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+Project Gutenberg's Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp
+
+Author: Various
+
+Compiler: John A. Lomax
+
+Contributor: William Lyon Phelps
+
+Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21723]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE CATTLE TRAIL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Edwards, Joe Longo and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
+book was produced from scanned images of public domain
+material from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+               SONGS OF THE CATTLE
+               TRAIL AND COW CAMP
+
+
+
+
+              THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+       NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS
+             ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
+
+            MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
+           LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
+                    MELBOURNE
+
+        THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
+                     TORONTO
+
+
+
+
+               SONGS OF THE CATTLE
+               TRAIL AND COW CAMP
+
+                   COLLECTED BY
+             JOHN A. LOMAX, B.A., M.A.
+
+     Executive Secretary Ex-Students' Association,
+              the University of Texas.
+
+ For three years Sheldon Fellow from Harvard University
+ for the Collection of American Ballads; Ex-President
+       American Folk-Lore Society. Collector of
+           "Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier
+            Ballads"; joint author with Dr.
+                H. Y. Benedict of "The
+                   Book of Texas."
+
+                WITH A FOREWORD BY
+                WILLIAM LYON PHELPS
+
+                      New York
+               THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+                        1919
+
+               _All rights reserved_
+
+                 COPYRIGHT, 1919
+             BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+ Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1919.
+
+
+
+
+"THAT THESE DEAR FRIENDS I LEAVE BEHIND
+MAY KEEP KIND HEARTS' REMEMBRANCE OF THE LOVE WE HAD."
+                                          _Solon._
+
+In affectionate gratitude to a group of men, my intimate friends during
+College days (brought under one roof by a "Fraternity"), whom I still
+love not less but more,
+
+_Will Prather_, _Hammett Hardy_, _Penn Hargrove_ and _Harry Steger_, of
+precious and joyous memory;
+
+_Norman Crozier_, not yet quite emerged from Presbyterianism;
+
+_Eugene Barker_, cynical, solid, unafraid;
+
+_"Cap'en" Duval_, a gentleman of Virginia, sah;
+
+_Ed Miller_, red-headed and royal-hearted;
+
+_Bates MacFarland_, calm and competent without camouflage;
+
+_Jimmie Haven_, who has put 'em over every good day since;
+
+_Charley Johnson_, "the Swede"--the fattest, richest and dearest of the
+bunch;
+
+_Edgar Witt_, whose loyal devotion and pertinacious energy built the
+"Frat" house;
+
+_Roy Bedichek_, too big for any job he has yet tackled;
+
+_"Curley" Duncan_, who possesses all the virtues of the old time
+cattleman and none of the vices of the new;
+
+_Rom Rhome_, the quiet and canny counter of coin;
+
+_Gavin Hunt_, student and lover of all things beautiful;
+
+_Dick Kimball_, the soldier; every inch of him a handsome man;
+
+_Alex_ and _Bruce_ and _Dave_ and _George_ and _"Freshman" Mathis_ and
+_Clarence_, the six Freshmen we "took in"; while _Ike MacFarland_,
+_Alfred Pierce Ward_, and _Guy_ and _Charlie Witt_ were still in the
+process of assimilation,--
+
+To this group of God's good fellows, I dedicate this little book.
+
+
+    No loopholes now are framing
+    Lean faces, grim and brown,
+    No more keen eyes are aiming
+    To bring the redskin down;
+    But every wind careening
+    Seems here to breathe a song--
+    A song of brave careering,
+    A saga of the strong.
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+
+In collecting, arranging, editing, and preserving the "Songs of the
+Cattle Trail and Cow Camp," my friend John Lomax has performed a real
+service to American literature and to America. No verse is closer to the
+soil than this; none more realistic in the best sense of that
+much-abused word; none more truly interprets and expresses a part of our
+national life. To understand and appreciate these lyrics one should hear
+Mr. Lomax talk about them and sing them; for they were made for the
+voice to pronounce and for the ears to hear, rather than for the lamplit
+silence of the library. They are as oral as the chants of Vachel
+Lindsay; and when one has the pleasure of listening to Mr. Lomax--who
+loves these verses and the men who first sang them--one reconstructs in
+imagination the appropriate figures and romantic setting.
+
+For nothing is so romantic as life itself. None of our illusions about
+life is so romantic as the truth. Hence the purest realism appeals to
+the mature imagination more powerfully than any impossible prettiness
+can do. The more we _know_ of individual and universal life, the more we
+are excited and stimulated.
+
+And the collection of these poems is an addition to American
+Scholarship as well as to American Literature. It was a wise policy of
+the Faculty of Harvard University to grant Mr. Lomax a traveling
+fellowship, that he might have the necessary leisure to discover and to
+collect these verses; it is really "original research," as interesting
+and surely as valuable as much that passes under that name; for it helps
+every one of us to understand our own country.
+
+WM. LYON PHELPS.
+
+Yale University,
+July 27, 1919.
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+
+    "Look down, look down, that weary road,
+     'Tis the road that the sun goes down."
+
+                  *     *     *
+
+    "'Twas way out West where the antelope roam,
+    And the coyote howls 'round the cowboy's home,
+    Where the mountains are covered with chaparral frail,
+    And the valleys are checkered with the cattle trail,
+    Where the miner digs for the golden veins,
+    And the cowboy rides o'er the silent plains,--"
+
+
+The "Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp" does not purport to be an
+anthology of Western verse. As its title indicates, the contents of the
+book are limited to attempts, more or less poetic, in translating scenes
+connected with the life of a cowboy. The volume is in reality a
+by-product of my earlier collection, "Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier
+Ballads." In the former book I put together what seemed to me to be the
+best of the songs created and sung by the cowboys as they went about
+their work. In making the collection, the cowboys often sang or sent to
+me songs which I recognized as having already been in print; although
+the singer usually said that some other cowboy had sung the song to him
+and that he did not know where it had originated. For example, one night
+in New Mexico a cowboy sang to me, in typical cowboy music, Larry
+Chittenden's entire "Cowboys' Christmas Ball"; since that time the poem
+has often come to me in manuscript form as an original cowboy song. The
+changes--usually, it must be confessed, resulting in bettering the
+verse--which have occurred in oral transmission, are most interesting.
+Of one example, Charles Badger Clark's "High Chin Bob," I have printed,
+following Mr. Clark's poem, a cowboy version, which I submit to Mr.
+Clark and his admirers for their consideration.
+
+In making selections for this volume from a large mass of material that
+came into my ballad hopper while hunting cowboy songs as a Traveling
+Fellow from Harvard University, I have included the best of the verse
+given me directly by the cowboys; other selections have come in through
+repeated recommendation of these men; others are vagrant verses from
+Western newspapers; and still others have been lifted from collections
+of Western verse written by such men as Charles Badger Clark, Jr., and
+Herbert H. Knibbs. To these two authors, as well as others who have
+permitted me to make use of their work, the grateful thanks of the
+collector are extended. As will be seen, almost one-half of the
+selections have no assignable authorship. I am equally grateful to these
+unknown authors.
+
+All those who found "Cowboy Songs" diverting, it is believed, will make
+welcome "The Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp." Many of these have
+this claim to be called songs: they have been set to music by the
+cowboys, who, in their isolation and loneliness, have found solace in
+narrative or descriptive verse devoted to cattle scenes. Herein, again,
+through these quondam songs we may come to appreciate something of the
+spirit of the big West--its largeness, its freedom, its wholehearted
+hospitality, its genuine friendship. Here again, too, we may see the
+cowboy at work and at play; hear the jingle of his big bell spurs, the
+swish of his rope, the creaking of his saddle gear, the thud of
+thousands of hoofs on the long, long trail winding from Texas to
+Montana; and know something of the life that attracted from the East
+some of its best young blood to a work that was necessary in the winning
+of the West. The trails are becoming dust covered or grass grown or lost
+underneath the farmers' furrow; but in the selections of this volume,
+many of them poems by courtesy, men of today and those who are to
+follow, may sense, at least in some small measure, the service, the
+glamour, the romance of that knight-errant of the plains--the American
+cowboy.
+
+                                     J. A. L.
+
+The University of Texas,
+  Austin, July 9, 1919.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+PART I. COWBOY YARNS
+
+ OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
+ THE SHALLOWS OF THE FORD
+ THE DANCE AT SILVER VALLEY
+ THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL
+ THE TEXAS COWBOY AND THE MEXICAN GREASER
+ BRONCHO VERSUS BICYCLE
+ RIDERS OF THE STARS
+ LASCA
+ THE TRANSFORMATION OF A TEXAS GIRL
+ THE GLORY TRAIL
+ HIGH CHIN BOB
+ TO HEAR HIM TELL IT
+ THE CLOWN'S BABY
+ THE DRUNKEN DESPERADO
+ MARTA OF MILRONE
+ JACK DEMPSEY'S GRAVE
+ THE CATTLE ROUND-UP
+
+PART II. THE COWBOY OFF GUARD
+
+ A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE
+ THE COWBOY AND THE MAID
+ A COWBOY'S LOVE SONG
+ A BORDER AFFAIR
+ SNAGTOOTH SAL
+ LOVE LYRICS OF A COWBOY
+ THE BULL FIGHT
+ THE COWBOY'S VALENTINE
+ A COWBOY'S HOPELESS LOVE
+ THE CHASE
+ RIDING SONG
+ OUR LITTLE COWGIRL
+ I WANT MY TIME
+ WHO'S THAT CALLING SO SWEET?
+ SONG OF THE CATTLE TRAIL
+ A COWBOY'S SON
+ A COWBOY SONG
+ A NEVADA COWPUNCHER TO HIS BELOVED
+ THE COWBOY TO HIS FRIEND IN NEED
+ WHEN BOB GOT THROWED
+ COWBOY VERSUS BRONCHO
+ WHEN YOU'RE THROWED
+ PARDNERS
+ THE BRONC THAT WOULDN'T BUST
+ THE OL' COW HAWSE
+ THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA
+ THE COWBOYS' DANCE SONG
+ THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL
+ A DANCE AT THE RANCH
+ AT A COWBOY DANCE
+ THE COWBOYS' BALL
+
+PART III. COWBOY TYPES
+
+ THE COWBOY
+ BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT
+ A COWBOY RACE
+ THE HABIT
+ A RANGER
+ THE INSULT
+ "THE ROAD TO RUIN"
+ THE OUTLAW
+ THE DESERT
+ WHISKEY BILL,--A FRAGMENT
+ DENVER JIM
+ THE VIGILANTES
+ THE BANDIT'S GRAVE
+ THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL
+ THE SHEEP-HERDER
+ A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL
+ THE OLD COWMAN
+ THE GILA MONSTER ROUTE
+ THE CALL OF THE PLAINS
+ WHERE THE GRIZZLY DWELLS
+ A COWBOY TOAST
+ RIDIN' UP THE ROCKY TRAIL FROM TOWN
+ THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT
+ A COWBOY ALONE WITH HIS CONSCIENCE
+ JUST A-RIDIN'!
+ THE END OF THE TRAIL
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+COWBOY YARNS
+
+
+
+
+    _The centipede runs across my head,
+    The vinegaroon crawls in my bed,
+    Tarantulas jump and scorpions play,
+    The broncs are grazing far away,
+    The rattlesnake gives his warning cry,
+    And the coyotes sing their lullaby,
+    While I sleep soundly beneath the sky._
+
+
+
+
+OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
+
+
+    OUT where the handclasp's a little stronger,
+    Out where the smile dwells a little longer,
+      That's where the West begins;
+    Out where the sun is a little brighter,
+    Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,
+    Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,
+      That's where the West begins.
+
+    Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,
+    Out where friendship's a little truer,
+      That's where the West begins;
+    Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,
+    Where there's laughter in every streamlet flowing,
+    Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing,
+      That's where the West begins.
+
+    Out where the world is in the making,
+    Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,
+      That's where the West begins;
+    Where there's more of singing and less of sighing,
+    Where there's more of giving and less of buying,
+    And a man makes friends without half trying,
+      That's where the West begins.
+                            _Arthur Chapman._
+
+
+
+
+THE SHALLOWS OF THE FORD
+
+
+    DID you ever wait for daylight when the stars along the river
+    Floated thick and white as snowflakes in the water deep and strange,
+    Till a whisper through the aspens made the current break and shiver
+    As the frosty edge of morning seemed to melt and spread and change?
+
+    Once I waited, almost wishing that the dawn would never find me;
+    Saw the sun roll up the ranges like the glory of the Lord;
+    Was about to wake my pardner who was sleeping close behind me,
+    When I saw the man we wanted spur his pony to the ford.
+
+    Saw the ripples of the shallows and the muddy streaks that followed,
+    As the pony stumbled toward me in the narrows of the bend;
+    Saw the face I used to welcome, wild and watchful, lined and hollowed;
+    And God knows I wished to warn him, for I once had called him friend.
+
+    But an oath had come between us--I was paid by Law and Order;
+    He was outlaw, rustler, killer--so the border whisper ran;
+    Left his word in Caliente that he'd cross the Rio border--
+    Call me coward? But I hailed him--"Riding close to daylight, Dan!"
+
+    Just a hair and he'd have got me, but my voice, and not the warning,
+    Caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my name,
+    Reined his pony round and fanned it in the bright and silent morning,
+    Back across the sunlit Rio up the trail on which he came.
+
+    He had passed his word to cross it--I had passed my word to get him--
+    We broke even and we knew it; 'twas a case of give and take
+    For old times. I could have killed him from the brush; instead, I let
+        him
+    Ride his trail--I turned--my pardner flung his arm and stretched
+        awake;
+
+    Saw me standing in the open; pulled his gun and came beside me;
+    Asked a question with his shoulder as his left hand pointed toward
+    Muddy streaks that thinned and vanished--not a word, but hard he
+        eyed me
+    As the water cleared and sparkled in the shallows of the ford.
+                          _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
+
+
+
+
+THE DANCE AT SILVER VALLEY
+
+
+         _DON'T you hear the big spurs jingle?_
+         _Don't you feel the red blood tingle?_
+         _Be it smile or be it frown,_
+         _Be it dance or be it fight,_
+         _Broncho Bill has come to town_
+         _To dance a dance tonight._
+
+    Chaps, sombrero, handkerchief, silver spurs at heel;
+    "Hello, Gil!" and "Hello, Pete!" "How do you think you feel?"
+    "Drinks are mine. Come fall in, boys; crowd up on the right.
+    Here's happy days and honey joys. I'm going to dance tonight."
+    (On his hip in leathern tube, a case of dark blue steel.)
+
+    Bill, the broncho buster, from the ranch at Beaver Bend,
+    Ninety steers and but one life in his hands to spend;
+    Ready for a fight or spree; ready for a race;
+    Going blind with bridle loose every inch of space.
+
+    Down at Johnny Schaeffer's place, see them trooping in,
+    Up above the women laugh; down below is gin.
+    Belle McClure is dressed in blue, ribbon in her hair;
+    Broncho Bill is shaved and slick, all his throat is bare.
+    Round and round with Belle McClure he whirls a dizzy spin.
+
+    Jim Kershaw, the gambler, waits,--white his hands and slim.
+    Bill whispers, "Belle, you know it well; it is me or him.
+    Jim Kershaw, so help me God, if you dance with Belle
+    It is either you or me must travel down to hell."
+    Jim put his arm around her waist, her graceful waist and slim.
+
+    Don't you hear the banjo laugh? Hear the fiddles scream?
+    Broncho Bill leaned at the door, watched the twirling stream.
+    Twenty fiends were at his heart snarling, "Kill him sure."
+    (Out of hell that woman came.) "I love you, Belle McClure."
+    Broncho Bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem.
+
+    The dance is done. Shots crack as one. The crowd shoves for the door.
+    Broncho Bill is lying there and blood upon the floor.
+    "You've finished me; you've gambler's luck; you've won the trick and
+        Belle.
+    Mine the soul that here tonight is passing down to hell.
+    And I must ride the trail alone. Goodbye to Belle McClure."
+
+    Downstairs on the billiard cloth, something lying white,
+    Upstairs still the dance goes on, all the lamps are bright.
+    Round and round in merry spin--on the floor a blot;
+    Laugh, and chaff and merry spin--such a little spot.
+    Broncho Bill has come to town and danced his dance tonight.
+
+         _Don't you hear the fiddle shrieking?_
+         _Don't you hear the banjo speaking?_
+         _Don't you hear the big spurs jingle?_
+         _Don't you feel the red blood tingle?_
+         _Faces dyed with desert brown,_
+         _(One that's set and white);_
+         _Broncho Bill has come to town_
+         _And danced his dance tonight._
+                           _William Maxwell._
+
+
+
+
+THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL
+
+
+    AT a round-up on the Gila
+    One sweet morning long ago,
+    Ten of us was throwed quite freely
+    By a hoss from Idaho.
+    An' we 'lowed he'd go a-beggin'
+    For a man to break his pride
+    Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin',
+    Boastful Bill cut loose an' cried:
+        "I'm a ornery proposition for to hurt,
+        I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt,
+        I can ride the highest liver
+        'Twixt the Gulf an' Powder River,
+        An' I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."
+
+    So Bill climbed the Northern fury
+    An' they mangled up the air
+    Till a native of Missouri
+    Would have owned the brag was fair.
+    Though the plunges kept him reelin'
+    An' the wind it flapped his shirt,
+    Loud above the hoss's squealin'
+    We could hear our friend assert:
+        "I'm the one to take such rockin's as a joke;
+        Someone hand me up the makin's of a smoke.
+        If you think my fame needs brightnin',
+        Why, I'll rope a streak o' lightnin'
+        An' spur it up an' quirt it till it's broke."
+
+    Then one caper of repulsion
+    Broke that hoss's back in two,
+    Cinches snapped in the convulsion,
+    Skyward man and saddle flew,
+    Up they mounted, never flaggin',
+    And we watched them through our tears,
+    While this last, thin bit o' braggin'
+    Came a-floatin' to our ears:
+        "If you ever watched my habits very close,
+        You would know I broke such rabbits by the gross.
+        I have kept my talent hidin',
+        I'm too good for earthly ridin',
+        So I'm off to bust the lightnin'--Adios!"
+
+    Years have passed since that ascension;
+    Boastful Bill ain't never lit;
+    So we reckon he's a-wrenchin'
+    Some celestial outlaw's bit.
+    When the night wind flaps our slickers,
+    And the rain is cold and stout,
+    And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
+    We can sometimes hear him shout:
+        "I'm a ridin' son o' thunder o' the sky,
+        I'm a broncho twistin' wonder on the fly.
+        Hey, you earthlin's, shut your winders,
+        We're a-rippin' clouds to flinders.
+        If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die."
+
+    Star-dust on his chaps and saddle,
+    Scornful still of jar and jolt,
+    He'll come back sometime a-straddle
+    Of a bald-faced thunderbolt;
+    And the thin-skinned generation
+    Of that dim and distant day
+    Sure will stare with admiration
+    When they hear old Boastful say:
+        "I was first, as old raw-hiders all confest,
+        I'm the last of all rough riders, and the best.
+        Huh! you soft and dainty floaters
+        With your aeroplanes and motors,
+        Huh! are you the greatgrandchildren of the West?"
+            _From recitation, original, by Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE TEXAS COWBOY AND THE MEXICAN GREASER
+
+
+    I THINK we can all remember when a Greaser hadn't no show
+    In Palo Pinto particular,--it ain't very long ago;
+    A powerful feelin' of hatred ag'in the whole Greaser race
+    That murdered bold Crockett and Bowie pervaded all in the place.
+    Why, the boys would draw on a Greaser as quick as they would on a
+        steer;
+    They was shot down without warnin' often, in the memory of many here.
+    One day the bark of pistols was heard ringin' out in the air,
+    And a Greaser, chased by some ranchmen, tore round here into the
+        square.
+    I don't know what he's committed,--'tain't likely anyone knew,--
+    But I wouldn't bet a check on the issue; if you knew the gang, neither
+        would you.
+    Breathless and bleeding, the Greaser fell down by the side of the
+        wall;
+    And a man sprang out before him,--a man both strong and tall,--
+    By his clothes I should say a cowboy,--a stranger in town, I think,--
+    With his pistol he waved back the gang, who was wild with rage and
+        drink.
+    "I warn ye, get back!" he said, "or I'll blow your heads in two!
+    A dozen on one poor creature, and him wounded and bleeding, too!"
+    The gang stood back for a minute; then up spoke Poker Bill:
+    "Young man, yer a stranger, I reckon. We don't wish yer any ill;
+    But come out of the range of the Greaser, or, as sure as I live,
+        you'll croak;"
+    And he drew a bead on the stranger. I'll tell yer it wa'n't no joke.
+    But the stranger moven' no muscle as he looked in the bore of Bill's
+        gun;
+    He hadn't no thought to stir, sir; he hadn't no thought to run;
+    But he spoke out cool and quiet, "I might live for a thousand year
+    And not die at last so nobly as defendin' this Greaser here;
+    For he's wounded, now, and helpless, and hasn't had no fair show;
+    And the first of ye boys that strikes him, I'll lay that first one
+        low."
+    The gang respected the stranger that for another was willing to die;
+    They respected the look of daring they saw in that cold, blue eye.
+    They saw before them a hero that was glad in the right to fall;
+    And he was a Texas cowboy,--never heard of Rome at all.
+    Don't tell me of yer Romans, or yer bridge bein' held by three;
+    True manhood's the same in Texas as it was in Rome, d'ye see?
+    Did the Greaser escape? Why certain. I saw the hull crowd over thar
+    At the ranch of Bill Simmons, the gopher, with their glasses over the
+        bar.
+                    _From recitation. Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+BRONCHO VERSUS BICYCLE
+
+
+    THE first that we saw of the high-tone tramp
+    War over thar at our Pecos camp;
+    He war comin' down the Santa Fe trail
+    Astride of a wheel with a crooked tail,
+    A-skinnin' along with a merry song
+    An' a-ringin' a little warnin' gong.
+    He looked so outlandish, strange and queer
+    That all of us grinned from ear to ear,
+    And every boy on the round-up swore
+    He never seed sich a hoss before.
+
+    Wal, up he rode with a sunshine smile
+    An' a-smokin' a cigarette, an' I'll
+    Be kicked in the neck if I ever seen
+    Sich a saddle as that on his queer machine.
+    Why, it made us laugh, fer it wasn't half
+    Big enough fer the back of a suckin' calf.
+    He tuk our fun in a keerless way,
+    A-venturin' only once to say
+    Thar wasn't a broncho about the place
+    Could down that wheel in a ten-mile race.
+
+    I'd a lightnin' broncho out in the herd
+    That could split the air like a flyin' bird,
+    An' I hinted round in an off-hand way,
+    That, providin' the enterprize would pay,
+    I thought as I might jes' happen to light
+    On a hoss that would leave him out er sight.
+    In less'n a second we seen him yank
+    A roll o' greenbacks out o' his flank,
+    An' he said if we wanted to bet, to name
+    The limit, an' he would tackle the game.
+
+    Jes' a week before we had all been down
+    On a jamboree to the nearest town,
+    An' the whiskey joints and the faro games
+    An' a-shakin' our hoofs with the dance hall dames,
+    Made a wholesale bust; an', pard, I'll be cussed
+    If a man in the outfit had any dust.
+    An' so I explained, but the youth replied
+    That he'd lay the money matter aside,
+    An' to show that his back didn't grow no moss
+    He'd bet his machine against my hoss.
+
+    I tuk him up, an' the bet war closed,
+    An' me a-chucklin', fer I supposed
+    I war playin' in dead-sure, winnin' luck
+    In the softest snap I had ever struck.
+    An' the boys chipped in with a knowin' grin,
+    Fer they thought the fool had no chance to win.
+    An' so we agreed fer to run that day
+    To the Navajo cross, ten miles away,--
+    As handsome a track as you ever seed
+    Fer testin' a hosses prettiest speed.
+
+    Apache Johnson and Texas Ned
+    Saddled up their hosses an' rode ahead
+    To station themselves ten miles away
+    An' act as judges an' see fair play;
+    While Mexican Bart and big Jim Hart
+    Stayed back fer to give us an even start.
+    I got aboard of my broncho bird
+    An' we came to the scratch an' got the word;
+    An' I laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear
+    To see that tenderfoot drop to the rear.
+
+    The first three miles slipped away first-rate;
+    Then bronc began fer to lose his gait.
+    But I warn't oneasy an' didn't mind
+    With tenderfoot more'n a mile behind.
+    So I jogged along with a cowboy song
+    Till all of a sudden I heard that gong
+    A-ringin' a warnin' in my ear--
+    _Ting, ting, ting, ting,_--too infernal near;
+    An' lookin' backwards I seen that chump
+    Of a tenderfoot gainin' every jump.
+
+    I hit old bronc a cut with the quirt
+    An' once more got him to scratchin' dirt;
+    But his wind got weak, an' I tell you, boss,
+    I seen he wasn't no ten-mile hoss.
+    Still, the plucky brute took another shoot
+    An' pulled away from the wheel galoot.
+    But the animal couldn't hold his gait;
+    An' the idea somehow entered my pate
+    That if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their grip
+    He'd own that hoss at the end of the trip.
+
+    Closer an' closer come tenderfoot,
+    An' harder the whip to the hoss I put;
+    But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his face
+    Ran up to my side with his easy pace--
+    Rode up to my side, an' dern his hide,
+    Remarked 'twere a pleasant day fer a ride;
+    Then axed, onconcerned, if I had a match,
+    An' on his britches give it a scratch,
+    Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day,
+    An' as fresh as a daisy scooted away.
+
+    Ahead he went, that infernal gong
+    A-ringin' "good-day" as he flew along,
+    An' the smoke from his cigarette came back
+    Like a vaporous snicker along his track.
+    On an' on he sped, gettin' further ahead,
+    His feet keepin' up that onceaseable tread,
+    Till he faded away in the distance, an' when
+    I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again
+    He war thar with the boys at the end of the race,
+    That same keerless, onconsarned smile on his face.
+
+    Now, pard, when a cowboy gits licked he don't swar
+    Nor kick, if the beatin' are done on the squar;
+    So I tuck that Easterner right by the hand
+    An' told him that broncho awaited his brand.
