Chapter IV: Part 4

The grade was mighty sloping from the ranch down to the creek
And I went a-galliflutin' like a crazy lightning streak,--
Went whizzing and a-darting first this way and then that,
The darned contrivance sort o' wobbling like the flying of a bat.
I pulled upon the handles, but I couldn't check it up,
And I yanked and sawed and hollowed but the darned thing wouldn't stop.
Then a sort of a meachin' in my brain began to steal,
That the devil held a mortgage on that gol-darned wheel.

I've a sort of dim and hazy remembrance of the stop,
With the world a-goin' round and the stars all tangled up;
Then there came an intermission that lasted till I found
I was lying at the ranch with the boys all gathered round,
And a doctor was a-sewing on the skin where it was ripped,
And old Arizona whispered, "Well, old boy, I guess you're whipped,"
And I told him I was busted from sombrero down to heel,
And he grinned and said, "You ought to see that gol-darned wheel."

BONNIE BLACK BESS

When fortune's blind goddess
Had fled my abode,
And friends proved unfaithful,
I took to the road;
To plunder the wealthy
And relieve my distress,
I bought you to aid me,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

No vile whip nor spur
Did your sides ever gall,
For none did you need,
You would bound at my call;
And for each act of kindness
You would me caress,
Thou art never unfaithful,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

When dark, sable midnight
Her mantle had thrown
O'er the bright face of nature,
How oft we have gone
To the famed Houndslow heath,
Though an unwelcome guest
To the minions of fortune,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

How silent you stood
When the carriage I stopped,
The gold and the jewels
Its inmates would drop.
No poor man I plundered
Nor e'er did oppress
The widows or orphans,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

When Argus-eyed justice
Did me hot pursue,
From Yorktown to London
Like lightning we flew.
No toll bars could stop you,
The waters did breast,
And in twelve hours we made it,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

But hate darkens o'er me,
Despair is my lot,
And the law does pursue me
For the many I've shot;
To save me, poor brute,
Thou hast done thy best,
Thou art worn out and weary,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

Hark! they never shall have
A beast like thee;
So noble and gentle
And brave, thou must die,
My dumb friend,
Though it does me distress,--
There! There! I have shot thee,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

In after years
When I am dead and gone,
This story will be handed
From father to son;
My fate some will pity,
And some will confess
'Twas through kindness I killed thee,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

No one can e'er say
That ingratitude dwelt
In the bosom of Turpin,--
'Twas a vice never felt.
I will die like a man
And soon be at rest;
Now, farewell forever,
My Bonnie Black Bess.

THE LAST LONGHORN

An ancient long-horned bovine
Lay dying by the river;
There was lack of vegetation
And the cold winds made him shiver;
A cowboy sat beside him
With sadness in his face.
To see his final passing,--
This last of a noble race.

The ancient eunuch struggled
And raised his shaking head,
Saying, "I care not to linger
When all my friends are dead.
These Jerseys and these Holsteins,
They are no friends of mine;
They belong to the nobility
Who live across the brine.

"Tell the Durhams and the Herefords
When they come a-grazing round,
And see me lying stark and stiff
Upon the frozen ground,
I don't want them to bellow
When they see that I am dead,
For I was born in Texas
Near the river that is Red.

"Tell the cayotes, when they come at night
A-hunting for their prey,
They might as well go further,
For they'll find it will not pay.
If they attempt to eat me,
They very soon will see
That my bones and hide are petrified,--
They'll find no beef on me.

"I remember back in the seventies,
Full many summers past,
There was grass and water plenty,
But it was too good to last.
I little dreamed what would happen
Some twenty summers hence,
When the nester came with his wife, his kids,
His dogs, and his barbed-wire fence."

His voice sank to a murmur,
His breath was short and quick;
The cowboy tried to skin him
When he saw he couldn't kick;
He rubbed his knife upon his boot
Until he made it shine,
But he never skinned old longhorn,
Caze he couldn't cut his rine.

And the cowboy riz up sadly
And mounted his cayuse,
Saying, "The time has come when longhorns
And their cowboys are no use!"
And while gazing sadly backward
Upon the dead bovine,
His bronc stepped in a dog-hole
And fell and broke his spine.

The cowboys and the longhorns
Who partnered in eighty-four
Have gone to their last round-up
Over on the other shore;
They answered well their purpose,
But their glory must fade and go,
Because men say there's better things
In the modern cattle show.

