twas love for her controlled my will
And did cause me my wife to kill.

'Twas on a brilliant summer's night
When all was still; the stars shone bright.
My wife lay still upon the bed
And I approached to her and said:

"Dear wife, here's medicine I've brought,
For you this day, my love, I've bought.
I know it will be good for you
For those vile fits,--pray take it, do."

She cast on me a loving look
And in her mouth the poison took;
Down by her infant on the bed
In her last, long sleep she laid her head.

Oh, who could tell a mother's thought
When first to her the news was brought;
The sheriff said her son was sought
And into prison must be brought.

Only a mother standing by
To hear them tell the reason why
Her son in prison, he must lie
Till on the scaffold he must die.

My father, sixty years of age,
The best of counsel did engage,
To see if something could be done
To save his disobedient son.

So, farewell, mother, do not weep,
Though soon with demons I will sleep,
My soul now feels its mental hell
And soon with demons I will dwell.

* * * * *

The sheriff cut the slender cord,
His soul went up to meet its Lord;
The doctor said, "The wretch is dead,
His spirit from his body's fled."

His weeping mother cried aloud,
"O God, do save this gazing crowd,
That none may ever have to pay
For gambling on the Sabbath day."

LITTLE JOE, THE WRANGLER

It's little Joe, the wrangler, he'll wrangle never more,
His days with the _remuda_ they are o'er;
'Twas a year ago last April when he rode into our camp,--
Just a little Texas stray and all alone,--
On a little Texas pony he called "Chaw."
With his brogan shoes and overalls, a tougher kid
You never in your life before had saw.

His saddle was a Texas "kak," built many years ago,
With an O.K. spur on one foot lightly swung;
His "hot roll" in a cotton sack so loosely tied behind,
And his canteen from his saddle-horn was swung.
He said that he had to leave his home, his pa had married twice;
And his new ma whipped him every day or two;
So he saddled up old Chaw one night and lit a shuck this way,
And he's now trying to paddle his own canoe.

He said if we would give him work, he'd do the best he could,
Though he didn't know straight up about a cow;
So the boss he cut him out a mount and kindly put him on,
For he sorta liked this little kid somehow.
Learned him to wrangle horses and to try to know them all,
And get them in at daylight if he could;
To follow the chuck-wagon and always hitch the team,
And to help the _cocinero_ rustle wood.

We had driven to the Pecos, the weather being fine;
We had camped on the south side in a bend;
When a norther commenced blowin', we had doubled up our guard,
For it taken all of us to hold them in.
Little Joe, the wrangler, was called out with the rest;
Though the kid had scarcely reached the herd,
When the cattle they stampeded, like a hailstorm long they fled,
Then we were all a-ridin' for the lead.

'Midst the streaks of lightin' a horse we could see in the lead,
'Twas Little Joe, the wrangler, in the lead;
He was riding Old Blue Rocket with a slicker o'er his head,
A tryin' to check the cattle in their speed.
At last we got them milling and kinda quieted down,
And the extra guard back to the wagon went;
But there was one a-missin' and we knew it at a glance,
'Twas our little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe.

The next morning just at day break, we found where Rocket fell,
Down in a washout twenty feet below;
And beneath the horse, mashed to a pulp,--his spur had rung the knell,--
Was our little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe.

Little Joe, The Wrangler (Mus. Not.)

Lit-tle Joe, the wran-gler, He'll wran-gle nev-er-more,
rode up to our herd
His days with the re--mu--da they are o'er;
On a lit-tle Tex-as Po-ny he call'd Chaw;
'Twas a year a-go last A-pril he rode in-to our herd;
With his bro-gan shoes and o-veralls, a tough-er look-in' kid
Just a lit-tle Tex-as stray, and all a-lone.
You nev-er in your life be-fore had saw.
It was late in the eve-ning he

HARRY BALE

Come all kind friends and kindred dear and Christians young and old,
A story I'll relate to you, 'twill make your blood run cold;
'Tis all about an unfortunate boy who lived not far from here,
In the township of Arcade in the County of Lapeer.
It seems his occupation was a sawyer in a mill,
He followed it successfully two years, one month, until,
Until this fatal accident that caused many to weep and wail;
'Twas where this young man lost his life,--his name was Harry Bale.