+    Then I axed him his name, an' where from he came,
+    An' how long he'd practiced that wheel-rollin' game.
+    Tom Stevens he said war his name, an' he come
+    From a town they call Bosting, in old Yankeedom.
+    Then he jist paralyzed us by sayin' he'd whirled
+    That very identical wheel round the world.
+
+    Wal, pard, that's the story of how that smart chap
+    Done me up w'en I thought I had sich a soft snap,
+    Done me up on a race with remarkable ease,
+    An' lowered my pride a good many degrees.
+    Did I give him the hoss? W'y o' course I did, boss,
+    An' I tell you it warn't no diminutive loss.
+    He writ me a letter from back in the East,
+    An' said he presented the neat little beast
+    To a feller named Pope, who stands at the head
+    O' the ranch where the cussed wheel hosses are bred.
+                                      _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+RIDERS OF THE STARS
+
+
+    TWENTY abreast down the Golden Street ten thousand riders marched;
+    Bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time;
+    And the Angel Host to the lone, last ghost their delicate eyebrows
+        arched
+    As the swaggering sons of the open range drew up to the throne
+        sublime.
+
+    Gaunt and grizzled, a Texas man from out of the concourse strode,
+    And doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle
+        head;
+    The sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage
+        glowed;
+    "Marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here," he
+        said.
+
+    A hush ran over the waiting throng as the Cherubim replied:
+    "He that readeth the hearts of men He deemeth your challenge strange,
+    Though He long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not
+        walk but ride,
+    Oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range!"
+
+    Then warily spake the Texas man: "A petition and no complaint
+    We here present, if the Law allows and the Marster He thinks it fit;
+    We-all agree to the things that be, but we're longing for things that
+        ain't,
+    So we took a vote and we made a plan and here is the plan we writ:--
+
+    "_'Give us a range and our horses and ropes, open the Pearly Gate,
+    And turn us loose in the unfenced blue riding the sunset rounds,
+    Hunting each stray in the Milky Way and running the Rancho straight;
+    Not crowding the dogie stars too much on their way to the
+        bedding-grounds._
+
+    "_'Maverick comets that's running wild, we'll rope 'em and brand 'em
+        fair,
+    So they'll quit stampeding the starry herd and scaring the folks
+        below,
+    And we'll save 'em prime for the round-up time, and we riders'll all
+        be there,
+    Ready and willing to do our work as we did in the long ago._
+
+    "_'We've studied the Ancient Landmarks, Sir; Taurus, the Bear, and
+        Mars,
+    And Venus a-smiling across the west as bright as a burning coal,
+    Plain to guide as we punchers ride night-herding the little stars,
+    With Saturn's rings for our home corral and the Dipper our water
+        hole._
+
+    "_'Here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long
+        gone by,
+    And our singing it doesn't fit in up here though we tried it for old
+        time's sake;
+    Our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that's
+        why
+    We ask you, Marster, to turn us loose--just give us an even break!'_"
+
+    Then the Lord He spake to the Cherubim, and this was His kindly word:
+    "He that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go;
+    Turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd;
+    My glory sings in the toil they crave; 'tis their right. I would have
+        it so."
+
+    Have you heard in the starlit dusk of eve when the lone coyotes roam,
+    The _Yip! Yip! Yip!_ of a hunting cry and the echo that shrilled
+        afar,
+    As you listened still on a desert hill and gazed at the twinkling
+        dome,
+    And a viewless rider swept the sky on the trail of a shooting star?
+                         _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
+
+
+
+
+LASCA
+
+
+    I WANT free life, and I want fresh air;
+    And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
+    The crack of the whips like shots in battle,
+    The medley of hoofs and horns and heads
+    That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;
+    The green beneath and the blue above,
+    And dash and danger, and life and love--
+    And Lasca!
+
+                Lasca used to ride
+    On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side,
+    With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
+    I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
+    Little knew she of books or creeds;
+    An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;
+    Little she cared save to be at my side,
+    To ride with me, and ever to ride,
+    From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.
+    She was as bold as the billows that beat,
+    She was as wild as the breezes that blow:
+    From her little head to her little feet,
+    She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
+    By each gust of passion; a sapling pine
+    That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff
+    And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,
+    Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
+    She would hunger that I might eat,
+    Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
+    But once, when I made her jealous for fun
+    At something I whispered or looked or done,
+    One Sunday, in San Antonio,
+    To a glorious girl in the Alamo,
+    She drew from her garter a little dagger,
+    And--sting of a wasp--it made me stagger!
+    An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
+    And I shouldn't be maundering here tonight;
+    But she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound
+    Her torn rebosa about the wound
+    That I swiftly forgave her. Scratches don't count
+        In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
+
+    Her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown;
+    Her hair was darker than her eye;
+    And something in her smile and frown,
+    Curled crimson lip and instep high,
+    Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
+    Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
+    The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
+    She was alive in every limb
+    With feeling, to the finger tips;
+    And when the sun is like a fire,
+    And sky one shining, soft sapphire
+    One does not drink in little sips.
+
+        ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·
+
+    The air was heavy, the night was hot,
+    I sat by her side and forgot, forgot;
+    Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,
+    Forgot that the air was close oppressed,
+    That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
+    In the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon;
+    That, once let the herd at its breath take fright,
+    Nothing on earth can stop their flight;
+    And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
+    That falls in front of their mad stampede!
+
+        ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·
+
+    Was that thunder? I grasped the cord
+    Of my swift mustang without a word.
+    I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.
+    Away! on a hot chase down the wind!
+    But never was fox-hunt half so hard,
+    And never was steed so little spared.
+    For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared
+        In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
+
+    The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
+    There was one chance left, and you have but one--
+    Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;
+    Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance;
+    And if the steers in their frantic course
+    Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
+    You may thank your star; if not, goodbye
+    To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
+    And the open air and the open sky,
+        In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
+
+    The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt
+    For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,
+    Down came the mustang, and down came we,
+    Clinging together--and, what was the rest?
+    A body that spread itself on my breast,
+    Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
+    Two lips that hard to my lips were prest;
+    Then came thunder in my ears,
+    As over us surged the sea of steers,
+    Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
+    And when I could rise--
+    Lasca was dead!
+
+        ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·
+
+    I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
+    And there in the Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
+    And there she is lying, and no one knows;
+    And the summer shines, and the winter snows;
+    For many a day the flowers have spread
+    A pall of petals over her head;
+    And the little grey hawk hangs aloft in the air,
+    And the sly coyote trots here and there,
+    And the black snake glides and glitters and slides
+    Into the rift of a cottonwood tree;
+    And the buzzard sails on,
+    And comes and is gone,
+    Stately and still, like a ship at sea.
+    And I wonder why I do not care
+    For the things that are, like the things that were.
+    Does half my heart lie buried there
+        In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
+                               _Frank Desprez._
+
+
+
+
+THE TRANSFORMATION OF A TEXAS GIRL
+
+
+    SHE was a Texas maiden, she came of low degree,
+    Her clothes were worn and faded, her feet from shoes were free;
+    Her face was tanned and freckled, her hair was sun-burned, too,
+    Her whole darned _tout ensemble_ was painful for to view!
+    She drove a lop-eared mule team attached unto a plow,
+    The trickling perspiration exuding from her brow;
+    And often she lamented her cruel, cruel fate,
+    As but a po' white's daughter down in the Lone Star State.
+
+    No courtiers came to woo her, she never had a beau,
+    Her misfit face precluded such things as that, you know,--
+    She was nobody's darling, no feller's solid girl,
+    And poets never called her an uncut Texas pearl.
+    Her only two companions was those two flea-bit mules,
+    And these she but regarded as animated tools
+    To plod along the furrows in patience up and down
+    And pull the ancient wagon when pap'd go to town.
+
+    No fires of wild ambition were flaming in her soul,
+    Her eyes with tender passion she'd never upward roll;
+    The wondrous world she'd heard of, to her was but a dream
+    As walked she in the furrows behind that lop-eared team.
+    Born on that small plantation, 'twas there she thought she'd die;
+    She never longed for pinions that she might rise and fly
+    To other lands far distant, where breezes fresh and cool
+    Would never shake and tremble from brayings of a mule.
+
+        ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·
+
+    But yesterday we saw her dressed up in gorgeous style!
+    A half a dozen fellows were basking in her smile!
+    She'd jewels on her fingers, and jewels in her ears--
+    Great sparkling, flashing brilliants that hung as frozen tears!
+    The feet once nude and soil-stained were clad in Frenchy boots,
+    The once tanned face bore tintings of miscellaneous fruits;
+    The voice that once admonished the mules to move along
+    Was tuned to new-born music, as sweet as Siren's song!
+
+    Her tall and lanky father, one knows as "Sleepy Jim,"
+    Is now addressed as Colonel by men who honor him;
+    And youths in finest raiment now take him by the paw,
+    Each in the hope that some day he'll call him dad-in-law.
+    Their days of toil are over, their sun has risen at last,
+    A gold-embroidered curtain now hides their rocky past;
+    For was it not discovered their little patch of soil
+    Had rested there for ages above a flow of oil?
+                           _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE GLORY TRAIL
+
+
+    'WAY high up the Mogollons,[1]
+    Among the mountain tops,
+    A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones
+    And licked his thankful chops,
+    When on the picture who should ride,
+    A-trippin' down the slope,
+    But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride
+    And mav'rick-hungry rope.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me," says he,
+    "And fame's unfadin' flowers!
+    All meddlin' hands are far away;
+    I ride my good top-hawse today
+    And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J--
+    Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!"_
+
+    That lion licked his paw so brown
+    And dreamed soft dreams of veal--
+    And then the circlin' loop sung down
+    And roped him 'round his meal.
+    He yowled quick fury to the world
+    Till all the hills yelled back;
+    The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled
+    And Bob caught up the slack.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me," laughs he.
+    "We hit the glory trail.
+    No human man as I have read
+    Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,
+    Nor ever hawse could drag one dead
+    Until we told the tale."_
+
+    'Way high up the Mogollons
+    That top-hawse done his best,
+    Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,
+    From canyon-floor to crest
+    But ever when Bob turned and hoped
+    A limp remains to find,
+    A red-eyed lion, belly roped
+    But healthy, loped behind.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me," grunts he,
+    "This glory trail is rough,
+    Yet even till the Judgment Morn
+    I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,
+    For never any hero born
+    Could stoop to holler: 'nuff!'"_
+
+    Three suns had rode their circle home
+    Beyond the desert's rim,
+    And turned their star herds loose to roam
+    The ranges high and dim;
+    Yet up and down and round and 'cross
+    Bob pounded, weak and wan,
+    For pride still glued him to his hawse
+    And glory drove him on.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me," sighs he.
+    "He kaint be drug to death,
+    But now I know beyond a doubt
+    Them heroes I have read about
+    Was only fools that stuck it out
+    To end of mortal breath."_
+
+    'Way high up the Mogollons
+    A prospect man did swear
+    That moon dreams melted down his bones
+    And hoisted up his hair:
+    A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,
+    A lion trailed along,
+    A rider, ga'nt, but chin on high,
+    Yelled out a crazy song.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,
+    "And to my noble noose!
+    O stranger, tell my pards below
+    I took a rampin' dream in tow,
+    And if I never lay him low,
+    I'll never turn him loose!"_
+                       _Charles Badger Clark._
+
+[1] Pronounced by the natives "muggy-yones."
+
+
+
+
+HIGH CHIN BOB
+
+
+    'WAY high up in the Mokiones, among the mountain tops,
+    A lion cleaned a yearling's bones and licks his thankful chops;
+    And who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope,
+    But High Chin Bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope.
+        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "an' fame's unfadin' flowers;
+        I ride my good top hoss today and I'm top hand of Lazy-J,
+        So, kitty-cat, you're ours!"
+
+    The lion licked his paws so brown, and dreamed soft dreams of veal,
+    As High Chin's rope came circlin' down and roped him round his meal;
+    She yowled quick fury to the world and all the hills yelled back;
+    That top horse gave a snort and whirled and Bob took up the slack.
+        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "we'll hit the glory trail.
+        No man has looped a lion's head and lived to drag the critter dead
+        Till I shall tell the tale."
+
+    'Way high up in the Mokiones that top hoss done his best,
+    'Mid whippin' brush and rattlin' stones from canon-floor to crest;
+    Up and down and round and cross Bob pounded weak and wan,
+    But pride still glued him to his hoss and glory spurred him on.
+        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "this glory trail is rough!
+        But I'll keep this dally round the horn until the toot of judgment
+        morn
+        Before I'll holler 'nough!"
+
+    Three suns had rode their circle home, beyond the desert rim,
+    And turned their star herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim;
+    And whenever Bob turned and hoped the limp remains to find,
+    A red-eyed lion, belly roped, but healthy, loped behind!
+        "Oh, glory be to me," says Bob, "he caint be drug to death!
+        These heroes that I've read about were only fools that stuck it
+        out
+        To the end of mortal breath."
+
+    'Way high up in the Mokiones, if you ever camp there at night,
+    You'll hear a rukus among the stones that'll lift your hair with
+        fright;
+    You'll see a cow-hoss thunder by--a lion trail along,
+    And the rider bold, with his chin on high, sings forth his glory song:
+        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "and to my mighty noose.
+        Oh, pardner, tell my friends below I took a ragin' dream in tow,
+        And if I didn't lay him low, I never turned him loose!"
+                             _From oral rendition._
+
+
+
+
+TO HEAR HIM TELL IT
+
+
+    I WAS just about to take a drink--
+    I was mighty dry--
+    So I hailed an old time cowman
+    Who was passing by,
+    "Come in, Ole Timer! have a drink!
+    Kinda warm today!"
+    As we leaned across the bar-rail--
+    "How's things up your way?"
+
+    "Stock is doin' fairly good,
+    Range is gettin' fine;
+    I jes dropped down to meetin' here
+    To spend a little time.
+    Con'sidable stuff a-movin' now--
+    Cows an' hosses, too,
+    Prices high an' a big demand--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "I've loaded out my feeders,
+    Got a good price all aroun';
+    Sold 'em in Kansas City
+    To a commission man named Brown.
+    A thousand told o' mixed stuff,
+    In pretty fair shape, too,"
+    Said the old Texas cowman,
+    "Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "I've been in this yere country
+    Since late in fifty-nine,
+    I know every foot o' sage brush
+    Clear to the southern line.
+    Got my first bunch started up
+    Long in seventy-two,
+    Had to ride range with a long rope--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "Lordy, I kin remember
+    Them good ole early days
+    When we ust t' trail the herds north
+    'N forty different ways.
+    Jes'n point 'em from the beddin' groun'
+    An' let 'em drift right through,"
+    Said the reminiscent cowman,
+    "Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "Yessir, trailed 'em up to Wichita,
+    Cross the Kansas line,
+    Made deliveries at Benton
+    As early as fifty-nine.
+    Turned 'em most to soldiers,
+    Some went to Injuns, too,
+    Beef wasn't nigh so high then--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "Son, I've fit nigh every Injun
+    That ever roamed the plains,
+    'N I was one o' the best hands
+    That ever pulled bridle reins.
+    Why, you boys don't know range life--
+    You don't seem to git the ways,
+    Like we did down in Texas
+    In them good ol' early days!
+
+    "Yes, thing's a heap sight diff'rent now!
+    'Tain't like in them ol' days
+    When cowmen trailed their herds north
+    'N forty diff'rent ways.
+    We ship 'em on the railroad now,
+    Load out on the big S. P.,"
+    Says the relic of Texas cowman
+    As he takes a drink with me.
+
+    "I figger on buyin' more feeders,
+    From down across the line--
+    Chihuahua an' Sonora stuff,
+    An' hold 'em till they're prime.
+    So here's to the steers an' yearlin's!"
+    As we clink our glasses two,
+    "Things ain't the same as they used to be,
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "I got t' git out an' hustle,
+    I ain't got time t' stay;
+    Jes' want t' see some uh the boys
+    'N then I'm on my way.
+    There's many a hand here right now
+    That I know'd long, long ago,
+    When ranch land was free an' open
+    An' the plowman had a show.
+
+    "'Tain't often we git together
+    To swap yarns an' tell our lies,"
+    Said the old time Texas cowman
+    As a mist comes to his eyes.
+    "So let's drink up; here's how!"
+    As we drain our glasses two,
+    "Them was good ol' days an' good ol' ways--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!"
+
+    He talked and talked and yarned away,
+    He harped on days of yore--
+    My head it ached and I grew faint;
+    My legs got tired and sore.
+    Then a woman yelled, "You come here, John!"
+    And Lordy! how he flew!
+    And the last I heard as he broke and ran
+    Was, "Now I'm tellin' you!"
+
+    I won't never hail old timers
+    To have a drink with me,
+    To learn the history of the range
+    As far back as seventy-three.
+    And the next time that I'm thirsty
+    And feeling kind of blue,
+    I'll step right up and drink alone--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+                           _From the Wild Bunch._
+
+
+
+
+THE CLOWN'S BABY
+
+
+    IT was on the western frontier,--
+    The miners, rugged and brown,
+    Were gathered round the posters,
+    The circus had come to town!
+    The great tent shone in the darkness
+    Like a wonderful palace of light,
+    And rough men crowded the entrance,--
+    Shows didn't come every night!
+
+    Not a woman's face among them;
+    Many a face that was bad,
+    And some that were only vacant,
+    And some that were very sad.
+    And behind a canvas curtain,
+    In a corner of the place,
+    The clown, with chalk and vermillion,
+    Was "making up" his face.
+
+    A weary looking woman
+    With a smile that still was sweet,
+    Sewed on a little garment,
+    With a cradle at her feet.
+    Pantaloon stood ready and waiting,
+    It was time for the going on;
+    But the clown in vain searched wildly,--
+    The "property baby" was gone!
+
+    He murmured, impatiently hunting,
+    "It's strange that I cannot find--
+    There, I've looked in every corner;
+    It must have been left behind!"
+    The miners were stamping and shouting,
+    They were not patient men;
+    The clown bent over the cradle,--
+    "I must take you, little Ben."
+
+    The mother started and shivered,
+    But trouble and want were near;
+    She lifted the baby gently,
+    "You'll be very careful, dear?"
+    "Careful? You foolish darling!"
+    How tenderly it was said!
+    What a smile shone through the chalk and paint!
+    "I love each hair of his head!"
+
+    The noise rose into an uproar,
+    Misrule for the time was king;
+    The clown with a foolish chuckle
+    Bolted into the ring.
+    But as, with a squeak and flourish,
+    The fiddles closed their tune
+    "You'll hold him as if he were made of glass?"
+    Said the clown to the pantaloon.
+
+    The jovial fellow nodded,
+    "I've a couple myself," he said.
+    "I know how to handle 'em, bless you!
+    Old fellow, go ahead!"
+    The fun grew fast and furious,
+    And not one of all the crowd
+    Had guessed that the baby was alive,
+    When he suddenly laughed aloud.
+
+    Oh, that baby laugh! It was echoed
+    From the benches with a ring,
+    And the roughest customer there sprang up
+    With, "Boys, it's the real thing."
+    The ring was jammed in a minute,
+    Not a man that did not strive
+    For a "shot at holding the baby,"--
+    The baby that was alive!
+
+    He was thronged with kneeling suitors
+    In the midst of the dusty ring,
+    And he held his court right royally,--
+    The fair little baby king,--
+    Till one of the shouting courtiers,--
+    A man with a bold, hard face,
+    The talk, for miles, of the country,
+    And the terror of the place,
+
+    Raised the little king to his shoulder
+    And chuckled, "Look at that!"
+    As the chubby fingers clutched his hair;
+    Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!"
+    There never was such a hatful
+    Of silver and gold and notes;
+    People are not always penniless
+    Because they don't wear coats.
+
+    And then, "Three cheers for the baby!"
+    I tell you those cheers were meant,
+    And the way that they were given
+    Was enough to raise the tent.
+    And then there was sudden silence
+    And a gruff old miner said,
+    "Come boys, enough of this rumpus;
+    It's time it was put to bed."
+
+    So, looking a little sheepish,
+    But with faces strangely bright,
+    The audience, somewhat lingering,
+    Flocked out into the night.
+    And the bold-faced leader chuckled,
+    "He wasn't a bit afraid!
+    He's as game as he's good-looking!
+    Boys, that was a show that _paid_!"
+                              _Margaret Vandergrift._
+
+
+
+
+THE DRUNKEN DESPERADO
+
+
+    I'M wild and woolly and full of fleas,
+    I'm hard to curry below the knees,
+    I'm a she-wolf from Shamon Creek,
+    For I was dropped from a lightning streak
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    I stayed in Texas till they runned me out,
+    Then in Bull Frog they chased me about,
+    I walked a little and rode some more,
+    For I've shot up a town before
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    Give me room and turn me loose
+    I'm peaceable without excuse.
+    I never killed for profit or fun,
+    But riled, I'm a regular son of a gun
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    Good-eye Jim will serve the crowd;
+    The rule goes here no sweetnin' 'lowed.
+    And we'll drink now the Nixon kid,
+    For I rode to town and lifted the lid
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    You can guess how quick a man must be,
+    For I killed eleven and wounded three;
+    And brothers and daddies aren't makin' a sound
+    Though they know where the kid is found
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    When I get old and my aim aint true
+    And it's three to one and wounded, too,
+    I won't beg and claw the ground;
+    For I'll be dead before I'm found
+    When it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+                                _Baird Boyd._
+
+
+
+
+MARTA OF MILRONE
+
+
+    I SHOT him where the Rio flows;
+    I shot him when the moon arose;
+    And where he lies the vulture knows
+    Along the Tinto River.
+
+    In schools of eastern culture pale
+    My cloistered flesh began to fail;
+    They bore me where the deserts quail
+    To winds from out the sun.
+
+    I looked upon the land and sky,
+    Nor hoped to live nor feared to die;
+    And from my hollow breast a sigh
+    Fell o'er the burning waste.
+
+    But strong I grew and tall I grew;
+    I drank the region's balm and dew,--
+    It made me lithe in limb and thew,--
+    How swift I rode and ran!
+
+    And oft it was my joy to ride
+    Over the sand-blown ocean wide
+    While, ever smiling at my side,
+    Rode Marta of Milrone.
+
+    A flood of horned heads before,
+    The trampled thunder, smoke and roar,
+    Of full four thousand hoofs, or more--
+    A cloud, a sea, a storm!
+
+    Oh, wonderful the desert gleamed,
+    As, man and maid, we spoke and dreamed
+    Of love in life, till white wastes seemed
+    Like plains of paradise.
+
+    Her eyes with Love's great magic shone.
+    "Be mine, O Marta of Milrone,--
+    Your hand, your heart be all my own!"
+    Her lips made sweet response.
+
+    "I love you, yes; for you are he
+    Who from the East should come to me--
+    And I have waited long!" Oh, we
+    Were happy as the sun.
+
+    There came upon a hopeless quest,
+    With hell and hatred in his breast,
+    A stranger, who his love confessed
+    To Marta long in vain.
+
+    To me she spoke: "Chosen mate,
+    His eyes are terrible with fate,--
+    I fear his love, I fear his hate,--
+    I fear some looming ill!"
+
+    Then to the church we twain did ride,
+    I kissed her as she rode beside.
+    How fair--how passing fair my bride
+    With gold combs in her hair!
+
+    Before the Spanish priest we stood
+    Of San Gregorio's brotherhood--
+    A shot rang out!--and in her blood
+    My dark-eyed darling lay.
+
+    O God! I carried her beside
+    The Virgin's altar where she cried,--
+    Smiling upon me ere she died,--
+    "Adieu, my love, adieu!"
+
+    I knelt before St. Mary's shrine
+    And held my dead one's hand in mine,
+    "Vengeance," I cried, "O Lord, be thine,
+    But I thy minister!"
+
+    I kissed her thrice and sealed my vow,--
+    Her eyes, her sea-cold lips and brow,--
+    "Farewell, my heart is dying now,
+    O Marta of Milrone!"
+
+    Then swift upon my steed I lept;
+    My streaming eyes the desert swept;
+    I saw the accursed where he crept
+    Against the blood-red sun.
+
+    I galloped straight upon his track,
+    And never more my eyes looked back;
+    The world was barred with red and black;
+    My heart was flaming coal.
+
+    Through the delirious twilight dim
+    And the black night I followed him;
+    Hills did we cross and rivers swim,--
+    My fleet foot horse and I.
+
+    The morn burst red, a gory wound,
+    O'er iron hills and savage ground;
+    And there was never another sound
+    Save beat of horses' hoofs.
+
+    Unto the murderer's ear they said,
+    "_Thou'rt of the dead! Thou'rt of the dead!_"
+    Still on his stallion black he sped
+    While death spurred on behind.
+
+    Fiery dust from the blasted plain
+    Burnt like lava in every vein;
+    But I rode on with steady rein
+    Though the fierce sand-devils spun.
+
+    Then to a sullen land we came,
+    Whose earth was brass, whose sky was flame;
+    I made it balm with her blessed name
+    In the land of Mexico.
+
+    With gasp and groan my poor horse fell,--
+    Last of all things that loved me well!
+    I turned my head--a smoking shell
+    Veiled me his dying throes.
+
+    But fast on vengeful foot was I;
+    His steed fell, too, and was left to die;
+    He fled where a river's channel dry
+    Made way to the rolling stream.
+
+    Red as my rage the huge sun sank.
+    My foe bent low on the river's bank
+    And deep of the kindly flood he drank
+    While the giant stars broke forth.
+
+    Then face to face and man to man
+    I fought him where the river ran,
+    While the trembling palm held up its fan
+    And the emerald serpents lay.
+
+    The mad, remorseless bullets broke
+    From tongues of flame in the sulphur smoke;
+    The air was rent till the desert spoke
+    To the echoing hills afar.
+
+    Hot from his lips the curses burst;
+    He fell! The sands were slaked of thirst;
+    A stream in the stream ran dark at first,
+    And the stones grew red as hearts.
+
+    I shot him where the Rio flows;
+    I shot him when the moon arose;
+    And where he lies the vulture knows
+    Along the Tinto River.
+
+    But where she lies to none is known
+    Save to my poor heart and a lonely stone
+    On which I sit and weep alone
+    Where the cactus stars are white.