A PRISONER FOR LIFE

Fare you well, green fields,
Soft meadows, adieu!
Rocks and mountains,
I depart from you;
Nevermore shall my eyes
By your beauties be blest,
Nevermore shall you soothe
My sad bosom to rest.

Farewell, little birdies,
That fly in the sky,
You fly all day long
And sing your troubles by;
I am doomed to this cell,
I heave a deep sigh;
My heart sinks within me,
In anguish I die.

Fare you well, little fishes,
That glides through the sea,
Your life's all sunshine,
All light, and all glee;
Nevermore shall I watch
Your skill in the wave,
I'll depart from all friends
This side of the grave.

What would I give
Such freedom to share,
To roam at my ease
And breathe the fresh air;
I would roam through the cities,
Through village and dell,
But I never would return
To my cold prison cell.

What's life without liberty?
I ofttimes have said,
Of a poor troubled mind
That's always in dread;
No sun, moon, and stars
Can on me now shine,
No change in my danger
From daylight till dawn.

Fare you well, kind friends,
I am willing to own,
Such a wild outcast
Never was known;
I'm the downfall of my family,
My children, my wife;
God pity and pardon
The poor prisoner for life.

A Prisoner For Life (Mus. Not.)

Fare you well green fields,... Soft mead-ows, a-dieu!
Rocks and moun-tains I de-part ... from you,
Nev-er-more shall my eyes by your beau-ties be fed,
Nev-er more shall you soothe my poor bo-som to rest.

THE WARS OF GERMANY

There was a wealthy merchant,
In London he did dwell,
He had an only daughter,
The truth to you I'll tell.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

She was courted by a lord
Of very high degree,
She was courted by a sailor Jack
Just from the wars of Germany.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

Her parents came to know this,
That such a thing could be,
A sailor Jack, a sailor lad,
Just from the wars of Germany.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

So Polly she's at home
With money at command,
She taken a notion
To view some foreign land.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

She went to the tailor's shop
And dressed herself in man's array,
And was off to an officer
To carry her straight away.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

"Good morning," says the officer,
And "Morning," says she,
"Here's fifty guineas if you'll carry me
To the wars of Germany."
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

"Your waist is too slender,
Your fingers are too small,
I am afraid from your countenance
You can't face a cannon ball."
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

"My waist is not too slender,
My fingers are not too small,
And never would I quiver
To face a cannon ball."
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

"We don't often 'list an officer
Unless the name we know;"
She answered him in a low, sweet voice,
"You may call me Jack Munro."
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

We gathered up our men
And quickly we did sail,
We landed in France
With a sweet and pleasant gale.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

We were walking on the land,
Up and down the line,--
Among the dead and wounded
Her own true love she did find.
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

She picked him up all in her arms,
To Tousen town she went;
She soon found a doctor
To dress and heal his wounds,
Sing I am left alone,
Sing I am left alone.

So Jacky, he is married,
And his bride by his side,
In spite of her old parents
And all the world beside.
Sing no longer left alone,
Sing no longer left alone.

FREIGHTING FROM WILCOX TO GLOBE

Come all you jolly freighters
That has freighted on the road,
That has hauled a load of freight
From Wilcox to Globe;
We freighted on this road
For sixteen years or more
A-hauling freight for Livermore,--
No wonder that I'm poor.

And it's home, dearest home;
And it's home you ought to be,
Over on the Gila
In the white man's country,
Where the poplar and the ash
And mesquite will ever be
Growing green down on the Gila;
There's a home for you and me.

'Twas in the spring of seventy-three
I started with my team,
Led by false illusion
And those foolish, golden dreams;
The first night out from Wilcox
My best wheel horse was stole,
And it makes me curse a little
To come out in the hole.

This then only left me three,--
Kit, Mollie and old Mike;
Mike being the best one of the three
I put him out on spike;
I then took the mountain road
So the people would not smile,
And it took fourteen days
To travel thirteen mile.

But I got there all the same
With my little three-up spike;
It taken all my money, then,
To buy a mate for Mike.
You all know how it is
When once you get behind,
You never get even again
Till you damn steal them blind.

I was an honest man
When I first took to the road,
I would not swear an oath,
Nor would I tap a load;
But now you ought to see my mules
When I begin to cuss,
They flop their ears and wiggle their tails
And pull the load or bust.

Now I can tap a whiskey barrel
With nothing but a stick,
No one can detect me
I've got it down so slick;
Just fill it up with water,--
Sure, there's no harm in that.

Now my clothes are not the finest,
Nor are they genteel;
But they will have to do me
Till I can make another steal.
My boots are number elevens,
For I swiped them from a chow,
And my coat cost dos reals
From a little Apache squaw.