On the 29th of April in the year of seventy-nine,
He went to work as usual, no fear did he design;
In lowering of the feed bar throwing the carriage into gear
It brought him down upon the saw and cut him quite severe;
It cut him through the collar-bone and half way down the back,
It threw him down upon the saw, the carriage coming back.
He started for the shanty, his strength was failing fast;
He said, "Oh, boys, I'm wounded: I fear it is my last."

His brothers they were sent for, likewise his sisters too,
The doctors came and dressed his wound, but kind words proved untrue.
Poor Harry had no father to weep beside his bed,
No kind and loving mother to sooth his aching head.
He was just as gallant a young man as ever you wished to know,
But he withered like a flower, it was his time to go.

They placed him in his coffin and laid him in his grave;
His brothers and sisters mourned the loss of a brother so true and brave.
They took him to the graveyard and laid him away to rest,
His body lies mouldering, his soul is among the blest.

FOREMAN MONROE

Come all you brave young shanty boys, and list while I relate
Concerning a young shanty boy and his untimely fate;
Concerning a young river man, so manly, true and brave;
'Twas on a jam at Gerry's Rock he met his watery grave;

'Twas on a Sunday morning as you will quickly hear,
Our logs were piled up mountain high, we could not keep them clear.
Our foreman said, "Come on, brave boys, with hearts devoid of fear,
We'll break the jam on Gerry's Rock and for Agonstown we'll steer."

Now, some of them were willing, while others they were not,
All for to work on Sunday they did not think they ought;
But six of our brave shanty boys had volunteered to go
And break the jam on Gerry's Rock with their foreman, young Monroe.

They had not rolled off many logs 'till they heard his clear
voice say,
"I'd have you boys be on your guard, for the jam will soon give way."
These words he'd scarcely spoken when the jam did break and go,
Taking with it six of those brave boys and their foreman, young Monroe.

Now when those other shanty boys this sad news came to hear,
In search of their dead comrades to the river they did steer;
Six of their mangled bodies a-floating down did go,
While crushed and bleeding near the banks lay the foreman, young Monroe.

They took him from his watery grave, brushed back his raven hair;
There was a fair form among them whose cries did rend the air;
There was a fair form among them, a girl from Saginaw town.
Whose cries rose to the skies for her lover who'd gone down.

Fair Clara was a noble girl, the river-man's true friend;
She and her widowed mother lived at the river's bend;
And the wages of her own true love the boss to her did pay,
But the shanty boys for her made up a generous sum next day.

They buried him quite decently; 'twas on the first of May;
Come all you brave young shanty boys and for your comrade pray.
Engraved upon the hemlock tree that by the grave does grow
Is the aged date and the sad fate of the foreman, young Monroe.

Fair Clara did not long survive, her heart broke with her grief;
And less than three months afterwards Death came to her relief;
And when the time had come and she was called to go,
Her last request was granted, to be laid by young Monroe.

Come all you brave young shanty boys, I'd have you call and see
Two green graves by the river side where grows a hemlock tree;
The shanty boys cut off the wood where lay those lovers low,--
'Tis the handsome Clara Vernon and her true love, Jack Monroe.

THE DREARY BLACK HILLS

Kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale,
I am an object of pity, I am looking quite stale,
I gave up my trade selling Right's Patent Pills
To go hunting gold in the dreary Black Hills.

Don't go away, stay at home if you can,
Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne,
For big Walipe or Comanche Bills
They will lift up your hair on the dreary Black Hills.

The round-house in Cheyenne is filled every night
With loafers and bummers of most every plight;
On their backs is no clothes, in their pockets no bills,
Each day they keep starting for the dreary Black Hills.