+
+    Where I shall lie, no man can say;
+    The flowers all are fallen away;
+    The desert is so drear and grey,
+    O Marta of Milrone!
+                               _Herman Scheffauer._
+
+
+
+
+JACK DEMPSEY'S GRAVE
+
+
+    FAR out in the wilds of Oregon,
+    On a lonely mountain side,
+    Where Columbia's mighty waters
+    Roll down to the Ocean's tide;
+    Where the giant fir and cedar
+    Are imaged in the wave,
+    O'ergrown with ferns and lichens,
+    I found poor Dempsey's grave.
+
+    I found no marble monolith,
+    No broken shaft nor stone,
+    Recording sixty victories
+    This vanquished victor won;
+    No rose, no shamrock could I find,
+    No mortal here to tell
+    Where sleeps in this forsaken spot
+    The immortal Nonpareil.
+
+    A winding, wooded canyon road
+    That mortals seldom tread
+    Leads up this lonely mountain
+    To this desert of the dead.
+    And the western sun was sinking
+    In Pacific's golden wave;
+    And these solemn pines kept watching
+    Over poor Jack Dempsey's grave.
+
+    That man of honor and of iron,
+    That man of heart and steel,
+    That man who far out-classed his class
+    And made mankind to feel
+    That Dempsey's name and Dempsey's fame
+    Should live in serried stone,
+    Is now at rest far in the West
+    In the wilds of Oregon.
+
+    Forgotten by ten thousand throats
+    That thundered his acclaim--
+    Forgotten by his friends and foes
+    That cheered his very name;
+    Oblivion wraps his faded form,
+    But ages hence shall save
+    The memory of that Irish lad
+    That fills poor Dempsey's grave.
+
+    O Fame, why sleeps thy favored son
+    In wilds, in woods, in weeds?
+    And shall he ever thus sleep on--
+    Interred his valiant deeds?
+    'Tis strange New York should thus forget
+    Its "bravest of the brave,"
+    And in the wilds of Oregon
+    Unmarked, leave Dempsey's grave.
+                      _MacMahon._
+
+
+
+
+THE CATTLE ROUND-UP
+
+
+    ONCE more are we met for a season of pleasure,
+    That shall smooth from our brows every furrow of care,
+    For the sake of old times shall we each tread a measure
+    And drink to the lees in the eyes of the fair.
+    Once more let the hand-clasp of years past be given;
+    Let us once more be boys and forget we are men;
+    Let friendships the chances of fortune have riven
+    Be renewed and the smiling past come back again.
+    The past, when the prairie was big and the cattle
+    Were as "scary" as ever the antelope grew--
+    When to carry a gun, to make our spurs rattle,
+    And to ride a blue streak was the most that we knew;
+    The past when we headed each year for Dodge City
+    And punched up the drags on the old Chisholm Trail;
+    When the world was all bright and the girls were all pretty,
+    And a feller could "mav'rick" and stay out of jail.
+
+    Then here's to the eyes that like diamonds are gleaming,
+    And make the lamps blush that their duties are o'er;
+    And here's to the lips where young love lies a-dreaming;
+    And here's to the feet light as air on the floor;
+    And here's to the memories--fun's sweetest sequel;
+    And here's to the night we shall ever recall;
+    And here's to the time--time shall know not its equal
+    When we danced the day in at the Cattlemen's Ball.
+                       _H. D. C. McLaclachlan._
+
+
+
+
+PART II
+
+THE COWBOY OFF GUARD
+
+
+
+
+    _I am the plain, barren since time began.
+    Yet do I dream of motherhood, when man
+    One day at last shall look upon my charms
+    And give me towns, like children, for my arms._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE
+
+
+    I UST to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod
+    From an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the Cupid god,
+    An' I'd laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin' their breath in
+        sighs
+    An' goin' around with a locoed look a-campin' inside their eyes.
+    I've read o' the gals that broke 'em up a-sailin' in airy flight
+    On angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o' the same at
+        night,
+    An' a sort o' disgusted frown'd bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow,
+    An' I'd call 'em a lot o' sissy boys--but I'm seein' it different now.
+
+    I got the jab in my rough ol' heart, an' I got it a-plenty, too,
+    A center shot from a pair o' eyes of the winninest sort o' blue,
+    An' I ride the ranges a-sighin' sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer--
+    A durned heap worse than the novel blokes that the narrative gals'd
+        queer.
+    Just hain't no energy left no mo', go 'round like a orphant calf
+    A-thinkin' about that sagehen's eyes that give me the Cupid gaff,
+    An' I'm all skeered up when I hit the thought some other rider might
+    Cut in ahead on a faster hoss an' rope her afore my sight.
+
+    There ain't a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd
+    Could switch a tail on the whole durned range 'long-side o' that
+        little bird;
+    A figger plump as a prairy dog's that's feedin' on new spring grass,
+    An' as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin' glass.
+    She's got a smile that 'd raise the steam in the icyist sort o' heart,
+    A couple o' soul inspirin' eyes, an' the nose that keeps 'em apart
+    Is the cutest thing in the sassy line that ever occurred to act
+    As a ornament stuck on a purty face, an' that's a dead open fact.
+
+    I'm a-goin' to brace her by an' by to see if there's any hope,
+    To see if she's liable to shy when I'm ready to pitch the rope;
+    To see if she's goin' to make a stand, or fly like a skeered up dove
+    When I make a pass with the brandin' iron that's het in the fire o'
+        love.
+    I'll open the little home corral an' give her the level hunch
+    To make a run fur the open gate when I cut her out o' the bunch,
+    Fur there ain't no sense in a-jammin' round with a heart that's as
+        soft as dough
+    An' a-throwin' the breath o' life away bunched up into sighs.
+        Heigh-ho!
+                              _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY AND THE MAID
+
+
+    FUNNY how it come about!
+    Me and Texas Tom was out
+    Takin' of a moonlight walk,
+    Fillin' in the time with talk.
+    Every star up in the sky
+    Seemed to wink the other eye
+    At each other, 'sif they
+    Smelt a mouse around our way!
+
+    Me and Tom had never grew
+    Spoony like some couples do;
+    Never billed and cooed and sighed;
+    He was bashful like and I'd
+    Notions of my own that it
+    Wasn't policy to git
+    Too abundant till I'd got
+    Of my feller good and caught.
+
+    As we walked along that night
+    He got talkin' of the bright
+    Prospects that he had, and I
+    Somehow felt, I dunno why,
+    That a-fore we cake-walked back
+    To the ranch he'd make a crack
+    Fer my hand, and I was plum
+    Achin' fer the shock to come.
+
+    By and by he says, "I've got
+    Fifty head o' cows, and not
+    One of 'em but, on the dead,
+    Is a crackin' thoroughbred.
+    Got a daisy claim staked out,
+    And I'm thinkin' it's about
+    Time fer me to make a shy
+    At a home." "O Tom!" says I.
+
+    "Bin a-lookin' round," says he,
+    "Quite a little while to see
+    'F I could git a purty face
+    Fer to ornament the place.
+    Plenty of 'em in the land;
+    But the one 'at wears my brand
+    Must be sproutin' wings to fly!"
+    "You deserve her, Tom," says I.
+
+    "Only one so fur," says he,
+    "Fills the bill, and mebbe she
+    Might shy off and bust my hope
+    If I should pitch the poppin' rope.
+    Mebbe she'd git hot an' say
+    That it was a silly play
+    Askin' her to make a tie."
+    "She would be a fool," says I.
+
+    'Tain't nobody's business what
+    Happened then, but I jist thought
+    I could see the moon-man smile
+    Cutely down upon us, while
+    Me and him was walkin' back,--
+    Stoppin' now and then to smack
+    Lips rejoicin' that at last
+    The dread crisis had been past.
+                                  _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S LOVE SONG
+
+
+    OH, the last steer has been branded
+    And the last beef has been shipped,
+    And I'm free to roam the prairies
+    That the round-up crew has stripped;
+    I'm free to think of Susie,--
+    Fairer than the stars above,--
+    She's the waitress at the station
+    And she is my turtle dove.
+
+        Biscuit-shootin' Susie,--
+        She's got us roped and tied;
+        Sober men or woozy
+        Look on her with pride.
+        Susie's strong and able,
+        And not a one gits rash
+        When she waits on the table
+        And superintends the hash.
+
+    Oh, I sometimes think I'm locoed
+    An' jes fit fer herdin' sheep,
+    'Cause I only think of Susie
+    When I'm wakin' or I'm sleep.
+    I'm wearin' Cupid's hobbles,
+    An' I'm tied to Love's stake-pin,
+    And when my heart was branded
+    The irons sunk deep in.
+
+    Chorus:--
+
+    I take my saddle, Sundays,--
+    The one with inlaid flaps,--
+    And don my new sombrero
+    And my white angora chaps;
+    Then I take a bronc for Susie
+    And she leaves her pots and pans
+    And we figure out our future
+    And talk o'er our homestead plans.
+
+    Chorus:--
+                             _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+A BORDER AFFAIR
+
+
+    SPANISH is the lovin' tongue,
+      Soft as music, light as spray;
+    'Twas a girl I learnt it from
+      Livin' down Sonora way.
+    I don't look much like a lover,
+    Yet I say her love-words over
+      Often, when I'm all alone--
+      "_Mi amor, mi corazón._"
+
+    Nights when she knew where I'd ride
+      She would listen for my spurs,
+    Throw the big door open wide,
+      Raise them laughin' eyes of hers,
+    And my heart would nigh stop beatin'
+    When I'd hear her tender greetin'
+      Whispered soft for me alone--
+      "_Mi amor! mi corazón!_"
+
+    Moonlight in the patio,
+      Old Señora noddin' near,
+    Me and Juana talkin' low
+      So the "madre" couldn't hear--
+    How those hours would go a-flyin',
+    And too soon I'd hear her sighin',
+      In her little sorry-tone--
+      "_Adiós, mi corazón._"
+
+    But one time I had to fly
+      For a foolish gamblin' fight,
+    And we said a swift good-bye
+      On that black, unlucky night.
+    When I'd loosed her arms from clingin',
+    With her words the hoofs kept ringin',
+      As I galloped north alone--
+      "_Adiós, mi corazón._"
+
+    Never seen her since that night;
+      I kaint cross the Line, you know.
+    She was Mex. and I was white;
+      Like as not it's better so.
+    Yet I've always sort of missed her
+    Since that last, wild night I kissed her,
+      Left her heart and lost my own--
+      "_Adiós, mi corazón._"
+                     _Charles B. Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+SNAGTOOTH SAL
+
+
+    I WAS young and happy and my heart was light and gay,
+    Singin', always singin' through the sunny summer day;
+    Happy as a lizard in the wavin' chaparral,
+    Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.
+
+       Sal, Sal,
+       My heart is broke today--
+       Broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay;
+       I would give creation to be walkin' with my gal--
+       Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.
+
+    Bury me tomorrow where the lily blossoms spring
+    Underneath the willows where the little robins sing.
+    You will yearn to see me--but ah, nevermore you shall--
+    Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.
+
+      Refrain:--
+
+    Plant a little stone above the little mound of sod;
+    Write: "Here lies a lovin' an' a busted heart, begod!
+    Nevermore you'll see him walkin' proudly with his gal--
+    Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal."
+
+       Sal, Sal,
+       My heart is broke today--
+       Broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay;
+       I would give creation to be walkin' with my gal--
+       Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.
+                        _Lowell O. Reese,
+                  In the Saturday Evening Post._
+
+
+
+
+LOVE LYRICS OF A COWBOY
+
+
+    IT hain't no use fer me to say
+    There's others with a style an' way
+    That beats hers to a fare-you-well,
+    Fer, on the square, I'm here to tell
+    I jes can't even start to see
+    But what she's perfect as kin be.
+    Fer any fault I finds excuse--
+    I'll tell you, pard, it hain't no use
+    Fer me to try to raise a hand,
+    When on my heart she's run her brand.
+
+    The bunk-house ain't the same to me;
+    The bunch jes makes me weary--Gee!
+    I never knew they was so coarse--
+    I warps my face to try to force
+    A smile at each old gag they spring;
+    Fer I'd heap ruther hear her sing
+    "Sweet Adeline," or softly play
+    The "Dream o' Heaven" that-a-way.
+    Besides this place, most anywhere
+    I'd ruther be--so she was there.
+
+    She called me "dear," an' do you know,
+    My heart jes skipped a beat, an' tho'
+    I'm hard to feaze, I'm free to yip
+    My reason nearly lost its grip.
+    She called me "dear," jes sweet an' slow,
+    An' lookin' down an' speakin' low;
+    An' if I had ten lives to live,
+    With everything the world could give,
+    I'd shake 'em all without one fear
+    If 'fore I'd go she'd call me "dear."
+
+    You wonders why I slicks up so
+    On Sundays, when I gits to go
+    To see her--well, I'm free to say
+    She's like religion that-a-way.
+    Jes sort o' like some holy thing,
+    As clean as young grass in the spring;
+    An' so before I rides to her
+    I looks my best from hat to spur--
+    But even then I hain't no right
+    To think I look good in her sight.
+
+    If she should pass me up--say, boy,
+    You jes put hobbles on your joy;
+    First thing you know, you gits so gay
+    Your luck stampedes and gits away.
+    An' don't you even start a guess
+    That you've a cinch on happiness;
+    Fer few e'er reach the Promised Land
+    If they starts headed by a band.
+    Ride slow an' quiet, humble, too,
+    Or Fate will slap its brand on you.
+
+    The old range sleeps, there hain't a stir.
+    Less it's a night-hawk's sudden whir,
+    Or cottonwoods a-whisperin while
+    The red moon smiles a lovin' smile.
+    An' there I set an' hold her hand
+    So glad I jes can't understand
+    The reason of it all, or see
+    Why all the world looks good to me;
+    Or why I sees in it heap more
+    Of beauty than I seen before.
+
+    Fool talk, perhaps, but it jes seems
+    We're ridin' through a range o' dreams;
+    Where medder larks the year round sing,
+    An' it's jes one eternal spring.
+    An' time--why time is gone--by gee!
+    There's no such thing as time to me
+    Until she says, "Here, boy, you know
+    You simply jes have got to go;
+    It's nearly twelve." I rides away,
+    "Dog-gone a clock!" is what I say.
+                                  _R. V. Carr._
+
+
+
+
+THE BULL FIGHT
+
+
+    THE couriers from Chihuahua go
+    To distant Cusi and Santavo,
+    Announce the feast of all the year the crown--
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    The rancherias on the mountain side,
+    The haciendas of the Llano wide,
+    Are quickened by the matador's renown.
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    The women that on ambling burros ride,
+    The men that trudge behind or close beside
+    Make groups of dazzling red and white and brown.
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    Or else the lumbering carts are brought in play,
+    That jolt and scream and groan along the way,
+    But to their happy tenants cause no frown.
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    The Plaza De Los Toros offers seats,
+    Some deep in shade, on some the fierce sun beats;
+    These for the don, those for the rustic clown.
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    Pepita sits, so young and sweet and fresh,
+    The sun shines on her hair's dusky mesh.
+    Her day of days, how soon it will be flown!
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan's brought his Pepita into town.
+
+    The bull is harried till the governor's word
+    Bids the Diestro give the agile sword;
+    Then shower the bravos and the roses down!
+    _'Sta muerto el toro!_
+    And Juan takes his Pepita back from the town.
+                          _L. Worthington Green._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY'S VALENTINE
+
+
+    SAY, Moll, now don't you 'llow to quit
+    A-playin' maverick?
+    Sech stock should be corralled a bit
+    An' hev a mark 't 'll stick.
+
+    Old Val's a-roundin'-up today
+    Upon the Sweetheart Range,
+    'N me a-helpin', so to say,
+    Though this yere herd is strange
+
+    To me--'n yit, ef I c'd rope
+    Jes _one_ to wear my brand
+    I'd strike f'r Home Ranch on a lope,
+    The happiest in the land.
+
+    Yo' savvy who I'm runnin' so,
+    Yo' savvy who I be;
+    Now, can't yo' take that brand--yo' know,--
+    The [Symbol: Heart] M-I-N-E.
+                                _C. F. Lummis._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S HOPELESS LOVE
+
+
+    I'VE heard that story ofttimes about that little chap
+    A-cryin' for the shiney moon to fall into his lap,
+    An' jes a-raisin' merry hell because he couldn't git
+    The same to swing down low so's he could nab a-holt of it,
+    An' I'm a-feelin' that-a-way, locoed I reckon, wuss
+    Than that same kid, though maybe not a-makin' sich a fuss,--
+    A-goin' round with achin' eyes a-hankerin' fer a peach
+    That's hangin' on the beauty tree, too high fer me to reach.
+
+    I'm jes a rider of the range, plumb rough an' on-refined,
+    An' wild an' keerless in my ways, like others of my kind;
+    A reckless cuss in leather chaps, an' tanned an' blackened so
+    You'd think I wuz a Greaser from the plains of Mexico.
+    I never learnt to say a prayer, an' guess my style o' talk,
+    If fired off in a Sunday School would give 'em all a shock;
+    An' yet I got a-mopin' round as crazy as a loon
+    An' actin' like the story kid that bellered fer the moon.
+
+    I wish to God she'd never come with them bright laughin' eyes,--
+    Had never flashed that smile that seems a sunburst from the skies,--
+    Had stayed there in her city home instead o' comin' here
+    To visit at the ranch an' knock my heart plumb out o' gear.
+    I wish to God she'd talk to me in a way to fit the case,--
+    In words t'd have a tendency to hold me in my place,--
+    Instead o' bein' sociable an' actin' like she thought
+    Us cowboys good as city gents in clothes that's tailor bought.
+
+    If I would hint to her o' love, she'd hit that love a jar
+    An' laugh at sich a tough as me a-tryin' to rope a star;
+    She'd give them fluffy skirts a flirt, an' skate out o' my sight,
+    An' leave me paralyzed,--an' it'd serve me cussed right.
+    I wish she'd pack her pile o' trunks an' hit the city track,
+    An' maybe I'd recover from this violent attack;
+    An' in the future know enough to watch my feedin' ground
+    An' shun the loco weed o' love when there's an angel round.
+                            _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE CHASE
+
+
+    HERE'S a moccasin track in the drifts,
+    It's no more than the length of my hand;
+    An' her instep,--just see how it lifts!
+    If that ain't the best in the land!
+    For the maid ran as free as the wind
+    And her foot was as light as the snow.
+    Why, as sure as I follow, I'll find
+    Me a kiss where her red blushes grow.
+
+    Here's two small little feet and a skirt;
+    Here's a soft little heart all aglow.
+    See me trail down the dear little flirt
+    By the sign that she left in the snow!
+    Did she run? 'Twas a sign to make haste.
+    An' why bless her! I'm sure she won't mind.
+    If she's got any kisses to waste,
+    Why, she knew that a man was behind.
+
+    Did she run 'cause she's only afraid?
+    No! For sure 'twas to set me the pace!
+    An' I'll follow in love with a maid
+    When I ain't had a sight of her face.
+    There she is! An' I knew she was near.
+    Will she pay me a kiss to be free?
+    Will she hate? Will she love? Will she fear?
+    Why, the darling! She's waiting to see!
+                         _Pocock in "Curley."_
+
+
+
+
+RIDING SONG
+
+
+    LET us ride together,--
+    Blowing mane and hair,
+    Careless of the weather,
+    Miles ahead of care,
+    Ring of hoof and snaffle,
+    Swing of waist and hip,
+    Trotting down the twisted road
+    With the world let slip.
+
+    Let us laugh together,--
+    Merry as of old
+    To the creak of leather
+    And the morning cold.
+    Break into a canter;
+    Shout to bank and tree;
+    Rocking down the waking trail,
+    Steady hand and knee.
+
+    Take the life of cities,--
+    Here's the life for me.
+    'Twere a thousand pities
+    Not to gallop free.
+    So we'll ride together,
+    Comrade, you and I,
+    Careless of the weather,
+    Letting care go by.
+                          _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+OUR LITTLE COWGIRL
+
+
+    THAR she goes a-lopin', stranger,
+    Khaki-gowned, with flyin' hair,
+    Talk about your classy ridin',--
+    Wal, you're gettin' it right thar.
+    Jest a kid, but lemme tell you
+    When she warms a saddle seat
+    On that outlaw bronc a-straddle
+    She is one that can't be beat!
+
+    Every buckaroo that sees her
+    Tearin' cross the range astride
+    Has some mighty jealous feelin's
+    Wishin' he knowed how to ride.
+    Why, she'll take a deep barranca
+    Six-foot wide and never peep;
+    That 'ere cayuse she's a-forkin'
+    Sure's somethin' on the leap.
+
+    Ride? Why, she can cut a critter
+    From the herd as neat as pie,
+    Read a brand out on the ranges
+    Just as well as you or I.
+    Ain't much yet with the riata,
+    But you give her a few years
+    And no puncher with the outfit
+    Will beat her a-ropin' steers.
+
+    Proud o' her? Say, lemme tell you,
+    She's the queen of all the range;
+    Got a grip upon our heart-strings
+    Mighty strong, but that ain't strange;
+    'Cause she loves the lowin' cattle,
+    Loves the hills and open air,
+    Dusty trails on blossomed canons
+    God has strung around out here.
+
+    Hoof-beats poundin' down the mesa,
+    Chicken-time in lively tune,
+    Jest below the trail to Keeber's,--
+    Wait, you'll see her pretty soon.
+    You kin bet I know that ridin',--
+    Now she's toppin' yonder swell.
+    Thar she is; that's her a-smilin'
+    At the bars of the corral.
+                                _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+I WANT MY TIME
+
+
+    I'M night guard all alone tonight,
+    Dead homesick, lonely, tired and blue;
+    And none but you can make it right;
+    My heart is hungry, Girl, for you.
+
+    I've longed all night to hug you, Dear;
+    To speak my love I'm at a loss.
+    But just as soon as daylight's here
+    I'm goin' straight to see the boss.
+
+    "How long's the round-up goin' to run?
+    Another week, or maybe three?
+    Give me my time, then, I am done.
+    No, I'm not sick. Three weeks? Oh gee!"
+
+    I know, though, when I've had enough.
+    I will not work,--darned if I will.
+    I'm goin' to quit, and that's no bluff.
+    Say, gimme some tobacco, Bill.
+                                    _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+WHO'S THAT CALLING SO SWEET?
+
+
+    THE herds are gathered in from plain and hill,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    The boys are sleeping and the boys are still,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    'Twas the wind a-sighing in the prairie grass,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    Or wild birds singing overhead as they pass.
+
+        Who's that a-calling?
+        Making heart and pulse to beat.
+
+    No, no, it wasn't earthly sound I heard,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    It was no sigh of breeze or song of bird,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    For the tone I heard was softer far than these,
+            that a-calling?
+    'Twas loved ones' voices from far off across the seas
+                                            _Deveen._
+
+
+
+
+SONG OF THE CATTLE TRAIL
+
+
+    THE dust hangs thick upon the trail
+    And the horns and the hoofs are clashing,
+    While off at the side through the chaparral
+    The men and the strays go crashing;
+    But in right good cheer the cowboy sings,
+    For the work of the fall is ending,
+    And then it's ride for the old home ranch
+    Where a maid love's light is tending.
+
+    Then it's crack! crack! crack!
+    On the beef steer's back,
+    And it's run, you slow-foot devil;
+    For I'm soon to turn back where through the black
+    Love's lamp gleams along the level.
+
+    He's trailed them far o'er the trackless range,
+    Has this knight of the saddle leather;
+    He has risked his life in the mad stampede,
+    And has breasted all kinds of weather.
+    But now is the end of the trail in sight,
+    And the hours on wings are sliding;
+    For it's back to the home and the only girl
+    When the foreman O K's the option.
+
+    Then it's quirt! quirt! quirt!
+    And it's run or git hurt,
+    You hang-back, bawling critter.
+    For a man who's in love with a turtle dove
+    Ain't got no time to fritter.
+                                     _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S SON
+
+
+    WHAR y'u from, little stranger, little boy?
+    Y'u was ridin' a cloud on that star-strewn plain,
+    But y'u fell from the skies like a drop of rain
+    To this world of sorrow and long, long pain.
+    Will y'u care fo' yo' mothah, little boy?
+
+    When y'u grows, little varmint, little boy,
+    Y'u'll be ridin' a hoss by yo' fathah's side
+    With yo' gun and yo' spurs and yo' howstrong pride.
+    Will y'u think of yo' home when the world rolls wide?
+    Will y'u wish for yo' mothah, little boy?
+
+    When y'u love in yo' manhood, little boy,--
+    When y'u dream of a girl who is angel fair,--
+    When the stars are her eyes and the wind is her hair,--
+    When the sun is her smile and yo' heaven's there,--
+    Will y'u care for yo' mothah, little boy?
+                             _Pocock in "Curley."_
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY SONG
+
+
+    I COULD not be so well content,
+    So sure of thee,
+    Señorita,
+    But well I know you must relent
+    And come to me,
+    Lolita!
+
+    The Caballeros throng to see
+    Thy laughing face,
+    Señorita,
+    Lolita.
+    But well I know thy heart's for me,
+    Thy charm, thy grace,
+    Lolita!
+
+    I ride the range for thy dear sake,
+    To earn thee gold,
+    Señorita,
+    Lolita;
+    And steal the gringo's cows to make
+    A ranch to hold
+    Lolita!
+                       _Pocock in "Curley."_
+
+
+
+
+A NEVADA COWPUNCHER TO HIS BELOVED
+
+
+    LONESOME? Well, I guess so!
+    This place is mighty blue;
+    The silence of the empty rooms
+    Jes' palpitates with--you.
+
+    The day has lost its beauty,
+    The sun's a-shinin' pale;
+    I'll round up my belongin's
+    An' I guess I'll hit the trail.
+
+    Out there in the sage-brush
+    A-harkin' to the "Coo-oo"
+    Of the wild dove in his matin'
+    I can think alone of you.
+
+    Perhaps a gaunt coyote
+    Will go a-lopin' by
+    An' linger on the mountain ridge
+    An' cock his wary eye.