Now I have freighted in the sand,
I have freighted in the rain,
I have bogged my wagons down
And dug them out again;
I have worked both late and early
Till I was almost dead,
And I have spent some nights sleeping
In an Arizona bed.

Now barbed wire and bacon
Is all that they will pay,
But you have to show your copper checks
To get your grain and hay;
If you ask them for five dollars,
Old Meyers will scratch his pate,
And the clerks in their white, stiff collars
Say, "Get down and pull your freight."

But I want to die and go to hell,
Get there before Livermore and Meyers,
And get a job of hauling coke
To keep up the devil's fires;
If I get the job of singeing them,
I'll see they don't get free;
I'll treat them like a yaller dog,
As they have treated me.

And it's home, dearest home;
And it's home you ought to be,
Over on the Gila,
In the white man's country,
Where the poplar and the ash
And mesquite will ever be
Growing green down on the Gila;
There's a home for you and me.

THE ARIZONA BOYS AND GIRLS

Come all of you people, I pray you draw near,
A comical ditty you all shall hear.
The boys in this country they try to advance
By courting the ladies and learning to dance,--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

The boys in this country they try to be plain,
Those words that you hear you may hear them again,
With twice as much added on if you can.
There's many a boy stuck up for a man,--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

They will go to their parties, their whiskey they'll
take,
And out in the dark their bottles they'll break;
You'll hear one say, "There's a bottle around here;
So come around, boys, and we'll all take a share,"--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

There is some wears shoes and some wears boots,
But there are very few that rides who don't shoot;
More than this, I'll tell you what they'll do,
They'll get them a watch and a ranger hat, too,--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

They'll go in the hall with spurs on their heel,
They'll get them a partner to dance the next reel,
Saying, "How do I look in my new brown suit,
With my pants stuffed down in the top of my boot?"--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

Now I think it's quite time to leave off these lads
For here are some girls that's fully as bad;
They'll trim up their dresses and curl up their hair,
And like an old owl before the glass they'll stare,--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

The girls in the country they grin like a cat,
And with giggling and laughing they don't know what they're at,
They think they're pretty and I tell you they're wise,
But they couldn't get married to save their two eyes,--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

You can tell a good girl wherever she's found;
No trimming, no lace, no nonsense around;
With a long-eared bonnet tied under her chin,--
. . . . . . . . . . . .
And they're down, down, and they're down.

They'll go to church with their snuff-box in hand,
They'll give it a tap to make it look grand;
Perhaps there is another one or two
And they'll pass it around and it's "Madam, won't you,"--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

Now, I think it's quite time for this ditty to end;
If there's anyone here that it will offend,
If there's anyone here that thinks it amiss
Just come around now and give the singer a kiss,--
And they're down, down, and they're down.

THE DYING RANGER

The sun was sinking in the west
And fell with lingering ray
Through the branches of a forest
Where a wounded ranger lay;
Beneath the shade of a palmetto
And the sunset silvery sky,
Far away from his home in Texas
They laid him down to die.

A group had gathered round him,
His comrades in the fight,
A tear rolled down each manly cheek
As he bid a last good-night.
One tried and true companion
Was kneeling by his side,
To stop his life-blood flowing,
But alas, in vain he tried.

When to stop the life-blood flowing
He found 'twas all in vain,
The tears rolled down each man's cheek
Like light showers of rain.
Up spoke the noble ranger,
"Boys, weep no more for me,
I am crossing the deep waters
To a country that is free.

"Draw closer to me, comrades,
And listen to what I say,
I am going to tell a story
While my spirit hastens away.
Way back in Northwest Texas,
That good old Lone Star state,
There is one that for my coming
With a weary heart will wait.

"A fair young girl, my sister,
My only joy, my pride,
She was my friend from boyhood,
I had no one left beside.
I have loved her as a brother,
And with a father's care
I have strove from grief and sorrov
Her gentle heart to spare.

"My mother, she lies sleeping
Beneath the church-yard sod,
And many a day has passed away
Since her spirit fled to God.
My father, he lies sleeping
Beneath the deep blue sea,
I have no other kindred,
There are none but Nell and me.

"But our country was invaded
And they called for volunteers;
She threw her arms around me,
Then burst into tears,
Saying, 'Go, my darling brother,
Drive those traitors from our shore,
My heart may need your presence,
But our country needs you more.'