I got to Cheyenne, no gold could I find,
I thought of the lunch route I'd left far behind;
Through rain, hail, and snow, frozen plumb to the gills,--
They call me the orphan of the dreary Black Hills.

Kind friend, to conclude, my advice I'll unfold,
Don't go to the Black Hills a-hunting for gold;
Railroad speculators their pockets you'll fill
By taking a trip to those dreary Black Hills.

Don't go away, stay at home if you can,
Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne,
For old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bills
They will take off your scalp on the dreary Black Hills.

The Dreary Black Hills (Mus. Not.)

Kind friends, you must pit-y my hor-ri-ble tale,
I'm an ob-ject of pit-y, I'm look-ing quite stale;
I gave up my trade, Selling Right's Pat-ent Pills,
To go hunt-ing gold In the drear-y Black Hills.

REFRAIN

Don't go a-way, stay at home if you can;
Stay a-way from that cit-y they call it Chey-enne;
For big Wal-i-pee or Co-man-che Bills,
They will lift up your hair On the drear-y Black Hills.

A MORMON SONG

I used to live on Cottonwood and owned a little farm,
I was called upon a mission that gave me much alarm;
The reason that they called me, I'm sure I do not know.
But to hoe the cane and cotton, straightway I must go.

I yoked up Jim and Baldy, all ready for the start;
To leave my farm and garden, it almost broke my heart;
But at last we got started, I cast a look behind,
For the sand and rocks of Dixie were running through my mind.

Now, when we got to Black Ridge, my wagon it broke down,
And I, being no carpenter and forty miles from town,--
I cut a clumsy cedar and rigged an awkward slide,
But the wagon ran so heavy poor Betsy couldn't ride.

While Betsy was out walking I told her to take care,
When all of a sudden she struck a prickly pear,
Then she began to hollow as loud as she could bawl,--
If I were back in Cottonwood, I wouldn't go at all.

Now, when we got to Sand Ridge, we couldn't go at all,
Old Jim and old Baldy began to puff and loll,
I cussed and swore a little, for I couldn't make the route,
For the team and I and Betsy were all of us played out.

At length we got to Washington; I thought we'd stay a while
To see if the flowers would make their virgin smile,
But I was much mistaken, for when we went away
The red hills of September were just the same in May.

It is so very dreary, there's nothing here to cheer,
But old pathetic sermons we very often hear;
They preach them by the dozens and prove them by the book,
But I'd sooner have a roasting-ear and stay at home and cook.

I am so awful weary I'm sure I'm almost dead;
'Tis six long weeks last Sunday since I have tasted bread;
Of turnip-tops and lucerne greens I've had enough to eat,
But I'd like to change my diet to buckwheat cakes and meat.

I had to sell my wagon for sorghum seed and bread;
Old Jim and old Baldy have long since been dead.
There's no one left but me and Bet to hoe the cotton tree,--
God pity any Mormon that attempts to follow me!

THE BUFFALO HUNTERS

Come all you pretty girls, to you these lines I'll write,
We are going to the range in which we take delight;
We are going on the range as we poor hunters do,
And the tender-footed fellows can stay at home with you.

It's all of the day long as we go tramping round
In search of the buffalo that we may shoot him down;
Our guns upon our shoulders, our belts of forty rounds,
We send them up Salt River to some happy hunting grounds.

Our game, it is the antelope, the buffalo, wolf, and deer,
Who roam the wide prairies without a single fear;
We rob him of his robe and think it is no harm,
To buy us food and clothing to keep our bodies warm.

The buffalo, he is the noblest of the band,
He sometimes rejects in throwing up his hand.
His shaggy main thrown forward, his head raised to the sky,
He seems to say, "We're coming, boys; so hunter, mind your eye."

Our fires are made of mesquite roots, our beds are on the ground;
Our houses made of buffalo hides, we make them tall and round;
Our furniture is the camp kettle, the coffee pot, and pan,
Our chuck it is both bread and meat, mingled well with sand.