+
+    An' when the evenin' settles,
+    A-waitin' for the dawn
+    Perhaps I'll hear the ground owl:
+    "She's gone--she's gone--she's gone!"
+                            _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY TO HIS FRIEND IN NEED
+
+
+    YOU'RE very well polished, I'm free to confess,
+    Well balanced, well rounded, a power for right;
+    But cool and collected,--no steel could be less;
+    You're primed for continual fight.
+
+    Your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will,
+    On hatred and choler you seem to have fed;
+    But when I control you, your temper is nil;
+    In fact, you're most easily led.
+
+    Though lead is your diet and fight is your fun,
+    I simply can't give you the jolt;
+    For I love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun,--
+    You forty-five caliber Colt!
+                                   _Burke Jenkins._
+
+
+
+
+WHEN BOB GOT THROWED
+
+
+    THAT time when Bob got throwed
+    I thought I sure would bust.
+    I like to died a-laffin'
+    To see him chewin' dust.
+
+    He crawled on that Andy bronc
+    And hit him with a quirt.
+    The next thing that he knew
+    He was wallowin' in the dirt.
+
+    Yes, it might a-killed him,
+    I heard the old ground pop;
+    But to see if he was injured
+    You bet I didn't stop.
+
+    I just rolled on the ground
+    And began to kick and yell;
+    It like to tickled me to death
+    To see how hard he fell.
+
+    'Twarn't more than a week ago
+    That I myself got throwed,
+    (But 'twas from a meaner horse
+    Than old Bob ever rode).
+
+    D'you reckon Bob looked sad and said,
+    "I hope that you ain't hurt!"
+    Naw! He just laffed and laffed and laffed
+    To see me chewin' dirt.
+
+    I've been prayin' ever since
+    For his horse to turn his pack;
+    And when he done it, I'd a laffed
+    If it had broke his back.
+
+    So I was still a-howlin'
+    When Bob, he got up lame;
+    He seen his horse had run clean off
+    And so for me he came.
+
+    He first chucked sand into my eyes,
+    With a rock he rubbed my head,
+    Then he twisted both my arms,--
+    "Now go fetch that horse," he said.
+
+    So I went and fetched him back,
+    But I was feelin' good all day;
+    For I sure enough do love to see
+    A feller get throwed that way.
+                                  _Ray._
+
+
+
+
+COWBOY VERSUS BRONCHO
+
+
+    HAVEN'T got no special likin' fur the toney sorts o' play,
+      Chasin' foxes or that hossback polo game,
+    Jumpin' critters over hurdles--sort o' things that any jay
+      Could accomplish an' regard as rather tame.
+    None o' them is worth a mention, to my thinkin' p'int o' view,
+      Which the same I hold correct without a doubt,
+    As a-toppin' of a broncho that has got it in fur you
+      An' concludes that's just the time to have it out.
+
+    Don't no sooner hit the saddle than the exercises start,
+      An' they're lackin' in perliminary fuss;
+    You kin hear his j'ints a-crackin' like he's breakin' 'em apart,
+      An' the hide jes' seems a-rippin' off the cuss,
+    An' you sometimes git a joltin' that makes everything turn blue,
+      An' you want to strictly mind what you're about,
+    When you're fightin' with a broncho that has got it in fur you
+      An' imagines that's the time to have it out.
+
+    Bows his back when he is risin', sticks his nose between his knees,
+      An' he shakes hisself while a-hangin' in the air;
+    Then he hits the earth so solid that it somewhat disagrees
+      With the usual peace an' quiet of your hair.
+    You imagine that your innards are a-gittin' all askew,
+      An' your spine don't feel so cussed firm an' stout,
+    When you're up agin a broncho that has got it in fur you
+      Doin' of his level best to have it out.
+
+    He will rise to the occasion with a lightnin' jump, an' then
+      When he hits the face o' these United States
+    Doesn't linger half a second till he's in the air agin--
+      Occupies the earth an' then evacuates.
+    Isn't any sense o' comfort like a-settin' in a pew
+      Listenin' to hear a sleepy parson spout
+    When you're up on top a broncho that has got it in fur you
+      An' is desputly a-tryin' to have it out.
+
+    Always feel a touch o' pity when he has to give it up
+      After makin' sich a well intentioned buck
+    An' is standin' broken hearted an' as gentle as a pup
+      A reflectin' on the rottenness o' luck.
+    Puts your sympathetic feelin's, as you might say, in a stew,
+      Though you're lame as if a-sufferin' from the gout,
+    When you're lightin' off a broncho that has had it in fur you
+      An' mistook the proper time to have it out.
+                            _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+WHEN YOU'RE THROWED
+
+
+    IF a feller's been a-straddle
+    Since he's big enough to ride,
+    And has had to sling his saddle
+    On most any colored hide,--
+    Though it's nothin' they take pride in,
+    Still most fellers I have knowed,
+    If they ever done much ridin',
+    Has at different times got throwed.
+
+    All the boys start out together
+    For the round-up some fine day
+    When you're due to throw your leather
+    On a little wall-eyed bay,
+    An' he swells to beat the nation
+    When you're cinchin' up the slack,
+    An' he keeps an elevation
+    In your saddle at the back.
+
+    He stands still with feet a-sprawlin',
+    An' his eye shows lots of white,
+    An' he kinks his spinal column,
+    An' his hide is puckered tight,
+    He starts risin' an' a-jumpin',
+    An' he strikes when you get near,
+    An' you cuss him an' you thump him
+    Till you get him by the ear,--
+
+    Then your right hand grabs the saddle
+    An' you ketch your stirrup, too,
+    An' you try to light a-straddle
+    Like a woolly buckaroo;
+    But he drops his head an' switches,
+    Then he makes a backward jump,
+    Out of reach your stirrup twitches
+    But your right spur grabs his hump.
+
+    An' "Stay with him!" shouts some feller;
+    Though you know it's hope forlorn,
+    Yet you'll show that you ain't yeller
+    An' you choke the saddle horn.
+    Then you feel one rein a-droppin'
+    An' you know he's got his head;
+    An' your shirt tail's out an' floppin';
+    An' the saddle pulls like lead.
+
+    Then the boys all yell together
+    Fit to make a feller sick:
+    "Hey, you short horn, drop the leather!
+    Fan his fat an' ride him slick!"
+    Seems you're up-side-down an' flyin';
+    Then your spurs begin to slip.
+    There's no further use in tryin',
+    For the horn flies from your grip,
+
+    An' you feel a vague sensation
+    As upon the ground you roll,
+    Like a violent separation
+    'Twixt your body an' your soul.
+    Then you roll agin a hummock
+    Where you lay an' gasp for breath,
+    An' there's somethin' grips your stomach
+    Like the finger-grips o' death.
+
+    They all offers you prescriptions
+    For the grip an' for the croup,
+    An' they give you plain descriptions
+    How you looped the spiral loop;
+    They all swear you beat a circus
+    Or a hoochy-koochy dance,
+    Moppin' up the canon's surface
+    With the bosom of your pants.
+
+    Then you'll get up on your trotters,
+    But you have a job to stand;
+    For the landscape round you totters
+    An' your collar's full o' sand.
+    Lots of fellers give prescriptions
+    How a broncho should be rode,
+    But there's few that gives descriptions
+    Of the times when they got throwed.
+                                _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+PARDNERS
+
+
+    YOU bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun,
+    Ye're a hard little beast to break,
+    But ye're good for the fiercest kind of a run
+    An' ye're quick as a rattlesnake.
+    Ye jolted me good when we first met
+    In the dust of that bare corral,
+    An' neither one of us will forget
+    The fight we fit, old pal.
+
+    But now--well, say, old hoss, if John
+    D. Rockefeller shud come
+    With all the riches his paws are on
+    And want to buy you, you bum,
+    I'd laugh in his face an' pat your neck
+    An' say to him loud an' strong:
+    "I wouldn't sell you this derned old wreck
+    For all your wealth--so long!"
+
+    For we have slept on the barren plains
+    An' cuddled against the cold;
+    We've been through tempests of drivin' rains
+    When the heaviest thunder rolled;
+    We've raced from fire on the lone prairee
+    An' run from the mad stampede;
+    An' there ain't no money could buy from me
+    A pard of your style an' breed.
+
+    So I reckon we'll stick together, pard,
+    Till one of us cashes in;
+    Ye're wirey an' tough an' mighty hard,
+    An' homlier, too, than sin.
+    But yer head's all there an' yer heart's all right,
+    An' you've been a good pardner, too,
+    An' if ye've a soul it's clean an' white,
+    You ugly ol' scoundrel, you!
+                                  _Berton Braley._
+
+
+
+
+THE BRONC THAT WOULDN'T BUST
+
+
+    I'VE busted bronchos off and on
+    Since first I struck their trail,
+    And you bet I savvy bronchos
+    From nostrils down to tail;
+    But I struck one on Powder River,
+    And say, hands, he was the first
+    And only living broncho
+    That your servant couldn't burst.
+
+    He was a no-count buckskin,
+    Wasn't worth two-bits to keep,
+    Had a black stripe down his backbone,
+    And was woolly like a sheep.
+    That hoss wasn't built to tread the earth;
+    He took natural to the air;
+    And every time he went aloft
+    He tried to leave me there.
+
+    He went so high above the earth
+    Lights from Jerusalem shone.
+    Right thar we parted company
+    And he came down alone.
+    I hit terra firma,
+    The buckskin's heels struck free,
+    And brought a bunch of stars along
+    To dance in front of me.
+
+    I'm not a-riding airships
+    Nor an electric flying beast;
+    Ain't got no rich relation
+    A-waitin' me back East;
+    So I'll sell my chaps and saddle,
+    My spurs can lay and rust;
+    For there's now and then a digger
+    That a buster cannot bust.
+                                _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+THE OL' COW HAWSE
+
+
+    WHEN it comes to saddle hawses, there's a difference in steeds:
+    There is fancy-gaited critters that will suit some feller's needs;
+    There is nags high-bred an' tony, with a smooth an' shiny skin,
+    That will capture all the races that you want to run 'em in.
+    But fer one that never tires; one that's faithful, tried and true;
+    One that allus is a "stayer" when you want to slam him through,
+    There is but one breed o' critters that I ever came across
+    That will allus stand the racket: 'tis the
+               Ol'
+                 Cow
+                   Hawse
+
+    No, he ain't so much fer beauty, fer he's scrubby an' he's rough,
+    An' his temper's sort o' sassy, but you bet he's good enough!
+    Fer he'll take the trail o' mornin's, be it up or be it down,
+    On the range a-huntin' cattle or a-lopin' into town,
+    An' he'll leave the miles behind him, an' he'll never sweat a hair,
+    'Cuz he's a willin' critter when he's goin' anywhere.
+    Oh, your thoroughbred at runnin' in a race may be the boss,
+    But fer all day ridin' lemme have the
+               Ol'
+                 Cow
+                   Hawse!
+
+    When my soul seeks peace and quiet on the home ranch of the blest,
+    Where no storms or stampedes bother, an' the trails are trails o'
+        rest,
+    When my brand has been inspected an' pronounced to be O K,
+    An' the boss has looked me over an' has told me I kin stay,
+    Oh, I'm hopin' when I'm lopin' off across that blessed range
+    That I won't be in a saddle on a critter new an' strange,
+    But I'm prayin' every minnit that up there I'll ride across
+    That big heaven range o' glory on an
+               Ol'
+                 Cow
+                   Hawse
+                              _E. A. Brinninstool._
+
+
+
+
+THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA
+
+
+    WRANGLE up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,
+    Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,
+    For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,
+    But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain.
+
+      _Shinin' dobe fire-place, shadows on the wall
+      (See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)
+      It's the best grand high that there is within the law
+      When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+    Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,
+    Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high-arched tail,
+    But we held 'em and we shoved 'em for our longin' hearts were tried
+    By a yearnin' for tobaccer and our dear fireside.
+
+      _Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop
+      (You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)
+      Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,
+      But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+    Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford--
+    Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord,
+    But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete
+    When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!
+
+      _Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots!
+      (Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in his boots?)
+      Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,
+      But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+    Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,
+    Livin' is a luxury that don't come high;
+    Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,
+    For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!
+
+      _Lively on the last turn! Lope'er to the death!
+      (Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)
+      Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw
+      When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw."_
+                      _Charles Badger Clark._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY'S DANCE SONG
+
+
+    YOU can't expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks
+    In etiquettish manner in aristocratic ranks
+    When he's always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe
+    At the rattling rancher dances where much etiquet don't go.
+    You can bet I set them laughing in quite an excited way,
+    A-giving of their squinters an astonished sort of play,
+    When I happened into Denver and was asked to take a prance
+    In the smooth and easy mazes of a high-toned dance.
+
+    When I got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white,
+    And the dudes togged out in wrappings that were simply out of sight,
+    Tell you what, I was embarrassed, and somehow I couldn't keep
+    From feeling like a burro in a pretty flock of sheep.
+    Every step I made was awkward and I blushed a fiery red
+    Like the principal adornment of a turkey gobbler's head.
+    The ladies said 'twas seldom that they had had the chance
+    To see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance.
+
+    I cut me out a heifer from a bunch of pretty girls
+    And yanked her to the center to dance the dreamy whirls.
+    She laid her head upon my bosom in a loving sort of way
+    And we drifted into heaven as the band began to play.
+    I could feel my neck a-burning from her nose's breathing heat,
+    And she do-ce-doed around me, half the time upon my feet;
+    She peered up in my blinkers with a soul-dissolving glance
+    Quite conducive to the pleasures of a high-toned dance.
+
+    Every nerve just got a-dancing to the music of delight
+    As I hugged the little sagehen uncomfortably tight;
+    But she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes
+    Seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise.
+    She snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way,
+    And I hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play,--
+    Tell you what the joys of heaven ain't a cussed circumstance
+    To the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance.
+
+    When they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare,
+    Every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear.
+    I fetched a cowboy whoop and started in to rag,
+    And cut her with my trotters till the floor began to sag;
+    Swung my pardner till she got sea-sick and rushed for a seat;
+    I balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat.--
+    Tell you what, I shook the creases from my go-to-meeting pants
+    When I put the cowboy trimmings on that high-toned dance.
+                          _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL
+
+
+    WAY out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow,
+    Where the cattle are "a-browzin'" and the Spanish ponies grow;
+    Where the Norther "comes a-whistlin'" from beyond the Neutral strip
+    And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as if they had "the Grip";
+    Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark,
+    And the mocking-birds are singin' to the lovely "medder lark";
+    Where the 'possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes abound,
+    And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound;
+    Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams,
+    While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams;
+    Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call--
+    It was there that I attended "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."
+
+    The town was Anson City, old Jones's county seat,
+    Where they raise Polled Angus cattle, and waving whiskered wheat;
+    Where the air is soft and "bammy," an' dry an' full of health,
+    And the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth;
+    Where they print the _Texas Western_, that Hec. McCann supplies,
+    With news and yarns and stories, of most amazin' size;
+    Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger," on knowin' tender feet,
+    And Democracy's triumphant, and mighty hard to beat;
+    Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap from Lamar,
+    Who "used to be the sheriff, back East, in Paris, sah!"
+    'Twas there, I say, at Anson, with the lively "Widder Wall,"
+    That I went to that reception, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."
+
+    The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles;
+    The ladies--"kinder scatterin'"--had gathered in for miles.
+    And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well,
+    'Twas got for the occasion at "The Morning Star Hotel."
+    The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine,
+    And a "viol come imported," by stage from Abilene.
+    The room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls,
+    And candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls.
+    The "wimmin folks" looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed,
+    Till their leader commenced yellin': "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede."
+    The music started sighin' and a-wailin' through the hall,
+    As a kind of introduction to "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."
+
+    The leader was a fellow that came from Swenson's Ranch,
+    They called him "Windy Billy," from "little Dead-man's Branch."
+    His rig was "kinder keerless," big spurs and high-heeled boots;
+    He had the reputation that comes when "fellers shoots."
+    His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain's height;
+    His feet were animated, an' a _mighty movin' sight_,
+    When he commenced to holler, "Neow, fellers, stake yer pen!
+    Lock horns to all them heifers, an' russle 'em like men.
+    Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an' let 'em go,
+    Climb the grape vine round 'em--all hands do-ce-do!
+    And Mavericks, jine the round-up--Jest skip her waterfall,"
+    Huh! hit wuz gittin' happy, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"
+
+    The boys were tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat,
+    That old bass viol's music _just got there with both feet_.
+    That wailin' frisky fiddle, I never shall forget;
+    And Windy kept a singin'--I think I hear him yet--
+    "O Xes, chase your squirrels, an' cut 'em to one side,
+    Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride,
+    Doc. Hollis down the middle, an' twine the ladies' chain,
+    Varn Andrews pen the fillies in big T. Diamond's train.
+    All pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an' change,
+    'Big Boston' lead the trail herd, through little Pitchfork's range.
+    Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope 'em! Balance all!"
+    Huh! hit wuz gittin' active--"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"
+
+    The dust riz fast an' furious, we all just galloped round,
+    Till the scenery got so giddy, that Z Bar Dick was downed.
+    We buckled to our partners, an' told 'em to hold on,
+    Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.
+    Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir 'ee!
+    That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me.
+    I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill,
+    Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill.
+    McAllister ain't nowhere! when Windy leads the show,
+    I've seen 'em both in harness, an' so I sorter know--
+    Oh, Bill, I sha'n't forget yer, and I'll oftentimes recall,
+    That lively-gaited sworray--"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."
+           _Larry Chittenden in_ "_Ranch Verses."_
+
+
+
+
+A DANCE AT THE RANCH
+
+
+    FROM every point they gaily come, the broncho's unshod feet
+    Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat;
+    The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind--
+    Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind.
+    The dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones
+    And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones,
+    Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers,
+    And pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears.
+    Within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly gathered throng
+    Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song;
+    The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein
+    In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain.
+    The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow,
+    Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low;
+    Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret
+    Until their ears are greeted with the warning words, "All set!
+         S'lute yer pardners! Let 'er go!
+         Balance all an' do-ce-do!
+         Swing yer girls an' run away!
+         Right an' left an' gents sashay!
+         Gents to right an' swing or cheat!
+         On to next gal an' repeat!
+         Balance next an' don't be shy!
+         Swing yer pard an' swing 'er high!
+         Bunch the gals an' circle round!
+         Whack yer feet until they bound!
+         Form a basket! Break away!
+         Swing an' kiss an' all git gay!
+         Al'man left an' balance all!
+         Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall!
+         Swing yer op'sites! Swing agin!
+         Kiss the sagehens if you kin!"
+        An' thus the merry dance went on till morning's struggling light
+    In lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night,
+    And broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies
+    By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes.
+    The cowboys to the ranges speed to "work" the lowing herds,
+    The girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds,
+    And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree
+    They had that night at Jackson's ranch down on the Owyhee.
+                                      _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+AT A COWBOY DANCE
+
+
+    GIT yo' little sagehens ready;
+      Trot 'em out upon the floor--
+    Line up there, you critters! Steady!
+      Lively, now! One couple more.
+    Shorty, shed that ol' sombrero;
+      Broncho, douse that cigaret;
+    Stop yer cussin', Casimero,
+      'Fore the ladies. Now, all set:
+
+    S'lute yer ladies, all together;
+      Ladies opposite the same;
+    Hit the lumber with yer leather;
+      Balance all an' swing yer dame;
+    Bunch the heifers in the middle;
+      Circle stags an' do-ce-do;
+    Keep a-steppin' to the fiddle;
+      Swing 'em 'round an' off you go.
+
+    First four forward. Back to places.
+      Second foller. Shuffle back--
+    Now you've got it down to cases--
+      Swing 'em till their trotters crack.
+    Gents all right a-heel an' toein';
+      Swing 'em--kiss 'em if yo' kin--
+    On to next an' keep a-goin'
+      Till yo' hit yer pards agin.
+
+    Gents to center. Ladies 'round 'em;
+      Form a basket; balance all;
+    Swing yer sweets to where yo' found 'em;
+      All p'mnade around the hall.
+    Balance to yer pards an' trot 'em
+      'Round the circle double quick;
+    Grab an' squeeze 'em while you've got 'em--
+      Hold 'em to it if they kick.
+
+    Ladies, left hand to yer sonnies;
+      Alaman; grand right an' left;
+    Balance all an' swing yer honies--
+      Pick 'em up an' feel their heft.
+    All p'mnade like skeery cattle;
+      Balance all an' swing yer sweets;
+    Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle--
+      Keno! Promenade to seats.
+                  _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOYS' BALL
+
+
+    _YIP! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_;
+    You an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall!
+    _Say "How!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle_;
+    Shake yo'r leg lively at the Cowboys' Ball.
+
+    Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin';
+    Everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high;
+    Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin';
+    Keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye.
+
+    Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin'
+    Jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head;
+    Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin',
+    Just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead!
+
+    High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers;
+    Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!
+    Uncle Ed's gettin' red--had too many dippers;
+    Better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg!
+
+    _Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_;
+    Pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow.
+    _Bow down! right in town--and sashay down the middle_;
+    Got to keep a-movin' for to see the show!
+
+    Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute?
+    Like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars?
+    All right! Fine night--Dance? There's nothin' in it!
+    That's my pony there, peekin' through the bars.
+
+    Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten!
+    Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see;
+    Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin'
+    Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.
+
+    _Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_;
+    Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all!
+    _Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle..._
+    But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball.
+                            _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
+
+
+
+
+PART III
+
+COWBOY TYPES
+
+
+
+
+    _DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples--
+    When there's water in its bed;
+    Where no man is ever drunken--
+    All prefer mescal instead;
+    Where no lie is ever uttered--
+    There being nothin' one can trade;
+    Where no marriage vows are broken
+    'Cause the same are never made._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY
+
+
+    HE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,
+    And leggins of fancy fringed leather;
+    He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots,
+    And he's happy in all kinds of weather;
+    He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course,
+    For oh, he can ride like the devil;
+    He is old for his years and he always appears
+    Like a fellow who's lived on the level;
+    He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look
+    Of a man that to fear is a stranger;
+    Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve
+    For his wild life of duty and danger.
+    He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet,
+    And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it;
+    He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear
+    At the rate of two-forty a minute;
+    His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West,
+    Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;
+    Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks,
+    But his knowledge is not got from your scholars;
+    He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,
+    And he hates and despises a coward;
+    Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kind
+    Though he'll fight till by death overpowered.
+    Hence I say unto you,--give the cowboy his due
+    And be kind, my friends, to his folly;
+    For he's generous and brave though he may not behave
+    Like your dudes, who are so melancholy.
+                                     _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT
+
+
+    WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,
+    'Tis said--an' we know who 'tis--
+    "Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch,
+    An' uses us in his biz."
+    Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss,
+    An' you'd sure admit that's right,
+    If you happened--an' unbeknown to us--
+    Around, of a Sunday night.
+
+    Th' week-day manners is stowed away,
+    Th' jokes an' the card games halts,
+    When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to play
+    A toon--an' it ain't no waltz.
+    It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight,
+    It delves through th' toughest crust,
+    It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight,
+    Till we've got ter sing--er bust!
+
+    With pipin' treble the kid starts in,
+    An' Hell! how that kid kin sing!
+    "Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin,"
+    He leads, an' the rafters ring;
+    "Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,"
+    We shouts it with force an' vim;
+    "Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"--
+    That's puttin' it up to Him!
+
+    We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z,
+    But many a time an' oft
+    When ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me,"
+    Our hearts gets kinder soft.
+    An' we makes some promises there an' then
+    Which we keeps--till we goes to bed,--
+    That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men
+    What ain't no saints, as I said.
+                              _Percival Combes._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY RACE
+
+
+    A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail
+    When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail,
+    A long roll of hoofs,--and the earth is a drum!
+    The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!
+
+    A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;
+    A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;
+    A swift-swirling dust-cloud--a mad hurricane
+    Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;
+
+    Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun
+    The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!
+                                       _J. C. Davis._
+
+
+
+
+THE HABIT
+
+
+    I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown;
+    I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone;
+    From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,--
+    For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
+
+    I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I,
+    "I'll never wander further till I come to die."
+    But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will."
+    An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still.
+
+    I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay,
+    But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way.
+    I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill,
+    An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
+
+    I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail,
+    But when it's time for leavin' I jes hits the trail.
+    I'm a human bird of passage and the song I trill
+    Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."
+
+    The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear,
+    An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.
+    It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill;
+    For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
+                                    _Berton Braley._
+
+
+
+
+A RANGER
+
+
+    HE never made parade of tooth or claw;
+    He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds.
+    Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw,
+    He was shy of exercisin' it with words.
+    As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law,
+    All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail;
+    He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger,
+    And he labored with the sinners of the trail.
+
+    Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad,
+    Then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan,
+    And nobody missed the woman very bad,
+    While they'd just a little rather missed the man.
+    But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad,
+    And then loped away to bring him back again,
+    For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border
+    And his business was to hunt for sinful men!
+
+    So the trail it led him southward all the day,
+    Through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake,
+    Where the heat had drove the lizards from their play
+    To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake.
+    And the mountains heaved and rippled far away
+    And the desert broiled as on the devil's prong,
+    But he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and level
+    And the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.
+
+    Came the yellow west, and on a far off rise
+    Something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim,
+    And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes
+    While he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim.
+    Down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries,
+    Like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark,
+    And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighter
+    As he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.
+
+    Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher
+    Through the mountains that look into Mexico,
+    And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire
+    And the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow.
+    Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire
+    And the canyon walls flung thunder back again,
+    And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled
+    That his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.
+
+    Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack
+    And he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy,
+    Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back
+    That convinced the sinner--just above the eye.
+    So the sinner sprawled among the shadows black
+    While the ranger drifted north beneath the moon,
+    Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddle
+    While the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.
+
+    When the sheriff got up early out of bed,
+    How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss,
+    As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red
+    That came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse.
+    But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger said
+    And you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale;
+    He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger
+    And he labored with the sinners of the trail.