"It is true I love my country,
For her I gave my all.
If it hadn't been for my sister,
I would be content to fall.
I am dying, comrades, dying,
She will never see me more,
But in vain she'll wait my coming
By our little cabin door.

"Comrades, gather closer
And listen to my dying prayer.
Who will be to her as a brother,
And shield her with a brother's care?"
Up spake the noble rangers,
They answered one and all,
"We will be to her as brothers
Till the last one does fall."

One glad smile of pleasure
O'er the ranger's face was spread;
One dark, convulsive shadow,
And the ranger boy was dead.
Far from his darling sister
We laid him down to rest
With his saddle for a pillow
And his gun across his breast.

The Dying Ranger (Mus. Not.)

The sun was sink-ing in the west, And
fell with lin-g'ring ray Through the branches of the
for-est,... Where a wound-ed ran-ger lay;
'Neath the shade of a pal-met-to ... And the
sun-set sil-v'ry sky, Far a-way from his home in
Tex-as,... They laid him down to die.

THE FAIR FANNIE MOORE

Yonder stands a cottage,
All deserted and alone,
Its paths are neglected,
With grass overgrown;
Go in and you will see
Some dark stains on the floor,--
Alas! it is the blood
Of fair Fannie Moore.

To Fannie, so blooming,
Two lovers they came;
One offered young Fannie
His wealth and his name;
But neither his money
Nor pride could secure
A place in the heart
Of fair Fannie Moore.

The first was young Randell,
So bold and so proud,
Who to the fair Fannie
His haughty head bowed;
But his wealth and his house
Both failed to allure
The heart from the bosom
Of fair Fannie Moore.

The next was young Henry,
Of lowest degree.
He won her fond love
And enraptured was he;
And then at the altar
He quick did secure
The hand with the heart
Of the fair Fannie Moore.

As she was alone
In her cottage one day,
When business had called
Her fond husband away,
Young Randell, the haughty,
Came in at the door
And clasped in his arms
The fair Fannie Moore.

"O Fannie, O Fannie,
Reflect on your fate
And accept of my offer
Before it's too late;
For one thing to-night
I am bound to secure,--
'Tis the love or the life
Of the fair Fannie Moore."

"Spare me, Oh, spare me!"
The young Fannie cries,
While the tears swiftly flow
From her beautiful eyes;
"Oh, no!" cries young Randell,
"Go home to your rest,"
And he buried his knife
In her snowy white breast.

So Fannie, so blooming,
In her bright beauty died;
Young Randell, the haughty,
Was taken and tried;
At length he was hung
On a tree at the door,
For shedding the blood
Of the fair Fannie Moore.

Young Henry, the shepherd,
Distracted and wild,
Did wander away
From his own native isle.
Till at length, claimed by death,
He was brought to this shore
And laid by the side
Of the fair Fannie Moore.

HELL IN TEXAS

The devil, we're told, in hell was chained,
And a thousand years he there remained;
He never complained nor did he groan,
But determined to start a hell of his own,
Where he could torment the souls of men
Without being chained in a prison pen.
So he asked the Lord if he had on hand
Anything left when he made the land.

The Lord said, "Yes, I had plenty on hand,
But I left it down on the Rio Grande;
The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor
I don't think you could use it in hell anymore."
But the devil went down to look at the truck,
And said if it came as a gift he was stuck;
For after examining it carefully and well
He concluded the place was too dry for hell.

So, in order to get it off his hands,
The Lord promised the devil to water the lands;
For he had some water, or rather some dregs,
A regular cathartic that smelled like bad eggs.
Hence the deal was closed and the deed was given
And the Lord went back to his home in heaven.
And the devil then said, "I have all that is needed
To make a good hell," and hence he succeeded.

He began to put thorns in all of the trees,
And mixed up the sand with millions of fleas;
And scattered tarantulas along all the roads;
Put thorns on the cactus and horns on the toads.
He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers,
And put an addition on the rabbit's ears;
He put a little devil in the broncho steed,
And poisoned the feet of the centipede.

The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings,
The mosquito delights you with buzzing wings;
The sand-burrs prevail and so do the ants,
And those who sit down need half-soles on their pants.
The devil then said that throughout the land
He'd managed to keep up the devil's own brand,
And all would be mavericks unless they bore
The marks of scratches and bites and thorns by the score.

The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten,
Too hot for the devil and too hot for men.
The wild boar roams through the black chaparral,--
It's a hell of a place he has for a hell.
The red pepper grows on the banks of the brook;
The Mexicans use it in all that they cook.
Just dine with a Greaser and then you will shout,
"I've hell on the inside as well as the out!"