Our neighbors are the Cheyennes, the 'Rapahoes, and Sioux,
Their mode of navigation is a buffalo-hide canoe.
And when they come upon you they take you unaware,
And such a peculiar way they have of raising hunter's hair.

THE LITTLE OLD SOD SHANTY

I am looking rather seedy now while holding down my claim,
And my victuals are not always served the best;
And the mice play shyly round me as I nestle down to rest
In my little old sod shanty on my claim.

The hinges are of leather and the windows have no glass,
While the board roof lets the howling blizzards in,
And I hear the hungry cayote as he slinks up through the grass
Round the little old sod shanty on my claim.

Yet, I rather like the novelty of living in this way,
Though my bill of fare is always rather tame,
But I'm happy as a clam on the land of Uncle Sam
In the little old sod shanty on my claim.

But when I left my Eastern home, a bachelor so gay,
To try and win my way to wealth and fame,
I little thought I'd come down to burning twisted hay
In the little old sod shanty on my claim.

My clothes are plastered o'er with dough, I'm looking like a
fright,
And everything is scattered round the room,
But I wouldn't give the freedom that I have out in the West
For the table of the Eastern man's old home.

Still, I wish that some kind-hearted girl would pity on me take
And relieve me from the mess that I am in;
The angel, how I'd bless her if this her home she'd make
In the little old sod shanty on my claim.

And we would make our fortunes on the prairies of the West,
Just as happy as two lovers we'd remain;
We'd forget the trials and troubles we endured at the first
In the little old sod shanty on my claim.

And if fate should bless us with now and then an heir
To cheer our hearts with honest pride of fame,
Oh, then we'd be contented for the toil that we had spent
In the little old sod shanty on our claim.

When time enough had lapsed and all those little brats
To noble man and womanhood had grown,
It wouldn't seem half so lonely as round us we should look
And we'd see the old sod shanty on our claim.

THE GOL-DARNED WHEEL

I can take the wildest bronco in the tough old woolly West.
I can ride him, I can break him, let him do his level best;
I can handle any cattle ever wore a coat of hair,
And I've had a lively tussle with a tarnel grizzly bear.
I can rope and throw the longhorn of the wildest Texas brand,
And in Indian disagreements I can play a leading hand,
But at last I got my master and he surely made me squeal
When the boys got me a-straddle of that gol-darned wheel.

It was at the Eagle Ranch, on the Brazos,
When I first found that darned contrivance that upset me in the dust.
A tenderfoot had brought it, he was wheeling all the way
From the sun-rise end of freedom out to San Francisco Bay.
He tied up at the ranch for to get outside a meal,
Never thinking we would monkey with his gol-darned wheel.

Arizona Jim begun it when he said to Jack McGill
There was fellows forced to limit bragging on their riding skill,
And he'd venture the admission the same fellow that he meant
Was a very handy cutter far as riding bronchos went;
But he would find that he was bucking 'gainst a different kind of deal
If he threw his leather leggins 'gainst a gol-darned wheel.

Such a slam against my talent made me hotter than a mink,
And I swore that I would ride him for amusement or for chink.
And it was nothing but a plaything for the kids and such about,
And they'd have their ideas shattered if they'd lead the critter out.
They held it while I mounted and gave the word to go;
The shove they gave to start me warn't unreasonably slow.
But I never spilled a cuss word and I never spilled a squeal--
I was building reputation on that gol-darned wheel.

Holy Moses and the Prophets, how we split the Texas air,
And the wind it made whip-crackers of my same old canthy hair,
And I sorta comprehended as down the hill we went
There was bound to be a smash-up that I couldn't well prevent.
Oh, how them punchers bawled, "Stay with her, Uncle Bill!
Stick your spurs in her, you sucker! turn her muzzle up the hill!"
But I never made an answer, I just let the cusses squeal,
I was finding reputation on that gol-darned wheel.