+                       _Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE INSULT
+
+
+    I'VE swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell;
+    I've braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne;
+    I've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swine
+    An' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;
+
+    I've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath;
+    I've tackled every desert in the land;
+    I've sampled XX whiskey till I couldn't hardly see
+    An' dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;
+
+    I've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs;
+    I've been dragged free and fancy by a cow;
+    I've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' Ninth,
+    An' I never lost my temper till right now.
+
+    I've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes;
+    I've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail;
+    But I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad
+    As when you up and hands me ginger ale.
+                                    _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+"THE ROAD TO RUIN"[2]
+
+
+    I WENT into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar,
+    And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.
+    The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to know
+    When we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.
+
+    The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sell
+    Corroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell.
+    This one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low,
+    He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.
+
+    Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grin
+    While others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin.
+    Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woe
+    And wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.
+
+    I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men;
+    And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen.
+    You know the one you liked the best?--the hang-man laid him low,--
+    Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.
+
+    You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,--
+    He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone.
+    He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow,--
+    Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.
+
+    I visited the old church yard and there I saw the graves
+    Of those who used to drown their woes in old fermented ways.
+    I saw the graves of women thar, lying where the daisies grow,
+    Who wept and died of broken hearts some twenty years ago.
+                                  _Anonymous._
+
+[2] A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign.
+
+
+
+
+THE OUTLAW
+
+
+    WHEN my loop takes hold on a two-year-old,
+      By the feet or the neck or the horn,
+    He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white,
+      But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.
+    Though the taut rope sing like a banjo string
+      And the latigoes creak and strain,
+    Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steer
+      And I'll tumble him on the plain.
+
+    _For a man is a man and a steer is a beast,
+      And the man is the boss of the herd;
+    And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,
+      Must come down when he says the word._
+
+    When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse
+      And my spurs clinch into his hide,
+    He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,
+      But wherever he goes I'll ride.
+    Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top,
+      Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,
+    But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel
+      Till he's happy to own he's broke.
+
+    _For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,
+      And the hawse may be prince of his clan,
+    But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot
+      And own that his boss is the man._
+
+    When the devil at rest underneath my vest
+      Gets up and begins to paw,
+    And my hot tongue strains at its bridle-reins,
+      Then I tackle the real outlaw;
+    When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild,
+      And my temper has fractious growed,
+    If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,
+      Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.
+
+    _For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast--
+      He kin brag till he makes you deaf,
+    But the one, lone brute, from the West to the East,
+      That he kaint quite break, is himse'f._
+                        _Charles B. Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE DESERT
+
+
+    'TWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul,
+      As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert
+        sky,
+    The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole
+      For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry!
+
+    "He came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell;
+      And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done.
+    He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of
+        hell,
+      Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop--just
+        one."
+
+    "His name?" I asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin:
+      "His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside;
+    Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin,
+      And I watched his face as he spelled it out--laughed as I laughed,
+        and died.
+
+    "And thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast,
+      And mine." I fumbled and pulled my gun--emptied it wild and fast,
+    But one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast;
+      There lay the shape of the Liar, dead! 'Twas I that should laugh
+        the last.
+
+    Laugh? Nay, now I would write my name as the Upland Rider wrote;
+      Write? What need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line
+    I saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float
+      Into a mist as the world grew dark; and I knew that the name was
+        mine.
+
+    Dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain;
+      Hands that proffered a brimming cup--empty, ere I could take;
+    Then the burst of a thunder-head--rain! It was rude, fierce rain!
+      Blindly down to the hole I crept, shivering, drenched, awake!
+
+    Dawn--and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame,
+      As stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that I thought
+        was dead;
+    But never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name;
+      Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun--and the old home trail
+        ahead.
+                          _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
+
+
+
+
+WHISKEY BILL,--A FRAGMENT
+
+
+    A-DOWN the road and gun in hand
+    Comes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill;
+    A-lookin' for some place to land
+    Comes Whiskey Bill.
+    An' everybody'd like to be
+    Ten miles away behind a tree
+    When on his joyous, aching spree
+    Starts Whiskey Bill.
+
+    The times have changed since you made love,
+    O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!
+    The happy sun grinned up above
+    At Whiskey Bill.
+    And down the middle of the street
+    The sheriff comes on toe and feet
+    A-wishin' for one fretful peek
+    At Whiskey Bill.
+
+    The cows go grazing o'er the lea,--
+    Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill!
+    An' aching thoughts pour in on me
+    Of Whiskey Bill.
+    The sheriff up and found his stride;
+    Bill's soul went shootin' down the slide,--
+    How are things on the Great Divide,
+    O Whiskey Bill?
+                               _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+DENVER JIM
+
+
+    "SAY, fellers, that ornery thief must be nigh us,
+    For I jist saw him across this way to the right;
+    Ah, there he is now right under that burr-oak
+    As fearless and cool as if waitin' all night.
+    Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all ready
+    Fur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight;
+    The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic
+    An' that limb hangin' over him stands about right.
+
+    "Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my lasso, boys,
+    If it ain't Denver Jim that's corralled here at last.
+    Right aside for the jilly. Well, Jim, we are searchin'
+    All night for a couple about of your cast.
+    An' seein' yer enter this openin' so charmin'
+    We thought perhaps yer might give us the trail.
+    Haven't seen anything that would answer description?
+    What a nerve that chap has, but it will not avail.
+
+    "Want to trade hosses fur the one I am stridin'!
+    Will you give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot?
+    Say, Jim, that air gold is the strongest temptation
+    An' many a man would say take it and scoot.
+    But we don't belong to that denomination;
+    You have got to the end of your rope, Denver Jim.
+    In ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie,
+    An' you will be hangin' there right from that limb.
+
+    "Have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't proper?
+    Here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask.
+    Ar' not dry? Well, I am, an' will drink ter yer, pard,
+    An' wish that this court will not bungle this task.
+    There, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture;
+    Here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word;
+    I am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under;
+    Fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd.
+
+    "What's that? So yer want me to answer a letter,--
+    Well, give it to me till I make it all right,
+    A moment or two will be only good manners,
+    The judicious acts of this court will be white.
+    'Long Point, Arkansas, the thirteenth of August,
+    My dearest son James, somewhere out in the West,
+    For long, weary months I've been waiting for tidings
+    Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless.
+
+    "'God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money,
+    Remembering your mother when sorely in need.
+    May the angels from heaven now guard you from danger
+    And happiness follow your generous deed.
+    How I long so to see you come into the doorway,
+    As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest.
+    May the days be but few when again I can greet you,
+    My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.'
+
+    "Say, pard, here's your letter. I'm not good at writin',
+    I think you'd do better to answer them lines;
+    An' fer fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso,
+    An' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines.
+    An' Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her
+    That a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the day
+    When her boy could come eastward to stay with her always.
+    Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away."
+
+    O'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor,
+    The dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright,
+    As the tenderest memories came like a blessing
+    From the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light.
+    Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning,
+    Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned;
+    For higher than law is the love of a mother,--
+    It reversed the decision,--the court was adjourned.
+                          _Sherman D. Richardson._
+
+
+
+
+THE VIGILANTES
+
+
+        WE are the whirlwinds that winnow the West--
+        We scatter the wicked like straw!
+        We are the Nemeses, never at rest--
+        We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!
+
+    Moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast,
+    Sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear,
+    A halt, a swift parley, a pause--then at last
+    A stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheer
+    Against the blue steel of the sky; ghastly white
+    Every on-looking face. Men, our duty was clear;
+    Yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night!
+
+    Ours is a service brute-hateful and grim;
+    Little we love the wild task that we seek;
+    Are they dainty to deal with--the fear-rigid limb,
+    The curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek?
+    Nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath;
+    God made us strong to avenge Him the weak--
+    To dispense his sure wages of sin--which is death.
+
+    We stand for our duty: while wrong works its will,
+    Our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide;
+    Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still,
+    And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide,
+    That safety and honor may tread in our path;
+    The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side,
+    As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath.
+
+        We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West--
+        We scatter the wicked like straw!
+        We are the Nemeses, never at rest--
+        We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!
+                            _Margaret Ashmun._
+
+
+
+
+THE BANDIT'S GRAVE
+
+
+    'MID lava rock and glaring sand,
+    'Neath the desert's brassy skies,
+    Bound in the silent chains of death
+    A border bandit lies.
+    The poppy waves her golden glow
+    Above the lowly mound;
+    The cactus stands with lances drawn,--
+    A martial guard around.
+
+    His dreams are free from guile or greed,
+    Or foray's wild alarms.
+    No fears creep in to break his rest
+    In the desert's scorching arms.
+    He sleeps in peace beside the trail,
+    Where the twilight shadows play,
+    Though they watch each night for his return
+    A thousand miles away.
+
+    From the mesquite groves a night bird calls
+    When the western skies grow red;
+    The sand storm sings his deadly song
+    Above the sleeper's head.
+    His steed has wandered to the hills
+    And helpless are his hands,
+    Yet peons curse his memory
+    Across the shifting sands.
+
+    The desert cricket tunes his pipes
+    When the half-grown moon shines dim;
+    The sage thrush trills her evening song--
+    But what are they to him?
+    A rude-built cross beside the trail
+    That follows to the west
+    Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow
+    Across the sleeper's breast.
+
+    A lone coyote comes by night
+    And sits beside his bed,
+    Sobbing the midnight hours away
+    With gaunt, up-lifted head.
+    The lizard trails his aimless way
+    Across the lonely mound,
+    When the star-guards of the desert
+    Their pickets post around.
+
+    The winter snows will heap their drifts
+    Among the leafless sage;
+    The pallid hosts of the blizzard
+    Will lift their voice in rage;
+    The gentle rains of early spring
+    Will woo the flowers to bloom,
+    And scatter their fleeting incense
+    O'er the border bandit's tomb.
+                                 _Charles Pitt._
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL
+
+
+    SEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divide
+    Which parts the falling rain,--the eastern slope
+    Sends down its waters to the southern sea
+    Through Double Mountain's winding length of stream;
+    The western side spreads out into a plain,
+    Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues
+    At last into the rushing Rio Grande,--
+    See, faintly showing on that distant ridge,
+    The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest,
+    Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral,
+    The dim reminders of the olden times,
+    The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid,
+    The hunt of buffalo and antelope;
+    The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers;
+    The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night;
+    The stampede and the wild ride through the storm;
+    The call of California's golden flood;
+    The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho"
+    Which set our fathers' faces from the east,
+    To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes,
+    To people all the regions 'neath the sun--
+    Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.
+
+    It winds--this old forgotten cattle trail--
+    Through valleys still and silent even now,
+    Save when the yellow-breasted desert lark
+    Cries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite,
+    In quivering notes set in a minor key;
+    The endless round of sunny days, of starry nights,
+    The desert's blank immutability.
+    The coyote's howl is heard at dark from some
+    Low-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolf
+    They yelp in concert to the far off stars,
+    Or gnaw the bleachèd bones in savage rage
+    That lie unburied by the grass-grown paths.
+    The prairie dogs play sentinel by day
+    And backward slips the badger to his den;
+    The whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake,
+    A staring buzzard floating in the blue,
+    And, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,--
+    Lost, always lost, and seeking evermore.
+    All else is mute and dormant; vacantly
+    The sun looks down, the days run idly on,
+    The breezes whirl the dust, which eddying falls
+    Smothering the records of the westward caravans,
+    Where silent heaps of wreck and nameless graves
+    Make milestones for the old Mackenzie Trail.
+
+    Across the Brazos, Colorado, through
+    Concho's broad, fair valley, sweeping on
+    By Abilene it climbs upon the plains,
+    The Llano Estacado (beyond lie wastes
+    Of alkali and hunger gaunt and death),--
+    And here is lost in shifting rifts of sand.
+    Anon it lingers by a hidden spring
+    That bubbles joy into the wilderness;
+    Its pathway trenched that distant mountain side,
+    Now grown to gulches through torrential rain.
+    De Vaca gathered pinons by the way,
+    Long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill,
+    Cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels;
+    La Salle, the gentle Frenchman, crossed this course,
+    And went to death and to a nameless grave.
+    For ages and for ages through the past
+    Comanches and Apaches from the north
+    Came sweeping southward, searching for the sun,
+    And charged in mimic combat on the sea.
+    The scions of Montezuma's low-browed race
+    Perhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree;
+    Or sucked the cactus apples growing there.
+    All these have passed, and passed the immigrants,
+    Who bore the westward fever in their brain,
+    The Norseman tang for roving in their veins;
+    Who loved the plains as sailors love the sea,
+    Braved danger, death, and found a resting place
+    While traveling on the old Mackenzie Trail.
+
+    Brave old Mackenzie long has laid him down
+    To rest beyond the trail that bears his name;
+    A granite mountain makes his monument;
+    The northers, moaning o'er the low divide,
+    Go gently past his long deserted camps.
+    No more his rangers guard the wild frontier,
+    No more he leads them in the border fight.
+    No more the mavericks, winding stream of horns
+    To Kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songs
+    And cries, the pistol's sharp report,--the free,
+    Wild days in Texas by the Rio Grande.
+    And some men say when dusky night shuts down,
+    Dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star,
+    One sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plain
+    Hard by Mackenzie's trail; and keener ears
+    Have heard from deep within the bordering hills
+    The tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows,
+    The rumble of a moving wagon train,
+    Sometimes far echoes of a frontier song;
+    Then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,--
+    On westward, westward, as they in olden time
+    Went rangeing o'er the old Mackenzie Trail.
+                                _John A. Lomax._
+
+
+
+
+THE SHEEP-HERDER[3]
+
+
+    ALL day across the sagebrush flat,
+      Beneath the sun of June,
+    My sheep they loaf and feed and bleat
+      Their never changin' tune.
+    And then, at night time, when they lay
+      As quiet as a stone,
+    I hear the gray wolf far away,
+      "Alo-one!" he says, "Alo-one!"
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!
+      The tune the woollies sing;
+    It's rasped my ears, it seems, for years,
+      Though really just since Spring;
+    And nothin', far as I can see
+      Around the circle's sweep,
+    But sky and plain, my dreams and me
+      And them infernal sheep.
+
+    I've got one book--it's poetry--
+      A bunch of pretty wrongs
+    An Eastern lunger gave to me;
+      He said 'twas "shepherd songs."
+    But, though that poet sure is deep
+      And has sweet things to say,
+    He never seen a herd of sheep
+      Or smelt them, anyway.
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!
+      My woollies greasy gray,
+    An awful change has hit the range
+      Since that old poet's day.
+    For you're just silly, on'ry brutes
+      And I look like distress,
+    And my pipe ain't the kind that toots
+      And there's no "shepherdess."
+
+    Yet 'way down home in Kansas State,
+      Bliss Township, Section Five,
+    There's one that's promised me to wait,
+      The sweetest girl alive;
+    That's why I salt my wages down
+      And mend my clothes with strings,
+    While others blow their pay in town
+      For booze and other things.
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!
+      My Minnie, don't be sad;
+    Next year we'll lease that splendid piece
+      That corners on your dad.
+    We'll drive to "literary," dear,
+      The way we used to do
+    And turn my lonely workin' here
+      To happiness for you.
+
+    Suppose, down near that rattlers' den,
+      While I sit here and dream,
+    I'd spy a bunch of ugly men
+      And hear a woman scream.
+    Suppose I'd let my rifle shout
+      And drop the men in rows,
+    And then the woman should turn out--
+      My Minnie!--just suppose.
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!
+      The tune would then be gay;
+    There is, I mind, a parson kind
+      Just forty miles away.
+    Why, Eden would come back again,
+      With sage and sheep corrals,
+    And I could swing a singin' pen
+      To write her "pastorals."
+
+    I pack a rifle on my arm
+      And jump at flies that buzz;
+    There's nothin' here to do me harm;
+      I sometimes wish there was.
+    If through that brush above the pool
+      A red should creep--and creep--
+    Wah! cut down on 'im!--Stop, you fool!
+      That's nothin' but a sheep.
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a!--Hell!
+      Oh, sky and plain and bluff!
+    Unless my mail comes up the trail
+      I'm locoed, sure enough.
+    What's that?--a dust-whiff near the butte
+      Right where my last trail ran,
+    A movin' speck, a--wagon! Hoot!
+      Thank God! here comes a man.
+                  _Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+[3] Only such cowboys as are in desperate need of employment ever
+become sheep-herders.
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL
+
+
+    YES, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range,
+    Mighty queerish, too, I tell you,--sich a racket fer a change;
+    From a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps
+    To the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps.
+    Never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand
+    O' humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land
+    Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed.
+    Actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede.
+
+    Mighty curious to a rider comin' from the range, he feels
+    What you'd call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels;
+    Like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range
+    To another run o' grazin' where the brands it sees are strange.
+    Then I see a city herder, a policeman, don't you know,
+    Sort o' think he's got men spotted an' is 'bout to make a throw
+    Fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk
+    On the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock.
+
+    Yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say,
+    Fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay;
+    But I want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me
+    Isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree.
+    Every bone I got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if
+    I had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff
+    From a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,--
+    'Taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit.
+
+    I'm hankerin', I tell you, fer to hit the trail an' run
+    Like a crazy, locoed yearlin' from this big cloud-burst o' fun
+    Back toward the cattle ranches, where a feller's breath comes free
+    An' he wears the clothes that fits him, 'stead o' this slick toggery.
+    Where his home is in the saddle, an' the heavens is his roof,
+    An' his ever'day companions wears the hide an' cloven hoof,
+    Where the beller of the cattle is the only sound he hears,
+    An' he never thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers.
+                                       _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD COWMAN
+
+
+    I RODE across a valley range
+    I hadn't seen for years.
+    The trail was all so spoilt and strange
+    It nearly fetched the tears.
+    I had to let ten fences down,--
+    (The fussy lanes ran wrong)
+    And each new line would make me frown
+    And hum a mournin' song.
+
+        Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
+        Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!
+        The nester brand is on the land;
+        I reckon I'll retire.
+        While progress toots her brassy horn
+        And makes her motor buzz,
+        I thank the Lord I wasn't born
+        No later than I wuz!
+
+    'Twas good to live when all the sod,
+    Without no fence nor fuss,
+    Belonged in partnership to God,
+    The Government and us.
+    With skyline bounds from east to west
+    And room to go and come,
+    I loved my fellowman the best
+    When he was scattered some.
+
+        Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
+        Close and closer cramps the wire!
+        There's hardly play to back away
+        And call a man a liar.
+        Their house has locks on every door;
+        Their land is in a crate.
+        There ain't the plains of God no more,
+        They're only real estate.
+
+    There's land where yet no ditchers dig
+    Nor cranks experiment;
+    It's only lovely, free and big
+    And isn't worth a cent.
+    I pray that them who come to spoil
+    May wait till I am dead
+    Before they foul that blessed soil
+    With fence and cabbage head.
+
+        Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
+        Far and farther crawls the wire!
+        To crowd and pinch another inch
+        Is all their heart's desire.
+        The world is over-stocked with men,
+        And some will see the day
+        When each must keep his little pen,
+        But I'll be far away.
+
+    When my old soul hunts range and rest
+    Beyond the last divide,
+    Just plant me in some stretch of West
+    That's sunny, lone and wide.
+    Let cattle rub my tombstone down
+    And coyotes mourn their kin,
+    Let hawses paw and tramp the moun',--
+    But don't you fence it in!
+
+        Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
+        And they pen the land with wire.
+        They figure fence and copper cents
+        Where we laughed round the fire.
+        Job cussed his birthday, night and morn
+        In his old land of Uz,
+        But I'm just glad I wasn't born
+        No later than I wuz!
+                     _Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE GILA MONSTER ROUTE
+
+
+    THE lingering sunset across the plain
+    Kissed the rear-end door of an east-bound train,
+    And shone on a passing track close by
+    Where a ding-bat sat on a rotting tie.
+
+    He was ditched by a shock and a cruel fate.
+    The con high-balled, and the manifest freight
+    Pulled out on the stem behind the mail,
+    And she hit the ball on a sanded rail.
+
+    As she pulled away in the falling light
+    He could see the gleam of her red tail-light.
+    Then the moon arose and the stars came out--
+    He was ditched on the Gila Monster Route.
+
+    Nothing in sight but sand and space;
+    No chance for a gink to feed his face;
+    Not even a shack to beg for a lump,
+    Or a hen-house to frisk for a single gump.
+
+    He gazed far out on the solitude;
+    He drooped his head and began to brood;
+    He thought of the time he lost his mate
+    In a hostile burg on the Nickle Plate.
+
+    They had mooched the stem and threw their feet,
+    And speared four-bits on which to eat;
+    But deprived themselves of daily bread
+    And shafted their coin for "dago red."
+
+    Down by the track in the jungle's glade,
+    In the cool green grass, in the tules' shade,
+    They shed their coats and ditched their shoes
+    And tanked up full of that colored booze.
+
+    Then they took a flop with their skins plumb full,
+    And they did not hear the harnessed bull,
+    Till he shook them out of their boozy nap,
+    With a husky voice and a loaded sap.
+
+    They were charged with "vag," for they had no kale,
+    And the judge said, "Sixty days in jail."
+    But the John had a bindle,--a worker's plea,--
+    So they gave him a floater and set him free.
+
+    They had turned him up, but ditched his mate,
+    So he grabbed the guts of an east-bound freight,
+    He flung his form on a rusty rod,
+    Till he heard the shack say, "Hit the sod!"
+
+    The John piled off, he was in the ditch,
+    With two switch lamps and a rusty switch,--
+    A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo
+    On a hostile pike, without a show.
+
+    From away off somewhere in the dark
+    Came the sharp, short notes of a coyote's bark.
+    The bo looked round and quickly rose
+    And shook the dust from his threadbare clothes.
+
+    Off in the west through the moonlit night
+    He saw the gleam of a big head-light--
+    An east-bound stock train hummed the rail;
+    She was due at the switch to clear the mail.
+
+    As she drew up close, the head-end shack
+    Threw the switch to the passenger track,
+    The stock rolled in and off the main,
+    And the line was clear for the west-bound train.
+
+    When she hove in sight far up the track,
+    She was workin' steam, with her brake shoes slack,
+    She hollered once at the whistle post,
+    Then she flitted by like a frightened ghost.
+
+    He could hear the roar of the big six-wheel,
+    And her driver's pound on the polished steel,
+    And the screech of her flanges on the rail
+    As she beat it west o'er the desert trail.
+
+    The John got busy and took the risk,
+    He climbed aboard and began to frisk,
+    He reached up high and began to feel
+    For the end-door pin--then he cracked the seal.
+
+    'Twas a double-decked stock-car, filled with sheep,
+    Old John crawled in and went to sleep.
+    She whistled twice and high-balled out,--
+    They were off, down the Gila Monster Route.
+                   _L. F. Post and Glenn Norton._
+
+
+
+
+THE CALL OF THE PLAINS
+
+
+    HO! wind of the far, far prairies!
+    Free as the waves of the sea!
+    Your voice is sweet as in alien street
+    The cry of a friend to me!
+    You bring me the breath of the prairies,
+    Known in the days that are sped,
+    The wild geese's cry and the blue, blue sky
+    And the sailing clouds o'er head!
+
+    My eyes are weary with longing
+    For a sight of the sage grass gray,
+    For the dazzling light of a noontide bright
+    And the joy of the open day!
+    Oh, to hear once more the clanking
+    Of the noisy cowboy's spur,
+    And the south wind's kiss like a mild caress
+    Making the grasses stir.
+
+    I dream of the wide, wide prairies
+    Touched with their glistening sheen,
+    The coyotes' cry and the wind-swept sky
+    And the waving billows of green!
+    And oh, for a night in the open
+    Where no sound discordant mars,
+    And the marvelous glow, when the sun is low,
+    And the silence under the stars!
+
+    Ho, wind from the western prairies!
+    Ho, voice from a far domain!
+    I feel in your breath what I'll feel till death,
+    The call of the plains again!
+    The call of the Spirit of Freedom
+    To the spirit of freedom in me;
+    My heart leaps high with a jubilant cry
+    And I answer in ecstasy!
+                            _Ethel MacDiarmid._
+
+
+
+
+WHERE THE GRIZZLY DWELLS[4]
+
+
+    I ADMIRE the artificial art of the East;
+    But I love more the inimitable art of the West,
+    Where nature's handiwork lies in virginal beauty.
+    Amidst the hum of city life
+    I saunter back to dreams of home.
+    Astride the back of my trusty steed
+    I wander away, losing myself
+    In the foothills of the Rockies.
+
+    Away from human habitations,
+    Up the rugged slopes,
+    Through the timbered stretches,
+    I hear the frightful cry of wolves
+    And see a bear sneaking up behind.
+
+    Many nights ago,
+    While herding a bunch of cattle
+    During the round-up season,
+    I lay upon the grass
+    Looking at the mated stars;
+    I wondered if a cowboy
+    Could go to the Unknown Place,
+    The Happy Hunting Ground,
+    When this short life is over.
+
+    But, here or there, I shall always live
+    In the land of mountain air
+    Where the grizzly dwells
+    And sage brush grows;
+    Where mountain trout are not a few;
+    In the land of the Bitterroot,--
+    The Indian land,--Land of the Golden West.
+                                   _James Fox._
+
+[4] Fox is a halfbreed Indian who sent me a lot of verse. Although he
+had never heard of Walt Whitman, these stanzas suggest that poet. The
+spelling and punctuation are mine.
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY TOAST
+
+
+    HERE'S to the passing cowboy, the plowman's pioneer;
+    His home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer;
+    Around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler's hide,
+    His bridle sporting conchos, his lasso at his side.
+    All day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars,
+    Kept vigil o'er thousands held by neither posts nor bars;
+    With never a diversion in all the lonesome land,
+    But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand.
+
+    Sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat;
+    And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat;
+    The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod
+    Some Texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod.
+    With lasso, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill;
+    They pass with him to history and naught their place can fill;
+    While he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page,--
+    But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage.
+
+    And oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies!
+    When lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes;
+    When raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart
+    Lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start.
+    That meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede,
+    When none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead;
+    Ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near,--
+    With cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere.
+
+    Then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure,
+    To the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e'er endure
+    From the Llano Estacado to Dakota's distant sands,
+    Where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands.