BY MARKENTURA'S FLOWERY MARGE

By Markentura's flowery marge the Red Chief's wigwam stood,
Before the white man's rifle rang, loud echoing through the wood;
The tommy-hawk and scalping knife together lay at rest,
And peace was in the forest shade and in the red man's breast.

Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn,
The life and light of the forest shade,--
The Red Chief's child is gone!

By Markentura's flowery marge the Spotted Fawn had birth
And grew as fair an Indian maid as ever graced the earth.
She was the Red Chief's only child and sought by many a brave,
But to the gallant young White Cloud her plighted troth she gave.

By Markentura's flowery marge the bridal song arose,
Nor dreamed they in that festive night of near approaching woes;
But through the forest stealthily the white man came in wrath.
And fiery darts before them spread, and death was in their path.

By Markentura's flowery marge next morn no strife was seen,
But a wail went up, for the young Fawn's blood and White Cloud's dyed
the green.
A burial in their own rude way the Indians gave them there,
And a low sweet requiem the brook sang and the air.

Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn,
The life and light of the forest shade,--
The Red Chief's child is gone!

THE STATE OF ARKANSAW

My name is Stamford Barnes, I come from Nobleville town;
I've traveled this wide world over, I've traveled this wide world round.
I've met with ups and downs in life but better days I've saw,
But I've never knew what misery were till I came to Arkansaw.

I landed in St. Louis with ten dollars and no more;
I read the daily papers till both my eyes were sore;
I read them evening papers until at last I saw
Ten thousand men were wanted in the state of Arkansaw.

I wiped my eyes with great surprise when I read this grateful news,
And straightway off I started to see the agent, Billy Hughes.
He says, "Pay me five dollars and a ticket to you I'll draw,
It'll land you safe upon the railroad in the State of Arkansaw."

I started off one morning a quarter after five;
I started from St. Louis, half dead and half alive;
I bought me a quart of whiskey my misery to thaw,
I got as drunk as a biled owl when I left for old Arkansaw.

I landed in Ft. Smith one sultry Sunday afternoon,
It was in the month of May, the early month of June,
Up stepped a walking skeleton with a long and lantern jaw,
Invited me to his hotel, "The best in Arkansaw."

I followed my conductor into his dwelling place;
Poverty were depictured in his melancholy face.
His bread it was corn dodger, his beef I could not chaw;
This was the kind of hash they fed me in the State of Arkansaw.

I started off next morning to catch the morning train,
He says to me, "You'd better work, for I have some land to drain.
I'll pay you fifty cents a day, your board, washing, and all,--
You'll find yourself a different man when you leave old Arkansaw."

I worked six weeks for the son of a gun, Jesse Herring was his name,
He was six foot seven in his stocking feet and taller than any crane;
His hair hung down in strings over his long and lantern jaw,--
He was a photograph of all the gents who lived in Arkansaw.

He fed me on corn dodgers as hard as any rock,
Until my teeth began to loosen and my knees began to knock;
I got so thin on sassafras tea I could hide behind a straw,
And indeed I was a different man when I left old Arkansaw.

Farewell to swamp angels, cane brakes, and chills;
Farewell to sage and sassafras and corn dodger pills.
If ever I see this land again, I'll give to you my paw;
It will be through a telescope from here to Arkansaw.

THE TEXAS COWBOY

Oh, I am a Texas cowboy,
Far away from home,
If ever I get back to Texas
I never more will roam.

Montana is too cold for me
And the winters are too long;
Before the round-ups do begin
Our money is all gone.

Take this old hen-skin bedding,
Too thin to keep me warm,--
I nearly freeze to death, my boys.
Whenever there's a storm.

And take this old "tarpoleon,"
Too thin to shield my frame,--
I got it down in Nebraska
A-dealin' a Monte game.

Now to win these fancy leggins
I'll have enough to do;
They cost me twenty dollars
The day that they were new.

I have an outfit on the Mussel Shell,
But that I'll never see,
Unless I get sent to represent
The Circle or D.T.

I've worked down in Nebraska
Where the grass grows ten feet high,
And the cattle are such rustlers
That they seldom ever die;

I've worked up in the sand hills
And down upon the Platte,
Where the cowboys are good fellows
And the cattle always fat;

I've traveled lots of country,--
Nebraska's hills of sand,
Down through the Indian Nation,
And up the Rio Grande;--

But the Bad Lands of Montana
Are the worst I ever seen,
The cowboys are all tenderfeet
And the dogies are too lean.

If you want to see some bad lands,
Go over on the Dry;
You will bog down in the coulees
Where the mountains reach the sky.

A tenderfoot to lead you
Who never knows the way,
You are playing in the best of luck
If you eat more than once a day.

Your grub is bread and bacon
And coffee black as ink;
The water is so full of alkali
It is hardly fit to drink.

They will wake you in the morning
Before the break of day,
And send you on a circle
A hundred miles away.

All along the Yellowstone
'Tis cold the year around;
You will surely get consumption
By sleeping on the ground.

Work in Montana
Is six months in the year;
When all your bills are settled
There is nothing left for beer.

Work down in Texas
Is all the year around;
You will never get consumption
By sleeping on the ground.

Come all you Texas cowboys
And warning take from me,
And do not go to Montana
To spend your money free.

But stay at home in Texas
Where work lasts the year around,
And you will never catch consumption
By sleeping on the ground.

THE DREARY, DREARY LIFE

A cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life,
Some say it's free from care;
Rounding up the cattle from morning till night
In the middle of the prairie so bare.

Half-past four, the noisy cook will roar,
"Whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!"
Slowly you will rise with sleepy-feeling eyes,
The sweet, dreamy night passed away.

The greener lad he thinks it's play,
He'll soon peter out on a cold rainy day,
With his big bell spurs and his Spanish hoss,
He'll swear to you he was once a boss.

The cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life,
He's driven through the heat and cold;
While the rich man's a-sleeping on his velvet couch,
Dreaming of his silver and gold.

Spring-time sets in, double trouble will begin,
The weather is so fierce and cold;
Clothes are wet and frozen to our necks,
The cattle we can scarcely hold.

The cowboy's life is a dreary one,
He works all day to the setting of the sun;
And then his day's work is not done,
For there's his night herd to go on.

The wolves and owls with their terrifying howls
Will disturb us in our midnight dream,
As we lie on our slickers on a cold, rainy night
Way over on the Pecos stream.

You are speaking of your farms, you are speaking of your charms,
You are speaking of your silver and gold;
But a cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life,
He's driven through the heat and cold.

Some folks say that we are free from care,
Free from all other harm;
But we round up the cattle from morning till night
Way over on the prairie so dry.

I used to run about, now I stay at home,
Take care of my wife and child;
Nevermore to roam, always stay at home,
Take care of my wife and child.

Half-past four the noisy cook will roar,
"Hurrah, boys! she's breaking day!"
Slowly we will rise and wipe our sleepy eyes,
The sweet, dreamy night passed away.

The Dreary, Dreary Life (Mus. Not.)

A cow-boy's life is a drear-y, drear-y life, Some
REFRAIN.--Half-past four the ... noi-sy cook will roar,

say it's free from care; Rounding up the
"Whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!" Slow-ly you will

cat-tle from morn-ing till night In the
rise ... with sleep-y feel-ing eyes, The ...
mid-dle of the prai-rie so ... bare,
sweet, dream-y night passed a-way.

JIM FARROW

It's Jim Farrow and John Farrow and little Simon, too,
Have plenty of cattle where I have but few.
Marking and branding both night and day,--
It's "Keep still, boys, my boys, and you'll all get your pay."
It's up to the courthouse, the first thing they know,
Before the Grand Jury they'll have to go.
They'll ask you about ear-marks, they'll ask you about brand,
But tell them you were absent when the work was on hand.
Jim Farrow brands J.F. on the side;
The next comes Johnnie who takes the whole hide;
Little Simon, too has H. on the loin;--
All stand for Farrow but it's not good for Sime.
You ask for the mark, I don't think it's fair,
You'll find the cow's head but the ear isn't there
It's a crop and a split and a sort of a twine,--
All stand for F. but it's not good for Sime.

"Get up, my boys," Jim Farrow will say,
"And out to horse hunting before it is day."
So we get up and are out on the way
But it's damn few horses we find before day.
"Now saddle your horses and out on the peaks
To see if the heifers are out on the creeks."
We'll round 'em to-day and we'll round 'em to-morrow,
And this ends my song concerning the Farrows.

YOUNG CHARLOTTIE

Young Charlottie lived by a mountain side in a wild and lonely spot,
There was no village for miles around except her father's cot;
And yet on many a wintry night young boys would gather there,--
Her father kept a social board, and she was very fair.

One New Year's Eve as the sun went down, she cast a wistful eye
Out from the window pane as a merry sleigh went by.
At a village fifteen miles away was to be a ball that night;
Although the air was piercing cold, her heart was merry and light.