+    Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave,
+    And weave of Texas grasses a garland for his grave;
+    And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done
+    With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun.
+                              _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+RIDIN' UP THE ROCKY TRAIL FROM TOWN
+
+
+    "Billy Leamont rode out of the town--
+       _Close at his shoulder rode Jack Lorell--_
+    Over the leagues of the prairies brown,
+    Into the hills where the sun goes down--
+       _Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!_
+
+                  *     *     *
+
+    Billy Leamont looked down the dell--
+       _Dead below; him lay Jack Lorell--_
+    With his gun at his forehead he fired and fell,
+    Then rode they two through the streets of hell--
+       _Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!_"
+                    THE BALLAD OF BILLY LEAMONT.[5]
+
+
+    WE'RE the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men,
+    But we had to come to town to get the mail.
+    And we're ridin' home at daybreak--'cause the air is cooler then--
+    All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail.
+    Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin',
+    All our toilets show a touch of disarray,
+    For we found that City life is a constant round of strife
+    And we aint the breed for shyin' from a fray.
+
+    _Chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with
+        fear
+    And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'
+    For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror
+    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_
+
+    We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.
+    From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights.
+    We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed
+    And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites.
+    So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin'
+    'Twasn't long till we had got where talkin' ends,
+    And he et his ill-bred chat, with a sauce of derby hat,
+    While my merry pardners entertained his friends.
+
+    _Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news.
+    Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.
+    We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for
+        howlin'
+    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town._
+
+    Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves,
+    Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight,
+    Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law of six years' crop of calves
+    And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,
+    There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle
+    And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange.
+    And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds
+    Still is useful in the language of the range.
+
+    _Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,
+    For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.
+    We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation--
+    Ee-Yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_
+
+[5] This fragment is not included in Mr. Clark's poem.
+
+
+
+
+THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT
+
+
+    HE reached the West in a palace car where the writers tell us the
+        cowboys are,
+    With the redskin bold and the centipede and the rattlesnake and the
+        loco weed.
+    He looked around for the Buckskin Joes and the things he'd seen in
+        the Wild West shows--
+    The cowgirls gay and the bronchos wild and the painted face of the
+        Injun child.
+    He listened close for the fierce war-whoop, and his pent-up spirits
+        began to droop,
+    And he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of the sights
+        of the story books.
+
+    He'd hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold bad man with a
+        pistol shot,
+    And entered a low saloon by chance, where the tenderfoot is supposed
+        to dance
+    While the cowboy shoots at his bootheels there and the smoke of powder
+        begrims the air,
+    But all was quiet as if he'd strayed to that silent spot where the
+        dead are laid.
+    Not even a faro game was seen, and none flaunted the long, long green.
+    'Twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch of the real
+        wild woolly West.
+
+    He vainly sought for a bad cayuse and the swirl and swish of the
+        flying noose,
+    And the cowboy's yell as he roped a steer, but nothing of this fell
+        on his ear.
+    Not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flourished on every
+        side,
+    And the spurs and the "chaps" and the flannel shirts, the high-heeled
+        boots and the guns and the quirts,
+    The cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and swell outfits
+    He'd read about in the novels grim, were not on hand for the likes of
+        him.
+
+    He peered about for a stagecoach old, and a miner-man with a bag of
+        gold,
+    And a burro train with its pack-loads which he'd read they tie with
+        the diamond hitch.
+    The rattler's whir and the coyote's wail ne'er sounded out as he hit
+        the trail;
+    And no one knew of a branding bee or a steer roundup that he longed to
+        see.
+    But the oldest settler named Six-Gun Sim rolled a cigarette and
+        remarked to him:
+    "The West hez gone to the East, my son, and it's only in tents sich
+        things is done."
+                           _E. A. Brinninstool._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY ALONE WITH HIS CONSCIENCE
+
+
+    WHEN I ride into the mountains on my little broncho bird,
+    Whar my ears are never pelted with the bawlin' o' the herd,
+    An' a sort o' dreamy quiet hangs upon the western air,
+    An' thar ain't no animation to be noticed anywhere;
+    Then I sort o' feel oneasy, git a notion in my head
+    I'm the only livin' mortal--everybody else is dead--
+    An' I feel a queer sensation, rather skeery like, an' odd,
+      When thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' God.
+
+    Every rabbit that I startle from its shaded restin' place,
+    Seems a furry shaft o' silence shootin' into noiseless space,
+    An' a rattlesnake a crawlin' through the rocks so old an' gray
+    Helps along the ghostly feelin' in a rather startlin' way.
+    Every breeze that dares to whisper does it with a bated breath,
+    Every bush stands grim an' silent in a sort o' livin' death--
+    Tell you what, a feller's feelin's give him many an icy prod,
+      When thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' God.
+
+    Somehow allus git to thinkin' o' the error o' my ways,
+    An' my memory goes wingin' back to childhood's happy days,
+    When a mother, now a restin' in the grave so dark an' deep,
+    Used to listen while I'd whisper, "Now I lay me down to sleep."
+    Then a sort o' guilty feelin' gits a surgin' in my breast,
+    An' I wonder how I'll stack up at the final judgment test,
+    Conscience allus welts it to me with a mighty cuttin' rod,
+      When thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' God.
+
+    Take the very meanest sinner that the nation ever saw,
+    One that don't respect religion more'n he respects the law,
+    One that never does an action that's commendable or good,
+    An' immerse him fur a season out in Nature's solitude,
+    An' the cog-wheels o' his conscience 'll be rattled out o' gear,
+    More'n if he 'tended preachin' every Sunday in the year,
+    Fur his sins 'ill come a ridin' through his cranium rough shod,
+      When thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' God.
+                          _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+JUST A-RIDIN'!
+
+
+    OH, for me a horse and saddle
+    Every day without a change;
+    With the desert sun a-blazin'
+    On a hundred miles o' range,
+
+        Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
+        Desert ripplin' in the sun,
+        Mountains blue along the skyline,--
+        I don't envy anyone.
+
+    When my feet are in the stirrups
+    And my horse is on the bust;
+    When his hoofs are flashin' lightnin'
+    From a golden cloud o' dust;
+    And the bawlin' of the cattle
+    Is a-comin' down the wind,--
+    Oh, a finer life than ridin'
+    Would be mighty hard to find,
+
+        Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
+        Splittin' long cracks in the air,
+        Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,
+        Rootin' up the prickly pear.
+
+    I don't need no art exhibits
+    When the sunset does his best,
+    Paintin' everlastin' glories
+    On the mountains of the west.
+    And your operas look foolish
+    When the night bird starts his tune
+    And the desert's silver-mounted
+    By the kisses of the moon,
+
+        Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
+        I don't envy kings nor czars
+        When the coyotes down the valley
+        Are a-singin' to the stars.
+
+    When my earthly trail is ended
+    And my final bacon curled,
+    And the last great round up's finished
+    At the Home Ranch of the world,
+    I don't want no harps or haloes,
+    Robes or other dress-up things,--
+    Let me ride the starry ranges
+    On a pinto horse with wings,
+
+        Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
+        Splittin' chunks o' wintry air,
+        With your feet froze to your stirrups
+        And a snowdrift in your hair.
+        _(As sent by Elwood Adams, a Colorado
+          cowpuncher.) See "Sun and Saddle
+          Leather," by Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE END OF THE TRAIL
+
+
+    SOH, Bossie, soh!
+    The water's handy heah,
+    The grass is plenty neah,
+    An' all the stars a-sparkle
+    Bekaze we drive no mo'--
+    We drive no mo'.
+
+    The long trail ends today,--
+    The long trail ends today,
+    The punchers go to play
+    And all you weary cattle
+    May sleep in peace for sure,--
+    May sleep in peace for sure,--
+    Sleep, sleep for sure.
+
+    The moon can't bite you heah,
+    Nor punchers fright you heah.
+    An' you-all will be beef befo'
+    We need you any mo',--
+    We need you any mo'!
+             _From Pocock's "Curley."_
+
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+
+
+  +---------------------------------------------------------------------+
+  |                                                                     |
+  | Transcriber's notes: Obvious spelling/typographical and             |
+  | punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison     |
+  | with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external |
+  | sources.                                                            |
+  | Inconsistent spelling and inline hyphenation occurs across poems    |
+  | and songs and is retained.                                          |
+  | Introduction: original shows "Travelling" printed across a line     |
+  |   break.                                                            |
+  | Page 9: "Adios" appears once, "Adiós" elsewhere.                    |
+  | Page 68: "good-bye" appears once, "goodbye" elsewhere.              |
+  | Page 90: "sage-brush" appears once, "sagebrush" elsewhere.          |
+  | Page 115: original illegible. "You" in the author's transcription   |
+  |   of the song in John Avery Lomax, Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier  |
+  |   Ballads, 338, (Macmillan 1918),                                   |
+  |   http://www.archive.org/details/cowboysongsother00lomarich         |
+  |   (accessed March 29, 2007).                                        |
+  | Page 139: "hang-man" hyphenation retained.                          |
+  | Page 183: "roundup" appears once, "round-up" elsewhere.             |
+  |                                                                     |
+  +---------------------------------------------------------------------+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp, by Various
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE CATTLE TRAIL ***
+
+***** This file should be named 21723-8.txt or 21723-8.zip *****
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+
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+<pre>
+
+Project Gutenberg's Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp
+
+Author: Various
+
+Compiler: John A. Lomax
+
+Contributor: William Lyon Phelps
+
+Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21723]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE CATTLE TRAIL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Edwards, Joe Longo and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
+book was produced from scanned images of public domain
+material from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<div class="main">
+
+<h1 style="margin-top: 3em">SONGS OF THE CATTLE<br />TRAIL AND COW CAMP</h1>
+
+
+<p class="newpage"></p>
+<div class='center' style="margin-top: 3em;margin-bottom: 3em">
+
+<table width="450" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="" border="0">
+<tr><td>
+<div class="figcenter" style="margin-top: 70px; width: 164px">
+<img src="images/macmillan.png" width="164" height="57" alt="The MM Co." title="The MM Co." />
+</div>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 100%">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="word-spacing: 0.5em; font-size: 55%">NEW YORK &middot; BOSTON &middot; CHICAGO &middot; DALLAS</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="word-spacing: 0.5em; font-size: 55%">ATLANTA &middot; SAN FRANCISCO</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-top: 10px; font-size: 100%">MACMILLAN &amp; CO., <span class="smcap">Limited</span></p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="word-spacing: 0.5em; font-size: 55%">LONDON &middot; BOMBAY &middot; CALCUTTA</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 55%">MELBOURNE</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-top: 10px; font-size: 100%">THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, <span class="smcap">Ltd.</span></p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 40px; font-size: 55%">TORONTO</p>
+</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+<p class="newpage"></p>
+<div class='center' style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em">
+<table width="450" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="" border="1">
+<tr><td>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-top: 15px; font-size: 190%">SONGS OF THE CATTLE</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 50px;font-size: 190%">TRAIL AND COW CAMP</p>
+
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-top: 10px; font-size: 80%">COLLECTED BY</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 120%">JOHN A. LOMAX, B.A., M.A.</p>
+
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 75%">Executive Secretary Ex-Students' Association,</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 5px;font-size: 75%">the University of Texas.</p>
+
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-top: 5px; font-size: 75%">For three years Sheldon Fellow from Harvard University</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 75%">for the Collection of American Ballads; Ex-President</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 75%">American Folk-Lore Society. Collector of</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 75%">"Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 75%">Ballads"; joint author with Dr.</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 75%">H. Y. Benedict of "The</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 30px;font-size: 75%">Book of Texas."</p>
+
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 60%">WITH A FOREWORD BY</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 80px;font-size: 80%">WILLIAM LYON PHELPS</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 140px;">
+<img src="images/new-york.png" width="140"  height="28" alt="New York" title="New York" />
+</div>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 100%">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 100%">1919</p>
+
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 30px; font-size: 70%"><i>All rights reserved</i></p>
+</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+<p class="newpage"></p>
+<div class='center' style="margin-top: 3em">
+<table width="450" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="" border="0">
+<tr><td>
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-top: 60px; font-size: 90%"><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1919</p>
+<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 95%"><span class="smcap">By</span> THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</p>
+<hr class="mini" />
+<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 80px; word-spacing: 0.2em; font-size: 65%">Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1919.</p>
+</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+<p class="newpage"></p>
+<hr class="section" />
+<p>
+"THAT THESE DEAR FRIENDS I LEAVE BEHIND<br />
+MAY KEEP KIND HEARTS' REMEMBRANCE OF THE LOVE WE HAD."<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 23em;"><i>Solon.</i></span><br />
+</p>
+
+<p class="text">
+In affectionate gratitude to a group of men, my intimate friends
+during College days (brought under one roof by a "Fraternity"),
+whom I still love not less but more,</p>
+
+<p><i>Will Prather</i>, <i>Hammett Hardy</i>, <i>Penn Hargrove</i> and <i>Harry
+Steger</i>, of precious and joyous memory;</p>
+
+<p><i>Norman Crozier</i>, not yet quite emerged from Presbyterianism;</p>
+
+<p><i>Eugene Barker</i>, cynical, solid, unafraid;</p>
+
+<p><i>"Cap'en" Duval</i>, a gentleman of Virginia, sah;</p>
+
+<p><i>Ed Miller</i>, red-headed and royal-hearted;</p>
+
+<p><i>Bates MacFarland</i>, calm and competent without camouflage;</p>
+
+<p><i>Jimmie Haven</i>, who has put 'em over every good day since;</p>
+
+<p><i>Charley Johnson</i>, "the Swede" &mdash; the fattest, richest and dearest of
+the bunch;</p>
+
+<p><i>Edgar Witt</i>, whose loyal devotion and pertinacious energy built
+the "Frat" house;</p>
+
+<p><i>Roy Bedichek</i>, too big for any job he has yet tackled;</p>
+
+<p><i>"Curley" Duncan</i>, who possesses all the virtues of the old time
+cattleman and none of the vices of the new;</p>
+
+<p><i>Rom Rhome</i>, the quiet and canny counter of coin;</p>
+
+<p><i>Gavin Hunt</i>, student and lover of all things beautiful;</p>
+
+<p><i>Dick Kimball</i>, the soldier; every inch of him a handsome man;</p>
+
+<p><i>Alex</i> and <i>Bruce</i> and <i>Dave</i> and <i>George</i> and <i>"Freshman" Mathis</i>
+and <i>Clarence</i>, the six Freshmen we "took in"; while <i>Ike
+MacFarland</i>, <i>Alfred Pierce Ward</i>, and <i>Guy</i> and <i>Charlie
+Witt</i> were still in the process of assimilation,&mdash; </p>
+
+<p>To this group of God's good fellows, I dedicate this little book.</p>
+
+<hr class="mini" />
+<p class="newpage"></p>
+<div class='center' style="margin-bottom: 3em; margin-top: 3em">
+<table width="450" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="" border="0">
+<tr><td>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No loopholes now are framing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lean faces, grim and brown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more keen eyes are aiming<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To bring the redskin down;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But every wind careening<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seems here to breathe a song &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A song of brave careering,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A saga of the strong.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+<hr class="mini" />
+<p class="newpage"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">p. vii</a></span></p>
+<h2>FOREWORD</h2>
+
+<p class="text">In collecting, arranging, editing, and preserving
+the "Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow
+Camp," my friend John Lomax has performed a
+real service to American literature and to America.
+No verse is closer to the soil than this; none more
+realistic in the best sense of that much-abused word;
+none more truly interprets and expresses a part of
+our national life. To understand and appreciate
+these lyrics one should hear Mr. Lomax talk about
+them and sing them; for they were made for the
+voice to pronounce and for the ears to hear, rather
+than for the lamplit silence of the library. They
+are as oral as the chants of Vachel Lindsay; and
+when one has the pleasure of listening to Mr. Lomax &mdash; who
+loves these verses and the men who first
+sang them &mdash; one reconstructs in imagination the
+appropriate figures and romantic setting.</p>
+
+<p class="text">For nothing is so romantic as life itself. None
+of our illusions about life is so romantic as the
+truth. Hence the purest realism appeals to the
+mature imagination more powerfully than any impossible
+prettiness can do. The more we <i>know</i> of
+individual and universal life, the more we are excited
+and stimulated.</p>
+
+<p class="text">And the collection of these poems is an addition<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">p. viii</a></span>
+to American Scholarship as well as to American Literature.
+It was a wise policy of the Faculty of
+Harvard University to grant Mr. Lomax a traveling
+fellowship, that he might have the necessary
+leisure to discover and to collect these verses; it is
+really "original research," as interesting and surely
+as valuable as much that passes under that name;
+for it helps every one of us to understand our own
+country.</p>
+
+<p>
+<span class="smcap">Wm. Lyon Phelps.</span><br />
+<br />
+Yale University,<br />
+July 27, 1919.<br />
+</p>
+
+
+<hr class="section" />
+<p class="newpage"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">p. ix</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">"Look down, look down, that weary road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Tis the road that the sun goes down."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>
+<span style="margin-left: 12em;">*&nbsp; &nbsp;  *&nbsp; &nbsp;  *</span><br />
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"'Twas way out West where the antelope roam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the coyote howls 'round the cowboy's home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the mountains are covered with chaparral frail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the valleys are checkered with the cattle trail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the miner digs for the golden veins,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the cowboy rides o'er the silent plains,&mdash;"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<p class="text">The "Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp"
+does not purport to be an anthology of Western verse.
+As its title indicates, the contents of the book are
+limited to attempts, more or less poetic, in translating
+scenes connected with the life of a cowboy. The
+volume is in reality a by-product of my earlier collection,
+"Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads."
+In the former book I put together what
+seemed to me to be the best of the songs created and
+sung by the cowboys as they went about their work.
+In making the collection, the cowboys often sang or
+sent to me songs which I recognized as having already
+been in print; although the singer usually said
+that some other cowboy had sung the song to him
+and that he did not know where it had originated.
+For example, one night in New Mexico a cowboy
+sang to me, in typical cowboy music, Larry Chitten<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">p. x</a></span>den's
+entire "Cowboys' Christmas Ball"; since that
+time the poem has often come to me in manuscript
+form as an original cowboy song. The changes &mdash; usually,
+it must be confessed, resulting in bettering
+the verse &mdash; which have occurred in oral transmission,
+are most interesting. Of one example, Charles
+Badger Clark's "High Chin Bob," I have printed,
+following Mr. Clark's poem, a cowboy version,
+which I submit to Mr. Clark and his admirers for
+their consideration.</p>
+
+<p class="text">In making selections for this volume from a large
+mass of material that came into my ballad hopper
+while hunting cowboy songs as a
+<ins class="transcriber" title="Transcriber&#8217;s note: original reads &#8216;Travelling&#8217;.">Traveling</ins> Fellow
+from Harvard University, I have included the best
+of the verse given me directly by the cowboys; other
+selections have come in through repeated recommendation
+of these men; others are vagrant verses from
+Western newspapers; and still others have been
+lifted from collections of Western verse written by
+such men as Charles Badger Clark, Jr., and Herbert
+H. Knibbs. To these two authors, as well as others
+who have permitted me to make use of their work,
+the grateful thanks of the collector are extended.
+As will be seen, almost one-half of the selections
+have no assignable authorship. I am equally grateful
+to these unknown authors.</p>
+
+<p class="text">All those who found "Cowboy Songs" diverting,
+it is believed, will make welcome "The Songs of the
+Cattle Trail and Cow Camp." Many of these have
+this claim to be called songs: they have been set to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">p. xi</a></span>
+music by the cowboys, who, in their isolation and
+loneliness, have found solace in narrative or descriptive
+verse devoted to cattle scenes. Herein,
+again, through these quondam songs we may come
+to appreciate something of the spirit of the big
+West &mdash; its largeness, its freedom, its wholehearted
+hospitality, its genuine friendship. Here again, too,
+we may see the cowboy at work and at play; hear
+the jingle of his big bell spurs, the swish of his rope,
+the creaking of his saddle gear, the thud of thousands
+of hoofs on the long, long trail winding from
+Texas to Montana; and know something of the life
+that attracted from the East some of its best young
+blood to a work that was necessary in the winning
+of the West. The trails are becoming dust covered
+or grass grown or lost underneath the farmers' furrow;
+but in the selections of this volume, many of
+them poems by courtesy, men of today and those
+who are to follow, may sense, at least in some small
+measure, the service, the glamour, the romance of
+that knight-errant of the plains &mdash; the American
+cowboy.</p>
+
+<p>
+<span style="margin-left: 18.5em;">J. A. L.</span><br />
+<br />
+The University of Texas,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Austin, July 9, 1919.</span><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr class="section" />
+<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+<div class="smcap">
+
+<table border="0" width="500" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Part I. Contents">
+<col style="width:90%;" />
+<col style="width:10%;" />
+<tbody valign="top">
+<tr><td align="center" class="toct">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; PART I. &nbsp;&nbsp; COWBOY YARNS</td><td align="right" class="tocr">PAGE</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Out Where the West Begins</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#OUT_WHERE_THE_WEST_BEGINS">1</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Shallows of the Ford</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_SHALLOWS_OF_THE_FORD">2</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Dance at Silver Valley</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_DANCE_AT_SILVER_VALLEY">5</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Legend of Boastful Bill</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_LEGEND_OF_BOASTFUL_BILL">8</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Texas Cowboy and the Mexican Greaser</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_TEXAS_COWBOY_AND_THE">11</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Broncho Versus Bicycle</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#BRONCHO_VERSUS_BICYCLE">14</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Riders of the Stars</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#RIDERS_OF_THE_STARS">19</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Lasca</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#LASCA">23</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Transformation of a Texas Girl</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_TRANSFORMATION_OF_A_TEXAS">27</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Glory Trail</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_GLORY_TRAIL">30</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">High Chin Bob</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#HIGH_CHIN_BOB">33</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">To Hear Him Tell It</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#TO_HEAR_HIM_TELL_IT">36</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Clown's Baby</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_CLOWNS_BABY">40</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Drunken Desperado</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_DRUNKEN_DESPERADO">44</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Marta of Milrone</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#MARTA_OF_MILRONE">46</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Jack Dempsey's Grave</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#JACK_DEMPSEYS_GRAVE">53</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Cattle Round-Up</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_CATTLE_ROUND-UP">54</a></td></tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<table border="0" width="500" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Part II. Contents">
+<col style="width:85%;" /> <col style="width:15%;" />
+<tbody valign="top">
+<tr><td align="center" class="toct" colspan="2">PART II. &nbsp;&nbsp; THE COWBOY OFF GUARD</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy's Worrying Love</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOYS_WORRYING_LOVE">59</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Cowboy and the Maid</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_COWBOY_AND_THE_MAID">62</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy's Love Song</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOYS_LOVE_SONG">65</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Border Affair</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_BORDER_AFFAIR">67</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Snagtooth Sal</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#SNAGTOOTH_SAL">69</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Love Lyrics of a Cowboy</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#LOVE_LYRICS_OF_A_COWBOY">71</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Bull Fight</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_BULL_FIGHT">74</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Cowboy's Valentine</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_COWBOYS_VALENTINE">76</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy's Hopeless Love</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOYS_HOPELESS_LOVE">77</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Chase</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_CHASE">80</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Riding Song</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#RIDING_SONG">81</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Our Little Cowgirl</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#OUR_LITTLE_COWGIRL">82</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">I Want My Time</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#I_WANT_MY_TIME">84</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Who's That Calling so Sweet?</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#WHOS_THAT_CALLING_SO_SWEET">85</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Song of the Cattle Trail</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#SONG_OF_THE_CATTLE_TRAIL">86</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy's Son</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOYS_SON">88</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy Song</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOY_SONG">89</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Nevada Cowpuncher to His Beloved</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_NEVADA_COWPUNCHER_TO_HIS">90</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Cowboy to His Friend in Need</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_COWBOY_TO_HIS_FRIEND_IN_NEED">91</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">When Bob Got Throwed</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#WHEN_BOB_GOT_THROWED">92</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Cowboy Versus Broncho</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#COWBOY_VERSUS_BRONCHO">94</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">When You're Throwed</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#WHEN_YOURE_THROWED">97</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Pardners</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#PARDNERS">100</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Bronc That Wouldn't Bust</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_BRONC_THAT_WOULDNT_BUST">102</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Ol' Cow Hawse</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_OL_COW_HAWSE">104</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Bunk-House Orchestra</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_BUNK-HOUSE_ORCHESTRA">106</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Cowboys' Dance Song</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_COWBOYS_DANCE_SONG">109</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Cowboys' Christmas Ball</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_COWBOYS_CHRISTMAS_BALL">112</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Dance at the Ranch</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_DANCE_AT_THE_RANCH">117</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">At a Cowboy Dance</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#AT_A_COWBOY_DANCE">120</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Cowboys' Ball</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_COWBOYS_BALL">122</a></td></tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+<p><br /></p>
+<table border="0" width="500" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Part III. Contents">
+<col style="width:85%;" /> <col style="width:15%;" />
+<tbody valign="top">
+<tr><td align="center" class="toct" colspan="2">PART III. &nbsp;&nbsp; COWBOY TYPES</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Cowboy</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_COWBOY">127</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Bar-Z on a Sunday Night</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#BAR-Z_ON_A_SUNDAY_NIGHT">129</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy Race</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOY_RACE">131</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Habit</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_HABIT">132</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Ranger</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_RANGER">134</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Insult</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_INSULT">137</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">"The Road to Ruin"</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_ROAD_TO_RUIN">138</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Outlaw</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_OUTLAW">140</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Desert</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_DESERT">142</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Whiskey Bill,&mdash; a Fragment</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#WHISKEY_BILL_A_FRAGMENT">145</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Denver Jim</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#DENVER_JIM">146</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Vigilantes</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_VIGILANTES">150</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Bandit's Grave</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_BANDITS_GRAVE">152</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Old Mackenzie Trail</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_OLD_MACKENZIE_TRAIL">154</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Sheep-Herder</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_SHEEP">158</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy at the Carnival</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOY_AT_THE_CARNIVAL">162</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Old Cowman</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_OLD_COWMAN">165</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Gila Monster Route</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_GILA_MONSTER_ROUTE">168</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Call of the Plains</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_CALL_OF_THE_PLAINS">172</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Where the Grizzly Dwells</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#WHERE_THE_GRIZZLY_DWELLS">174</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy Toast</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOY_TOAST">176</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Ridin' Up the Rocky Trail from Town</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#RIDIN_UP_THE_ROCKY_TRAIL_FROM_TOWN">179</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The Disappointed Tenderfoot</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_DISAPPOINTED_TENDERFOOT">182</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">A Cowboy Alone with His Conscience</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#A_COWBOY_ALONE_WITH_HIS_CONSCIENCE">184</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">Just a-Ridin'!</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#JUST_A-RIDIN">187</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left" class="toc">The End of the Trail</td><td align="right" class="toc"><a href="#THE_END_OF_THE_TRAIL">189</a></td></tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+
+</div>
+
+<hr class="section" />
+<h2><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I</h2>
+<h3>COWBOY YARNS</h3>
+
+<hr class="major" />
+
+<div class='center' style="margin-bottom: 2em; margin-top: 2em">
+<table width="450" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="" border="0">
+<tr><td>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1"><i>The centipede runs across my head,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>The vinegaroon crawls in my bed,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Tarantulas jump and scorpions play,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>The broncs are grazing far away,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>The rattlesnake gives his warning cry,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>And the coyotes sing their lullaby,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>While I sleep soundly beneath the sky.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+
+<hr class="section" />
+
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">p. 1</a></span></p>
+<h4><a name="OUT_WHERE_THE_WEST_BEGINS" id="OUT_WHERE_THE_WEST_BEGINS"></a>OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS</h4>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">OUT where the handclasp's a little stronger,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out where the smile dwells a little longer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's where the West begins;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out where the sun is a little brighter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's where the West begins.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out where friendship's a little truer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's where the West begins;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where there's laughter in every streamlet flowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's where the West begins.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out where the world is in the making,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's where the West begins;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where there's more of singing and less of sighing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where there's more of giving and less of buying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a man makes friends without half trying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's where the West begins.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Arthur Chapman.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">p. 2</a></span></p>
+
+<h3><a name="THE_SHALLOWS_OF_THE_FORD" id="THE_SHALLOWS_OF_THE_FORD"></a>THE SHALLOWS OF THE FORD</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">DID you ever wait for daylight when the stars along the river<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Floated thick and white as snowflakes in the water deep and strange,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till a whisper through the aspens made the current break and shiver<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the frosty edge of morning seemed to melt and spread and change?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Once I waited, almost wishing that the dawn would never find me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saw the sun roll up the ranges like the glory of the Lord;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was about to wake my pardner who was sleeping close behind me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I saw the man we wanted spur his pony to the ford.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Saw the ripples of the shallows and the muddy streaks that followed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the pony stumbled toward me in the narrows of the bend;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saw the face I used to welcome, wild and watchful, lined and hollowed;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">p. 3</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And God knows I wished to warn him, for I once had called him friend.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But an oath had come between us &mdash; I was paid by Law and Order;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was outlaw, rustler, killer &mdash; so the border whisper ran;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Left his word in Caliente that he'd cross the Rio border &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Call me coward? But I hailed him &mdash; "Riding close to daylight, Dan!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Just a hair and he'd have got me, but my voice, and not the warning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my name,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Reined his pony round and fanned it in the bright and silent morning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Back across the sunlit Rio up the trail on which he came.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He had passed his word to cross it &mdash; I had passed my word to get him &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We broke even and we knew it; 'twas a case of give and take<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For old times. I could have killed him from the brush; instead, I let him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ride his trail &mdash; I turned &mdash; my pardner flung his arm and stretched awake;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">p. 4</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Saw me standing in the open; pulled his gun and came beside me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Asked a question with his shoulder as his left hand pointed toward<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Muddy streaks that thinned and vanished &mdash; not a word, but hard he eyed me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the water cleared and sparkled in the shallows of the ford.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Henry Herbert Knibbs.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">p. 5</a></span></p>
+
+<h3><a name="THE_DANCE_AT_SILVER_VALLEY" id="THE_DANCE_AT_SILVER_VALLEY"></a>THE DANCE AT SILVER VALLEY</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2"><i>DON'T you hear the big spurs jingle?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Don't you feel the red blood tingle?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Be it smile or be it frown,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Be it dance or be it fight,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Broncho Bill has come to town</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>To dance a dance tonight.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Chaps, sombrero, handkerchief, silver spurs at heel;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Hello, Gil!" and "Hello, Pete!" "How do you think you feel?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Drinks are mine. Come fall in, boys; crowd up on the right.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here's happy days and honey joys. I'm going to dance tonight."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(On his hip in leathern tube, a case of dark blue steel.)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bill, the broncho buster, from the ranch at Beaver Bend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ninety steers and but one life in his hands to spend;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ready for a fight or spree; ready for a race;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Going blind with bridle loose every inch of space.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Down at Johnny Schaeffer's place, see them trooping in,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">p. 6</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Up above the women laugh; down below is gin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Belle McClure is dressed in blue, ribbon in her hair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broncho Bill is shaved and slick, all his throat is bare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round and round with Belle McClure he whirls a dizzy spin.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Jim Kershaw, the gambler, waits, &mdash; white his hands and slim.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bill whispers, "Belle, you know it well; it is me or him.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jim Kershaw, so help me God, if you dance with Belle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is either you or me must travel down to hell."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jim put his arm around her waist, her graceful waist and slim.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Don't you hear the banjo laugh? Hear the fiddles scream?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broncho Bill leaned at the door, watched the twirling stream.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Twenty fiends were at his heart snarling, "Kill him sure."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Out of hell that woman came.) "I love you, Belle McClure."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broncho Bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The dance is done. Shots crack as one. The crowd shoves for the door.