At last her laughing eye lit up as a well-known voice she heard,
And dashing in front of the door her lover's sleigh appeared.
"O daughter, dear," her mother said, "this blanket round you fold,
'Tis such a dreadful night abroad and you will catch your death of cold."

"Oh no, oh no!" young Charlottie cried, as she laughed like a
gipsy queen,
"To ride in blankets muffled up, I never would be seen.
My silken coat is quite enough, you know it is lined throughout,
And there is my silken scarf to wrap my head and neck about."

Her bonnet and her gloves were on, she jumped into the sleigh,
And swiftly slid down the mountain side and over the hills away.
All muffled up so silent, five miles at last were past
When Charlie with few but shivering words, the silence broke at last.

"Such a dreadful night I never saw, my reins I can scarcely hold."
Young Charlottie then feebly said, "I am exceedingly cold."
He cracked his whip and urged his speed much faster than before,
While at least five other miles in silence had passed o'er.

Spoke Charles, "How fast the freezing ice is gathering on my brow!"
Young Charlottie then feebly said, "I'm growing warmer now."
So on they sped through the frosty air and the glittering cold
starlight
Until at last the village lights and the ball-room came in sight.

They reached the door and Charles sprang out and reached his hands
to her.
"Why sit you there like a monument that has no power to stir?"
He called her once, he called her twice, she answered not a word,
And then he called her once again but still she never stirred.

He took her hand in his; 'twas cold and hard as any stone.
He tore the mantle from her face while cold stars on it shone.
Then quickly to the lighted hall her lifeless form he bore;--
Young Charlottie's eyes were closed forever, her voice was heard no more.

And there he sat down by her side while bitter tears did flow,
And cried, "My own, my charming bride, you nevermore shall know."
He twined his arms around her neck and kissed her marble brow,
And his thoughts flew back to where she said, "I'm growing warmer now."

He took her back into the sleigh and quickly hurried home;
When he arrived at her father's door, oh, how her friends did mourn;
They mourned the loss of a daughter dear, while Charles wept over
the gloom,
Till at last he died with the bitter grief,--now they both lie in one
tomb.

THE SKEW-BALL BLACK

It was down to Red River I came,
Prepared to play a damned tough game,--
Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

I crossed the river to the ranch where I intended to work,
With a big six-shooter and a derned good dirk,--
Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

They roped me out a skew-ball black
With a double set-fast on his back,--
Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

And when I was mounted on his back,
The boys all yelled, "Just give him slack,"--
Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

They rolled and tumbled and yelled, by God,
For he threw me a-whirling all over the sod,--
Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

I went to the boss and I told him I'd resign,
The fool tumbled over, and I thought he was dyin',--
Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

And it's to Arkansaw I'll go back,
To hell with Texas and the skew-ball black,--
Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

THE RAMBLING COWBOY

There was a rich old rancher who lived in the country by,
He had a lovely daughter on whom I cast my eye;
She was pretty, tall, and handsome, both neat and very fair,
There's no other girl in the country with her I could compare.

I asked her if she would be willing for me to cross the plains;
She said she would be truthful until I returned again;
She said she would be faithful until death did prove unkind,
So we kissed, shook hands, and parted, and I left my girl behind.

I left the State of Texas, for Arizona I was bound;
I landed in Tombstone City, I viewed the place all round.
Money and work were plentiful and the cowboys they were kind
But the only thought of my heart was the girl I left behind.

One day as I was riding across the public square
The mail-coach came in and I met the driver there;
He handed me a letter which gave me to understand
That the girl I left in Texas had married another man.

I turned myself all round and about not knowing what to do,
But I read on down some further and it proved the words were true.
Hard work I have laid over, it's gambling I have designed.
I'll ramble this wide world over for the girl I left behind.

Come all you reckless and rambling boys who have listened to this song,
If it hasn't done you any good, it hasn't done you any wrong;
But when you court a pretty girl, just marry her while you can,
For if you go across the plains she'll marry another man.

THE COWBOY AT CHURCH

Some time ago,--two weeks or more
If I remember well,--
I found myself in town and thought
I'd knock around a spell,
When all at once I heard the bell,--
I didn't know 'twas Sunday,--
For on the plains we scarcely know
A Sunday from a Monday,--

A-calling all the people
From the highways and the hedges
And all the reckless throng
That tread ruin's ragged edges,
To come and hear the pastor tell
Salvation's touching story,
And how the new road misses hell
And leads you straight to glory.

I started by the chapel door,
But something urged me in,
And told me not to spend God's day
In revelry and sin.
I don't go much on sentiment,
But tears came in my eyes.
It seemed just like my mother's voice
Was speaking from the skies.

I thought how often she had gone
With little Sis and me
To church, when I was but a lad
Way back in Tennessee.
It never once occurred to me
About not being dressed
In Sunday rig, but carelessly
I went in with the rest.

You should have seen the smiles and shrugs
As I went walking in,
As though they thought my leggins
Worse than any kind of sin;
Although the honest parson,
In his vestry garb arrayed
Was dressed the same as I was,--
In the trappings of his trade.

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 hog?
Saying, good-bye, Pike County,
Farewell for a while;
We'll come back again
When we've panned out our pile.

One evening quite early they camped on the Platte,
'Twas near by the road on a green shady flat;
Where Betsy, quite tired, lay down to repose,
While with wonder Ike gazed on his Pike County rose.

They soon reached the desert, where Betsy gave out,
And down in the sand she lay rolling about;
While Ike in great terror looked on in surprise,
Saying "Betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes."
Saying, good-bye, Pike County,
Farewell for a while;
I'd go back to-night
If it was but a mile.

Sweet Betsy got up in a great deal of pain
And declared she'd go back to Pike County again;
Then Ike heaved a sigh and they fondly embraced,
And she traveled along with his arm around her waist.

The wagon tipped over with a terrible crash,
And out on the prairie rolled all sorts of trash;
A few little baby clothes done up with care
Looked rather suspicious,--though 'twas all on the square.

The shanghai ran off and the cattle all died,
The last piece of bacon that morning was fried;
Poor Ike got discouraged, and Betsy got mad,
The dog wagged his tail and looked wonderfully sad.

One morning they climbed up a very high hill,
And with wonder looked down into old Placerville;
Ike shouted and said, as he cast his eyes down,
"Sweet Betsy, my darling, we've got to Hangtown."

Long Ike and sweet Betsy attended a dance,
Where Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants;
Sweet Betsy was covered with ribbons and rings.
Quoth Ike, "You're an angel, but where are your wings?"

A miner said, "Betsy, will you dance with me?"
"I will that, old hoss, if you don't make too free;
But don't dance me hard. Do you want to know why?
Dog on ye, I'm chock full of strong alkali."

Long Ike and sweet Betsy got married of course,
But Ike getting jealous obtained a divorce;
And Betsy, well satisfied, said with a shout,
"Good-bye, you big lummax, I'm glad you backed out."
Saying, good-bye, dear Isaac,
Farewell for a while,
But come back in time
To replenish my pile.

THE DISHEARTENED RANGER

Come listen to a ranger, you kind-hearted stranger,
This song, though a sad one, you're welcome to hear;
We've kept the Comanches away from your ranches,
And followed them far o'er the Texas frontier.

We're weary of scouting, of traveling, and routing
The blood-thirsty villains o'er prairie and wood;
No rest for the sinner, no breakfast or dinner,
But he lies in a supperless bed in the mud.

No corn nor potatoes, no bread nor tomatoes,
But jerked beef as dry as the sole of your shoe;
All day without drinking, all night without winking,
I'll tell you, kind stranger, this never will do.

Those great alligators, the State legislators,
Are puffing and blowing two-thirds of their time,
But windy orations about rangers and rations
Never put in our pockets one-tenth of a dime.

They do not regard us, they will not reward us,
Though hungry and haggard with holes in our coats;
But the election is coming and they will be drumming
And praising our valor to purchase our votes.

For glory and payment, for vittles and raiment,
No longer we'll fight on the Texas frontier.
So guard your own ranches, and mind the Comanches
Or surely they'll scalp you in less than a year.

Though sore it may grieve you, the rangers must leave you
Exposed to the arrows and knife of the foe;
So herd your own cattle and fight your own battle,
For home to the States I'm determined to go,--

Where churches have steeples and laws are more equal,
Where houses have people and ladies are kind;
Where work is regarded and worth is rewarded;
Where pumpkins are plenty and pockets are lined.

Your wives and your daughters we have guarded from slaughter,
Through conflicts and struggles I shudder to tell;
No more well defend them, to God we'll commend them.
To the frontier of Texas we bid a farewell.

THE MELANCHOLY COWBOY

Come all you melancholy folks and listen unto me,
I will sing you about the cowboy whose heart's so light and free;
He roves all over the prairie and at night when he lays down
His heart's as gay as the flowers of May with his bed spread on the
ground.