+<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">p. 7</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Broncho Bill is lying there and blood upon the floor.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"You've finished me; you've gambler's luck; you've won the trick and Belle.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mine the soul that here tonight is passing down to hell.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I must ride the trail alone. Goodbye to Belle McClure."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Downstairs on the billiard cloth, something lying white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upstairs still the dance goes on, all the lamps are bright.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round and round in merry spin &mdash; on the floor a blot;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Laugh, and chaff and merry spin &mdash; such a little spot.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broncho Bill has come to town and danced his dance tonight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2"><i>Don't you hear the fiddle shrieking?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Don't you hear the banjo speaking?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Don't you hear the big spurs jingle?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Don't you feel the red blood tingle?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Faces dyed with desert brown,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>(One that's set and white);</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Broncho Bill has come to town</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>And danced his dance tonight.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>William Maxwell.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">p. 8</a></span></p>
+
+<h3><a name="THE_LEGEND_OF_BOASTFUL_BILL" id="THE_LEGEND_OF_BOASTFUL_BILL"></a>THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">AT a round-up on the Gila<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One sweet morning long ago,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ten of us was throwed quite freely<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By a hoss from Idaho.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' we 'lowed he'd go a-beggin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a man to break his pride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Boastful Bill cut loose an' cried:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"I'm a ornery proposition for to hurt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I can ride the highest liver<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Twixt the Gulf an' Powder River,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An' I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So Bill climbed the Northern fury<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' they mangled up the air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till a native of Missouri<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would have owned the brag was fair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though the plunges kept him reelin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the wind it flapped his shirt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loud above the hoss's squealin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We could hear our friend assert:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"I'm the one to take such rockin's as a joke;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">p. 9</a></span>
+<span class="i2">Someone hand me up the makin's of a smoke.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If you think my fame needs brightnin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Why, I'll rope a streak o' lightnin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An' spur it up an' quirt it till it's broke."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then one caper of repulsion<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broke that hoss's back in two,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cinches snapped in the convulsion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Skyward man and saddle flew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up they mounted, never flaggin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we watched them through our tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While this last, thin bit o' braggin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came a-floatin' to our ears:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"If you ever watched my habits very close,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You would know I broke such rabbits by the gross.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I have kept my talent hidin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'm too good for earthly ridin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So I'm off to bust the lightnin' &mdash; <ins class="transcriber"
+title="Transcriber&#8217;s note: original omits &oacute;.">Adios</ins>!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Years have passed since that ascension;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Boastful Bill ain't never lit;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So we reckon he's a-wrenchin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some celestial outlaw's bit.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the night wind flaps our slickers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the rain is cold and stout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the lightnin' flares and flickers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We can sometimes hear him shout:
+<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">p. 10</a></span>
+<span class="i2">"I'm a ridin' son o' thunder o' the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'm a broncho twistin' wonder on the fly.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hey, you earthlin's, shut your winders,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We're a-rippin' clouds to flinders.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Star-dust on his chaps and saddle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scornful still of jar and jolt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He'll come back sometime a-straddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a bald-faced thunderbolt;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the thin-skinned generation<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of that dim and distant day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sure will stare with admiration<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When they hear old Boastful say:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"I was first, as old raw-hiders all confest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'm the last of all rough riders, and the best.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Huh! you soft and dainty floaters<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With your aeroplanes and motors,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Huh! are you the greatgrandchildren of the West?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>From recitation, original, by Charles Badger Clark, Jr.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">p. 11</a></span></p>
+
+<h3><a name="THE_TEXAS_COWBOY_AND_THE" id="THE_TEXAS_COWBOY_AND_THE"></a>THE TEXAS COWBOY AND THE<br />MEXICAN GREASER</h3>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I THINK we can all remember when a Greaser hadn't no show<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Palo Pinto particular,&mdash; it ain't very long ago;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A powerful feelin' of hatred ag'in the whole Greaser race<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That murdered bold Crockett and Bowie pervaded all in the place.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, the boys would draw on a Greaser as quick as they would on a steer;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They was shot down without warnin' often, in the memory of many here.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One day the bark of pistols was heard ringin' out in the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a Greaser, chased by some ranchmen, tore round here into the square.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I don't know what he's committed,&mdash;'tain't likely anyone knew,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I wouldn't bet a check on the issue; if you knew the gang, neither would you.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breathless and bleeding, the Greaser fell down by the side of the wall;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a man sprang out before him,&mdash; a man both strong and tall,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By his clothes I should say a cowboy,&mdash; a stranger in town, I think,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">p. 12</a></span>
+<span class="i0">With his pistol he waved back the gang, who was wild with rage and drink.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I warn ye, get back!" he said, "or I'll blow your heads in two!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dozen on one poor creature, and him wounded and bleeding, too!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gang stood back for a minute; then up spoke Poker Bill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Young man, yer a stranger, I reckon. We don't wish yer any ill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But come out of the range of the Greaser, or, as sure as I live, you'll croak;"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he drew a bead on the stranger. I'll tell yer it wa'n't no joke.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the stranger moven' no muscle as he looked in the bore of Bill's gun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He hadn't no thought to stir, sir; he hadn't no thought to run;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he spoke out cool and quiet, "I might live for a thousand year<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And not die at last so nobly as defendin' this Greaser here;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he's wounded, now, and helpless, and hasn't had no fair show;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the first of ye boys that strikes him, I'll lay that first one low."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gang respected the stranger that for another was willing to die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They respected the look of daring they saw in that cold, blue eye.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">p. 13</a></span>
+<span class="i0">They saw before them a hero that was glad in the right to fall;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he was a Texas cowboy,&mdash; never heard of Rome at all.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don't tell me of yer Romans, or yer bridge bein' held by three;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">True manhood's the same in Texas as it was in Rome, d'ye see?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did the Greaser escape? Why certain. I saw the hull crowd over thar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the ranch of Bill Simmons, the gopher, with their glasses over the bar.<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>From recitation.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">p. 14</a></span></p>
+
+<h3><a name="BRONCHO_VERSUS_BICYCLE" id="BRONCHO_VERSUS_BICYCLE"></a>BRONCHO VERSUS BICYCLE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">THE first that we saw of the high-tone tramp<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">War over thar at our Pecos camp;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He war comin' down the Santa Fe trail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Astride of a wheel with a crooked tail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-skinnin' along with a merry song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a-ringin' a little warnin' gong.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He looked so outlandish, strange and queer<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That all of us grinned from ear to ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every boy on the round-up swore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He never seed sich a hoss before.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wal, up he rode with a sunshine smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a-smokin' a cigarette, an' I'll<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be kicked in the neck if I ever seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sich a saddle as that on his queer machine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, it made us laugh, fer it wasn't half<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Big enough fer the back of a suckin' calf.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He tuk our fun in a keerless way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-venturin' only once to say<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thar wasn't a broncho about the place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could down that wheel in a ten-mile race.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'd a lightnin' broncho out in the herd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That could split the air like a flyin' bird,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">p. 15</a></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I hinted round in an off-hand way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That, providin' the enterprize would pay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I thought as I might jes' happen to light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a hoss that would leave him out er sight.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In less'n a second we seen him yank<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A roll o' greenbacks out o' his flank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' he said if we wanted to bet, to name<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The limit, an' he would tackle the game.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Jes' a week before we had all been down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a jamboree to the nearest town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the whiskey joints and the faro games<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a-shakin' our hoofs with the dance hall dames,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made a wholesale bust; an', pard, I'll be cussed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If a man in the outfit had any dust.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' so I explained, but the youth replied<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That he'd lay the money matter aside,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' to show that his back didn't grow no moss<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He'd bet his machine against my hoss.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I tuk him up, an' the bet war closed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' me a-chucklin', fer I supposed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I war playin' in dead-sure, winnin' luck<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the softest snap I had ever struck.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the boys chipped in with a knowin' grin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer they thought the fool had no chance to win.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' so we agreed fer to run that day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the Navajo cross, ten miles away,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As handsome a track as you ever seed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer testin' a hosses prettiest speed.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">p. 16</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Apache Johnson and Texas Ned<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saddled up their hosses an' rode ahead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To station themselves ten miles away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' act as judges an' see fair play;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While Mexican Bart and big Jim Hart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stayed back fer to give us an even start.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I got aboard of my broncho bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' we came to the scratch an' got the word;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see that tenderfoot drop to the rear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The first three miles slipped away first-rate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then bronc began fer to lose his gait.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I warn't oneasy an' didn't mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With tenderfoot more'n a mile behind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I jogged along with a cowboy song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till all of a sudden I heard that gong<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-ringin' a warnin' in my ear &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Ting, ting, ting, ting,</i>&mdash; too infernal near;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' lookin' backwards I seen that chump<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a tenderfoot gainin' every jump.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I hit old bronc a cut with the quirt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' once more got him to scratchin' dirt;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But his wind got weak, an' I tell you, boss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I seen he wasn't no ten-mile hoss.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still, the plucky brute took another shoot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' pulled away from the wheel galoot.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the animal couldn't hold his gait;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the idea somehow entered my pate<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">p. 17</a></span>
+<span class="i0">That if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their grip<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He'd own that hoss at the end of the trip.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Closer an' closer come tenderfoot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' harder the whip to the hoss I put;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ran up to my side with his easy pace &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rode up to my side, an' dern his hide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Remarked 'twere a pleasant day fer a ride;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then axed, onconcerned, if I had a match,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' on his britches give it a scratch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' as fresh as a daisy scooted away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ahead he went, that infernal gong<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-ringin' "good-day" as he flew along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the smoke from his cigarette came back<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a vaporous snicker along his track.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On an' on he sped, gettin' further ahead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His feet keepin' up that onceaseable tread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till he faded away in the distance, an' when<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He war thar with the boys at the end of the race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That same keerless, onconsarned smile on his face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now, pard, when a cowboy gits licked he don't swar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor kick, if the beatin' are done on the squar;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I tuck that Easterner right by the hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' told him that broncho awaited his brand.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then I axed him his name, an' where from he came,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">p. 18</a></span>
+<span class="i0">An' how long he'd practiced that wheel-rollin' game.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tom Stevens he said war his name, an' he come<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From a town they call Bosting, in old Yankeedom.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then he jist paralyzed us by sayin' he'd whirled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That very identical wheel round the world.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wal, pard, that's the story of how that smart chap<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Done me up w'en I thought I had sich a soft snap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Done me up on a race with remarkable ease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' lowered my pride a good many degrees.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did I give him the hoss? W'y o' course I did, boss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I tell you it warn't no diminutive loss.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He writ me a letter from back in the East,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' said he presented the neat little beast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To a feller named Pope, who stands at the head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O' the ranch where the cussed wheel hosses are bred.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">p. 19</a></span></p>
+
+<h3><a name="RIDERS_OF_THE_STARS" id="RIDERS_OF_THE_STARS"></a>RIDERS OF THE STARS</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">TWENTY abreast down the Golden Street ten thousand riders marched;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Angel Host to the lone, last ghost their delicate eyebrows arched<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the swaggering sons of the open range drew up to the throne sublime.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Gaunt and grizzled, a Texas man from out of the concourse strode,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle head;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage glowed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here," he said.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A hush ran over the waiting throng as the Cherubim replied:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"He that readeth the hearts of men He deemeth your challenge strange,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though He long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not walk but ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range!"<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">p. 20</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then warily spake the Texas man: "A petition and no complaint<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We here present, if the Law allows and the Marster He thinks it fit;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We-all agree to the things that be, but we're longing for things that ain't,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So we took a vote and we made a plan and here is the plan we writ: &mdash; <br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"<i>'Give us a range and our horses and ropes, open the Pearly Gate,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And turn us loose in the unfenced blue riding the sunset rounds,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Hunting each stray in the Milky Way and running the Rancho straight;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Not crowding the dogie stars too much on their way to the bedding-grounds.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"<i>'Maverick comets that's running wild, we'll rope 'em and brand 'em fair,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>So they'll quit stampeding the starry herd and scaring the folks below,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And we'll save 'em prime for the round-up time, and we riders'll all be there,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Ready and willing to do our work as we did in the long ago.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"<i>'We've studied the Ancient Landmarks, Sir; Taurus, the Bear, and Mars,</i><br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">p. 21</a></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And Venus a-smiling across the west as bright as a burning coal,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Plain to guide as we punchers ride night-herding the little stars,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>With Saturn's rings for our home corral and the Dipper our water hole.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"<i>'Here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long gone by,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And our singing it doesn't fit in up here though we tried it for old time's sake;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that's why</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>We ask you, Marster, to turn us loose &mdash; just give us an even break!'</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then the Lord He spake to the Cherubim, and this was His kindly word:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"He that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My glory sings in the toil they crave; 'tis their right. I would have it so."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Have you heard in the starlit dusk of eve when the lone coyotes roam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The <i>Yip!</i> <i>Yip!</i> <i>Yip!</i> of a hunting cry and the echo that shrilled afar,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">p. 22</a></span>
+<span class="i0">As you listened still on a desert hill and gazed at the twinkling dome,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a viewless rider swept the sky on the trail of a shooting star?<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Henry Herbert Knibbs.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">p. 23</a></span></p>
+
+<h3><a name="LASCA" id="LASCA"></a>LASCA</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I WANT free life, and I want fresh air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The crack of the whips like shots in battle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The medley of hoofs and horns and heads<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The green beneath and the blue above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dash and danger, and life and love &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Lasca!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i6">Lasca used to ride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With blue serape and bright-belled spur;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I laughed with joy as I looked at her!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little knew she of books or creeds;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little she cared save to be at my side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To ride with me, and ever to ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was as bold as the billows that beat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was as wild as the breezes that blow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From her little head to her little feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By each gust of passion; a sapling pine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">p. 24</a></span>
+<span class="i0">She would hunger that I might eat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But once, when I made her jealous for fun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At something I whispered or looked or done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One Sunday, in San Antonio,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To a glorious girl in the Alamo,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She drew from her garter a little dagger,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And &mdash; sting of a wasp &mdash; it made me stagger!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I shouldn't be maundering here tonight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her torn rebosa about the wound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I swiftly forgave her. Scratches don't count<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her eye was brown &mdash; a deep, deep brown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her hair was darker than her eye;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And something in her smile and frown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Curled crimson lip and instep high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Showed that there ran in each blue vein,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was alive in every limb<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With feeling, to the finger tips;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when the sun is like a fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sky one shining, soft sapphire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One does not drink in little sips.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><span class="dots">&middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;</span></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The air was heavy, the night was hot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sat by her side and forgot, forgot;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">p. 25</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forgot that the air was close oppressed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That, once let the herd at its breath take fright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nothing on earth can stop their flight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That falls in front of their mad stampede!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><span class="dots">&middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;</span></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Was that thunder? I grasped the cord<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of my swift mustang without a word.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Away! on a hot chase down the wind!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But never was fox-hunt half so hard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never was steed so little spared.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The mustang flew, and we urged him on;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was one chance left, and you have but one &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And if the steers in their frantic course<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don't batter you both to pieces at once,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You may thank your star; if not, goodbye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the open air and the open sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">p. 26</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down came the mustang, and down came we,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clinging together &mdash; and, what was the rest?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A body that spread itself on my breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two lips that hard to my lips were prest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then came thunder in my ears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As over us surged the sea of steers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blows that beat blood into my eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when I could rise &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lasca was dead!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><span class="dots">&middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;</span></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there in the Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there she is lying, and no one knows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the summer shines, and the winter snows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For many a day the flowers have spread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A pall of petals over her head;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the little grey hawk hangs aloft in the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the sly coyote trots here and there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the black snake glides and glitters and slides<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into the rift of a cottonwood tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the buzzard sails on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And comes and is gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stately and still, like a ship at sea.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I wonder why I do not care<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the things that are, like the things that were.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Does half my heart lie buried there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Frank Desprez.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">p. 27</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_TRANSFORMATION_OF_A_TEXAS" id="THE_TRANSFORMATION_OF_A_TEXAS"></a>THE TRANSFORMATION OF A TEXAS<br />GIRL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">SHE was a Texas maiden, she came of low degree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her clothes were worn and faded, her feet from shoes were free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her face was tanned and freckled, her hair was sun-burned, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her whole darned <i>tout ensemble</i> was painful for to view!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She drove a lop-eared mule team attached unto a plow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The trickling perspiration exuding from her brow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And often she lamented her cruel, cruel fate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As but a po' white's daughter down in the Lone Star State.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No courtiers came to woo her, she never had a beau,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her misfit face precluded such things as that, you know,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was nobody's darling, no feller's solid girl,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And poets never called her an uncut Texas pearl.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her only two companions was those two flea-bit mules,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And these she but regarded as animated tools<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To plod along the furrows in patience up and down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pull the ancient wagon when pap'd go to town.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">p. 28</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No fires of wild ambition were flaming in her soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her eyes with tender passion she'd never upward roll;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wondrous world she'd heard of, to her was but a dream<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As walked she in the furrows behind that lop-eared team.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Born on that small plantation, 'twas there she thought she'd die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She never longed for pinions that she might rise and fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To other lands far distant, where breezes fresh and cool<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would never shake and tremble from brayings of a mule.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><span class="dots">&middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;     &middot;</span></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But yesterday we saw her dressed up in gorgeous style!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A half a dozen fellows were basking in her smile!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She'd jewels on her fingers, and jewels in her ears &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great sparkling, flashing brilliants that hung as frozen tears!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The feet once nude and soil-stained were clad in Frenchy boots,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The once tanned face bore tintings of miscellaneous fruits;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The voice that once admonished the mules to move along<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was tuned to new-born music, as sweet as Siren's song!<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">p. 29</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her tall and lanky father, one knows as "Sleepy Jim,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is now addressed as Colonel by men who honor him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And youths in finest raiment now take him by the paw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each in the hope that some day he'll call him dad-in-law.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their days of toil are over, their sun has risen at last,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A gold-embroidered curtain now hides their rocky past;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For was it not discovered their little patch of soil<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had rested there for ages above a flow of oil?<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>James Barton Adams.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">p. 30</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_GLORY_TRAIL" id="THE_GLORY_TRAIL"></a>THE GLORY TRAIL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'WAY high up the Mogollons,
+<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" style="font-size: .7em">[1]</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the mountain tops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And licked his thankful chops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When on the picture who should ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-trippin' down the slope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mav'rick-hungry rope.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">"Oh, glory be to me," says he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"And fame's unfadin' flowers!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All meddlin' hands are far away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I ride my good top-hawse today<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That lion licked his paw so brown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dreamed soft dreams of veal &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then the circlin' loop sung down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And roped him 'round his meal.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He yowled quick fury to the world<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till all the hills yelled back;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Bob caught up the slack.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">p. 31</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">"Oh, glory be to me," laughs he.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"We hit the glory trail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No human man as I have read<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor ever hawse could drag one dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until we told the tale."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Way high up the Mogollons<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That top-hawse done his best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From canyon-floor to crest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ever when Bob turned and hoped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A limp remains to find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A red-eyed lion, belly roped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But healthy, loped behind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">"Oh, glory be to me," grunts he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"This glory trail is rough,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet even till the Judgment Morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For never any hero born<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could stoop to holler: 'nuff!'"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Three suns had rode their circle home<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond the desert's rim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And turned their star herds loose to roam<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ranges high and dim;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet up and down and round and 'cross<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bob pounded, weak and wan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For pride still glued him to his hawse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And glory drove him on.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">p. 32</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">"Oh, glory be to me," sighs he.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"He kaint be drug to death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now I know beyond a doubt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Them heroes I have read about<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was only fools that stuck it out<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To end of mortal breath."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Way high up the Mogollons<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A prospect man did swear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That moon dreams melted down his bones<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hoisted up his hair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lion trailed along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rider, ga'nt, but chin on high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yelled out a crazy song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">"Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"And to my noble noose!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O stranger, tell my pards below<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I took a rampin' dream in tow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And if I never lay him low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll never turn him loose!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Charles Badger Clark.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">1</span></a>
+Pronounced by the natives "muggy-yones.</p></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">p. 33</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="HIGH_CHIN_BOB" id="HIGH_CHIN_BOB"></a>HIGH CHIN BOB</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'WAY high up in the Mokiones, among the mountain tops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lion cleaned a yearling's bones and licks his thankful chops;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But High Chin Bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "an' fame's unfadin' flowers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I ride my good top hoss today and I'm top hand of Lazy-J,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So, kitty-cat, you're ours!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The lion licked his paws so brown, and dreamed soft dreams of veal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As High Chin's rope came circlin' down and roped him round his meal;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She yowled quick fury to the world and all the hills yelled back;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That top horse gave a snort and whirled and Bob took up the slack.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "we'll hit the glory trail.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">p. 34</a></span>
+<span class="i2">No man has looped a lion's head and lived to drag the critter dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Till I shall tell the tale."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Way high up in the Mokiones that top hoss done his best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Mid whippin' brush and rattlin' stones from canon-floor to crest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up and down and round and cross Bob pounded weak and wan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But pride still glued him to his hoss and glory spurred him on.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "this glory trail is rough!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But I'll keep this dally round the horn until the toot of judgment morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Before I'll holler 'nough!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Three suns had rode their circle home, beyond the desert rim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And turned their star herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And whenever Bob turned and hoped the limp remains to find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A red-eyed lion, belly roped, but healthy, loped behind!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"Oh, glory be to me," says Bob, "he caint be drug to death!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">These heroes that I've read about were only fools that stuck it out<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To the end of mortal breath."<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">p. 35</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Way high up in the Mokiones, if you ever camp there at night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You'll hear a rukus among the stones that'll lift your hair with fright;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You'll see a cow-hoss thunder by &mdash; a lion trail along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the rider bold, with his chin on high, sings forth his glory song:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "and to my mighty noose.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Oh, pardner, tell my friends below I took a ragin' dream in tow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And if I didn't lay him low, I never turned him loose!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>From oral rendition.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">p. 36</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="TO_HEAR_HIM_TELL_IT" id="TO_HEAR_HIM_TELL_IT"></a>TO HEAR HIM TELL IT</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I WAS just about to take a drink &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I was mighty dry &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I hailed an old time cowman<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who was passing by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Come in, Ole Timer! have a drink!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kinda warm today!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As we leaned across the bar-rail &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"How's things up your way?"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Stock is doin' fairly good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Range is gettin' fine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I jes dropped down to meetin' here<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To spend a little time.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Con'sidable stuff a-movin' now &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cows an' hosses, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Prices high an' a big demand &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now I'm tellin' you!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"I've loaded out my feeders,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Got a good price all aroun';<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sold 'em in Kansas City<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To a commission man named Brown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A thousand told o' mixed stuff,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In pretty fair shape, too,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said the old Texas cowman,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Now I'm tellin' you!<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">p. 37</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"I've been in this yere country<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since late in fifty-nine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I know every foot o' sage brush<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clear to the southern line.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Got my first bunch started up<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long in seventy-two,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had to ride range with a long rope &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now I'm tellin' you!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Lordy, I kin remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Them good ole early days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we ust t' trail the herds north<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'N forty different ways.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jes'n point 'em from the beddin' groun'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' let 'em drift right through,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said the reminiscent cowman,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Now I'm tellin' you!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Yessir, trailed 'em up to Wichita,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cross the Kansas line,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made deliveries at Benton<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As early as fifty-nine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Turned 'em most to soldiers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some went to Injuns, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beef wasn't nigh so high then &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now I'm tellin' you!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Son, I've fit nigh every Injun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That ever roamed the plains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'N I was one o' the best hands<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">p. 38</a></span>
+<span class="i0">That ever pulled bridle reins.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, you boys don't know range life &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You don't seem to git the ways,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like we did down in Texas<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In them good ol' early days!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Yes, thing's a heap sight diff'rent now!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tain't like in them ol' days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When cowmen trailed their herds north<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'N forty diff'rent ways.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We ship 'em on the railroad now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Load out on the big S. P.,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Says the relic of Texas cowman<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he takes a drink with me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"I figger on buyin' more feeders,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From down across the line &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chihuahua an' Sonora stuff,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' hold 'em till they're prime.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So here's to the steers an' yearlin's!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As we clink our glasses two,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Things ain't the same as they used to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now I'm tellin' you!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"I got t' git out an' hustle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I ain't got time t' stay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jes' want t' see some uh the boys<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'N then I'm on my way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's many a hand here right now<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I know'd long, long ago,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">p. 39</a></span>
+<span class="i0">When ranch land was free an' open<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the plowman had a show.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"'Tain't often we git together<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To swap yarns an' tell our lies,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said the old time Texas cowman<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As a mist comes to his eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"So let's drink up; here's how!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As we drain our glasses two,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Them was good ol' days an' good ol' ways &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now I'm tellin' you!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He talked and talked and yarned away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He harped on days of yore &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My head it ached and I grew faint;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My legs got tired and sore.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a woman yelled, "You come here, John!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Lordy! how he flew!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the last I heard as he broke and ran<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was, "Now I'm tellin' you!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I won't never hail old timers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To have a drink with me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To learn the history of the range<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As far back as seventy-three.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the next time that I'm thirsty<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And feeling kind of blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll step right up and drink alone &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now I'm tellin' you!<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>From the Wild Bunch.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">p. 40</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_CLOWNS_BABY" id="THE_CLOWNS_BABY"></a>THE CLOWN'S BABY</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">IT was on the western frontier,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The miners, rugged and brown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were gathered round the posters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The circus had come to town!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The great tent shone in the darkness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a wonderful palace of light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rough men crowded the entrance,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shows didn't come every night!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not a woman's face among them;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Many a face that was bad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some that were only vacant,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some that were very sad.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And behind a canvas curtain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a corner of the place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clown, with chalk and vermillion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was "making up" his face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A weary looking woman<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a smile that still was sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sewed on a little garment,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a cradle at her feet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pantaloon stood ready and waiting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was time for the going on;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the clown in vain searched wildly,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The "property baby" was gone!<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">p. 41</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He murmured, impatiently hunting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"It's strange that I cannot find &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There, I've looked in every corner;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It must have been left behind!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The miners were stamping and shouting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were not patient men;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clown bent over the cradle,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I must take you, little Ben."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The mother started and shivered,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But trouble and want were near;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She lifted the baby gently,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"You'll be very careful, dear?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Careful? You foolish darling!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How tenderly it was said!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What a smile shone through the chalk and paint!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I love each hair of his head!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The noise rose into an uproar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Misrule for the time was king;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clown with a foolish chuckle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bolted into the ring.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But as, with a squeak and flourish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fiddles closed their tune<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"You'll hold him as if he were made of glass?"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said the clown to the pantaloon.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The jovial fellow nodded,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I've a couple myself," he said.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I know how to handle 'em, bless you!<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">p. 42</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Old fellow, go ahead!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fun grew fast and furious,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And not one of all the crowd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had guessed that the baby was alive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he suddenly laughed aloud.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, that baby laugh! It was echoed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the benches with a ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the roughest customer there sprang up<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With, "Boys, it's the real thing."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ring was jammed in a minute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not a man that did not strive<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a "shot at holding the baby,"&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The baby that was alive!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He was thronged with kneeling suitors<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the midst of the dusty ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he held his court right royally,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fair little baby king,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till one of the shouting courtiers,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A man with a bold, hard face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The talk, for miles, of the country,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the terror of the place,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Raised the little king to his shoulder<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And chuckled, "Look at that!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the chubby fingers clutched his hair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There never was such a hatful<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of silver and gold and notes;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">p. 43</a></span>
+<span class="i0">People are not always penniless<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Because they don't wear coats.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And then, "Three cheers for the baby!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I tell you those cheers were meant,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the way that they were given<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was enough to raise the tent.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then there was sudden silence<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a gruff old miner said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Come boys, enough of this rumpus;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's time it was put to bed."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So, looking a little sheepish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But with faces strangely bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The audience, somewhat lingering,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flocked out into the night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the bold-faced leader chuckled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"He wasn't a bit afraid!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He's as game as he's good-looking!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Boys, that was a show that <i>paid!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Margaret Vandergrift.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">p. 44</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_DRUNKEN_DESPERADO" id="THE_DRUNKEN_DESPERADO"></a>THE DRUNKEN DESPERADO</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'M wild and woolly and full of fleas,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm hard to curry below the knees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm a she-wolf from Shamon Creek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I was dropped from a lightning streak<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's my night to hollow &mdash; Whoo-pee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I stayed in Texas till they runned me out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then in Bull Frog they chased me about,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I walked a little and rode some more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I've shot up a town before<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's my night to hollow &mdash; Whoo-pee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Give me room and turn me loose<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm peaceable without excuse.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I never killed for profit or fun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But riled, I'm a regular son of a gun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's my night to hollow &mdash; Whoo-pee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Good-eye Jim will serve the crowd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rule goes here no sweetnin' 'lowed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we'll drink now the Nixon kid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I rode to town and lifted the lid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's my night to hollow &mdash; Whoo-pee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You can guess how quick a man must be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I killed eleven and wounded three;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">p. 45</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And brothers and daddies aren't makin' a sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though they know where the kid is found<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's my night to hollow &mdash; Whoo-pee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I get old and my aim aint true<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's three to one and wounded, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I won't beg and claw the ground;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I'll be dead before I'm found<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When it's my night to hollow &mdash; Whoo-pee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Baird Boyd.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">p. 46</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="MARTA_OF_MILRONE" id="MARTA_OF_MILRONE"></a>MARTA OF MILRONE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I SHOT him where the Rio flows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I shot him when the moon arose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And where he lies the vulture knows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along the Tinto River.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In schools of eastern culture pale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My cloistered flesh began to fail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They bore me where the deserts quail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To winds from out the sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I looked upon the land and sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor hoped to live nor feared to die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from my hollow breast a sigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fell o'er the burning waste.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But strong I grew and tall I grew;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I drank the region's balm and dew,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It made me lithe in limb and thew,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How swift I rode and ran!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And oft it was my joy to ride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the sand-blown ocean wide<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While, ever smiling at my side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rode Marta of Milrone.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">p. 47</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A flood of horned heads before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The trampled thunder, smoke and roar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of full four thousand hoofs, or more &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A cloud, a sea, a storm!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, wonderful the desert gleamed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As, man and maid, we spoke and dreamed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of love in life, till white wastes seemed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like plains of paradise.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her eyes with Love's great magic shone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Be mine, O Marta of Milrone,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your hand, your heart be all my own!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her lips made sweet response.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"I love you, yes; for you are he<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who from the East should come to me &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I have waited long!" Oh, we<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were happy as the sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There came upon a hopeless quest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With hell and hatred in his breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stranger, who his love confessed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Marta long in vain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To me she spoke: "Chosen mate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His eyes are terrible with fate,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I fear his love, I fear his hate,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I fear some looming ill!"<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">p. 48</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then to the church we twain did ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I kissed her as she rode beside.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How fair &mdash; how passing fair my bride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With gold combs in her hair!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Before the Spanish priest we stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of San Gregorio's brotherhood &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A shot rang out! &mdash; and in her blood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My dark-eyed darling lay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O God! I carried her beside<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Virgin's altar where she cried,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smiling upon me ere she died,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Adieu, my love, adieu!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I knelt before St. Mary's shrine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And held my dead one's hand in mine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Vengeance," I cried, "O Lord, be thine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I thy minister!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I kissed her thrice and sealed my vow,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her eyes, her sea-cold lips and brow,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Farewell, my heart is dying now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Marta of Milrone!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then swift upon my steed I lept;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My streaming eyes the desert swept;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw the accursed where he crept<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the blood-red sun.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">p. 49</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I galloped straight upon his track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never more my eyes looked back;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world was barred with red and black;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart was flaming coal.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Through the delirious twilight dim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the black night I followed him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hills did we cross and rivers swim,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My fleet foot horse and I.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The morn burst red, a gory wound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er iron hills and savage ground;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there was never another sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save beat of horses' hoofs.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Unto the murderer's ear they said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"<i>Thou'rt of the dead! Thou'rt of the dead!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still on his stallion black he sped<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While death spurred on behind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fiery dust from the blasted plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Burnt like lava in every vein;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I rode on with steady rein<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though the fierce sand-devils spun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then to a sullen land we came,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose earth was brass, whose sky was flame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I made it balm with her blessed name<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the land of Mexico.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">p. 50</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With gasp and groan my poor horse fell, &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Last of all things that loved me well!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I turned my head &mdash; a smoking shell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Veiled me his dying throes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But fast on vengeful foot was I;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His steed fell, too, and was left to die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He fled where a river's channel dry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made way to the rolling stream.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Red as my rage the huge sun sank.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My foe bent low on the river's bank<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And deep of the kindly flood he drank<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the giant stars broke forth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then face to face and man to man<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I fought him where the river ran,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the trembling palm held up its fan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the emerald serpents lay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The mad, remorseless bullets broke<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From tongues of flame in the sulphur smoke;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The air was rent till the desert spoke<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the echoing hills afar.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hot from his lips the curses burst;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He fell! The sands were slaked of thirst;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stream in the stream ran dark at first,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the stones grew red as hearts.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">p. 51</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I shot him where the Rio flows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I shot him when the moon arose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And where he lies the vulture knows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along the Tinto River.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But where she lies to none is known<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save to my poor heart and a lonely stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On which I sit and weep alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the cactus stars are white.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where I shall lie, no man can say;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The flowers all are fallen away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The desert is so drear and grey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Marta of Milrone!<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Herman Scheffauer.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">p. 52</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="JACK_DEMPSEYS_GRAVE" id="JACK_DEMPSEYS_GRAVE"></a>JACK DEMPSEY'S GRAVE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">FAR out in the wilds of Oregon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a lonely mountain side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Columbia's mighty waters<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Roll down to the Ocean's tide;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the giant fir and cedar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are imaged in the wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'ergrown with ferns and lichens,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I found poor Dempsey's grave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I found no marble monolith,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No broken shaft nor stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Recording sixty victories<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This vanquished victor won;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No rose, no shamrock could I find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No mortal here to tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where sleeps in this forsaken spot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The immortal Nonpareil.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A winding, wooded canyon road<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That mortals seldom tread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leads up this lonely mountain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To this desert of the dead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the western sun was sinking<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Pacific's golden wave;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And these solemn pines kept watching<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over poor Jack Dempsey's grave.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">p. 53</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That man of honor and of iron,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That man of heart and steel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That man who far out-classed his class<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And made mankind to feel<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Dempsey's name and Dempsey's fame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Should live in serried stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is now at rest far in the West<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the wilds of Oregon.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Forgotten by ten thousand throats<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That thundered his acclaim &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forgotten by his friends and foes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That cheered his very name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oblivion wraps his faded form,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ages hence shall save<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The memory of that Irish lad<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That fills poor Dempsey's grave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Fame, why sleeps thy favored son<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In wilds, in woods, in weeds?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shall he ever thus sleep on &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Interred his valiant deeds?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis strange New York should thus forget<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its "bravest of the brave,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in the wilds of Oregon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unmarked, leave Dempsey's grave.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>MacMahon.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">p. 54</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_CATTLE_ROUND-UP" id="THE_CATTLE_ROUND-UP"></a>THE CATTLE ROUND-UP</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">ONCE more are we met for a season of pleasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That shall smooth from our brows every furrow of care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the sake of old times shall we each tread a measure<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And drink to the lees in the eyes of the fair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Once more let the hand-clasp of years past be given;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let us once more be boys and forget we are men;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let friendships the chances of fortune have riven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be renewed and the smiling past come back again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The past, when the prairie was big and the cattle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were as "scary" as ever the antelope grew &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When to carry a gun, to make our spurs rattle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to ride a blue streak was the most that we knew;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The past when we headed each year for Dodge City<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And punched up the drags on the old Chisholm Trail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the world was all bright and the girls were all pretty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a feller could "mav'rick" and stay out of jail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then here's to the eyes that like diamonds are gleaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And make the lamps blush that their duties are o'er;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And here's to the lips where young love lies a-dreaming;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">p. 55</a></span>
+<span class="i0">And here's to the feet light as air on the floor;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And here's to the memories &mdash; fun's sweetest sequel;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And here's to the night we shall ever recall;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And here's to the time &mdash; time shall know not its equal<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we danced the day in at the Cattlemen's Ball.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>H. D. C. McLaclachlan.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<hr class="section" />
+<p><span class='pagenum' style="display: none; visibility: hidden;"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">p. 56</a></span><br /></p>
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum' style="display: none; visibility: hidden;"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">p. 57</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II</h2>
+<h3>THE COWBOY OFF GUARD</h3>
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">p. 58</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">I am the plain, barren since time began.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet do I dream of motherhood, when man<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One day at last shall look upon my charms<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And give me towns, like children, for my arms.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="section" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">p. 59</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOYS_WORRYING_LOVE" id="A_COWBOYS_WORRYING_LOVE"></a>A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I UST to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the Cupid god,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I'd laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin' their breath in sighs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' goin' around with a locoed look a-campin' inside their eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've read o' the gals that broke 'em up a-sailin' in airy flight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o' the same at night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a sort o' disgusted frown'd bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I'd call 'em a lot o' sissy boys &mdash; but I'm seein' it different now.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I got the jab in my rough ol' heart, an' I got it a-plenty, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A center shot from a pair o' eyes of the winninest sort o' blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I ride the ranges a-sighin' sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A durned heap worse than the novel blokes that the narrative gals'd queer.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">p. 60</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Just hain't no energy left no mo', go 'round like a orphant calf<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-thinkin' about that sagehen's eyes that give me the Cupid gaff,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I'm all skeered up when I hit the thought some other rider might<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cut in ahead on a faster hoss an' rope her afore my sight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There ain't a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could switch a tail on the whole durned range 'long-side o' that little bird;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A figger plump as a prairy dog's that's feedin' on new spring grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin' glass.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She's got a smile that 'd raise the steam in the icyist sort o' heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A couple o' soul inspirin' eyes, an' the nose that keeps 'em apart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is the cutest thing in the sassy line that ever occurred to act<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As a ornament stuck on a purty face, an' that's a dead open fact.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'm a-goin' to brace her by an' by to see if there's any hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see if she's liable to shy when I'm ready to pitch the rope;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">p. 61</a></span>
+<span class="i0">To see if she's goin' to make a stand, or fly like a skeered up dove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I make a pass with the brandin' iron that's het in the fire o' love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll open the little home corral an' give her the level hunch<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To make a run fur the open gate when I cut her out o' the bunch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fur there ain't no sense in a-jammin' round with a heart that's as soft as dough<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a-throwin' the breath o' life away bunched up into sighs. Heigh-ho!<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>James Barton Adams.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">p. 62</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_COWBOY_AND_THE_MAID" id="THE_COWBOY_AND_THE_MAID"></a>THE COWBOY AND THE MAID</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">FUNNY how it come about!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Me and Texas Tom was out<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Takin' of a moonlight walk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fillin' in the time with talk.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every star up in the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seemed to wink the other eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At each other, 'sif they<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smelt a mouse around our way!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Me and Tom had never grew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spoony like some couples do;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never billed and cooed and sighed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was bashful like and I'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Notions of my own that it<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wasn't policy to git<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too abundant till I'd got<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of my feller good and caught.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As we walked along that night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He got talkin' of the bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Prospects that he had, and I<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Somehow felt, I dunno why,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That a-fore we cake-walked back<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the ranch he'd make a crack<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">p. 63</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer my hand, and I was plum<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Achin' fer the shock to come.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By and by he says, "I've got<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fifty head o' cows, and not<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One of 'em but, on the dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is a crackin' thoroughbred.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Got a daisy claim staked out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I'm thinkin' it's about<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Time fer me to make a shy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At a home." "O Tom!" says I.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Bin a-lookin' round," says he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Quite a little while to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'F I could git a purty face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer to ornament the place.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Plenty of 'em in the land;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the one 'at wears my brand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Must be sproutin' wings to fly!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"You deserve her, Tom," says I.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Only one so fur," says he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Fills the bill, and mebbe she<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Might shy off and bust my hope<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If I should pitch the poppin' rope.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mebbe she'd git hot an' say<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That it was a silly play<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Askin' her to make a tie."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"She would be a fool," says I.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">p. 64</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tain't nobody's business what<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Happened then, but I jist thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I could see the moon-man smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cutely down upon us, while<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Me and him was walkin' back,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stoppin' now and then to smack<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lips rejoicin' that at last<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dread crisis had been past.<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">p. 65</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOYS_LOVE_SONG" id="A_COWBOYS_LOVE_SONG"></a>A COWBOY'S LOVE SONG</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">OH, the last steer has been branded<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the last beef has been shipped,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I'm free to roam the prairies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the round-up crew has stripped;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm free to think of Susie,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fairer than the stars above,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She's the waitress at the station<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she is my turtle dove.<br /></span>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<div class="blockquot" style="font-size: 82%"><span class="i0">Biscuit-shootin' Susie,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She's got us roped and tied;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sober men or woozy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Look on her with pride.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Susie's strong and able,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And not a one gits rash<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When she waits on the table<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And superintends the hash.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, I sometimes think I'm locoed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' jes fit fer herdin' sheep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Cause I only think of Susie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I'm wakin' or I'm sleep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm wearin' Cupid's hobbles,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I'm tied to Love's stake-pin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when my heart was branded<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The irons sunk deep in.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">p. 66</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Chorus: &mdash; <br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I take my saddle, Sundays,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The one with inlaid flaps,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And don my new sombrero<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my white angora chaps;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then I take a bronc for Susie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she leaves her pots and pans<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we figure out our future<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And talk o'er our homestead plans.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Chorus: &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">p. 67</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_BORDER_AFFAIR" id="A_BORDER_AFFAIR"></a>A BORDER AFFAIR</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">SPANISH is the lovin' tongue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Soft as music, light as spray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas a girl I learnt it from<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Livin' down Sonora way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I don't look much like a lover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet I say her love-words over<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Often, when I'm all alone &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Mi amor, mi coraz&oacute;n.</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nights when she knew where I'd ride<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She would listen for my spurs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Throw the big door open wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Raise them laughin' eyes of hers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my heart would nigh stop beatin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I'd hear her tender greetin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whispered soft for me alone &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Mi amor! mi coraz&oacute;n!</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Moonlight in the patio,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Se&ntilde;ora noddin' near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Me and Juana talkin' low<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So the "madre" couldn't hear &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How those hours would go a-flyin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And too soon I'd hear her sighin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In her little sorry-tone &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Adi&oacute;s, mi coraz&oacute;n.</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">p. 68</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But one time I had to fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For a foolish gamblin' fight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we said a swift <ins class="transcriber"
+title="Transcriber&#8217;s note: original hyphen retained.">good-bye</ins><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On that black, unlucky night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I'd loosed her arms from clingin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With her words the hoofs kept ringin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As I galloped north alone &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Adi&oacute;s, mi coraz&oacute;n.</i>"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Never seen her since that night;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I kaint cross the Line, you know.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was Mex. and I was white;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like as not it's better so.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet I've always sort of missed her<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since that last, wild night I kissed her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Left her heart and lost my own &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"<i>Adi&oacute;s, mi coraz&oacute;n.</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Charles B. Clark, Jr.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">p. 69</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="SNAGTOOTH_SAL" id="SNAGTOOTH_SAL"></a>SNAGTOOTH SAL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I WAS young and happy and my heart was light and gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Singin', always singin' through the sunny summer day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Happy as a lizard in the wavin' chaparral,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Sal, Sal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My heart is broke today &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I would give creation to be walkin' with my gal &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bury me tomorrow where the lily blossoms spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Underneath the willows where the little robins sing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You will yearn to see me &mdash; but ah, nevermore you shall &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Refrain: &mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Plant a little stone above the little mound of sod;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Write: "Here lies a lovin' an' a busted heart, begod!<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">p. 70</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Nevermore you'll see him walkin' proudly with his gal &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Sal, Sal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My heart is broke today &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I would give creation to be walkin' with my gal &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Lowell O. Reese,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>In the Saturday Evening Post.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">p. 71</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="LOVE_LYRICS_OF_A_COWBOY" id="LOVE_LYRICS_OF_A_COWBOY"></a>LOVE LYRICS OF A COWBOY</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">IT hain't no use fer me to say<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's others with a style an' way<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That beats hers to a fare-you-well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer, on the square, I'm here to tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I jes can't even start to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But what she's perfect as kin be.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer any fault I finds excuse &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll tell you, pard, it hain't no use<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer me to try to raise a hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When on my heart she's run her brand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The bunk-house ain't the same to me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bunch jes makes me weary &mdash; Gee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I never knew they was so coarse &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I warps my face to try to force<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A smile at each old gag they spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer I'd heap ruther hear her sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Sweet Adeline," or softly play<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The "Dream o' Heaven" that-a-way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Besides this place, most anywhere<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'd ruther be &mdash; so she was there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She called me "dear," an' do you know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart jes skipped a beat, an' tho'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm hard to feaze, I'm free to yip<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">p. 72</a></span>
+<span class="i0">My reason nearly lost its grip.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She called me "dear," jes sweet an' slow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' lookin' down an' speakin' low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' if I had ten lives to live,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With everything the world could give,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'd shake 'em all without one fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If 'fore I'd go she'd call me "dear."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You wonders why I slicks up so<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Sundays, when I gits to go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see her &mdash; well, I'm free to say<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She's like religion that-a-way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jes sort o' like some holy thing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As clean as young grass in the spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' so before I rides to her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I looks my best from hat to spur &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But even then I hain't no right<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To think I look good in her sight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If she should pass me up &mdash; say, boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You jes put hobbles on your joy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">First thing you know, you gits so gay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your luck stampedes and gits away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' don't you even start a guess<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That you've a cinch on happiness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer few e'er reach the Promised Land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If they starts headed by a band.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ride slow an' quiet, humble, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or Fate will slap its brand on you.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">p. 73</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The old range sleeps, there hain't a stir.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Less it's a night-hawk's sudden whir,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or cottonwoods a-whisperin while<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The red moon smiles a lovin' smile.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' there I set an' hold her hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So glad I jes can't understand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The reason of it all, or see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why all the world looks good to me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or why I sees in it heap more<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of beauty than I seen before.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fool talk, perhaps, but it jes seems<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We're ridin' through a range o' dreams;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where medder larks the year round sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' it's jes one eternal spring.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' time &mdash; why time is gone &mdash; by gee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's no such thing as time to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until she says, "Here, boy, you know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You simply jes have got to go;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's nearly twelve." I rides away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Dog-gone a clock!" is what I say.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>R. V. Carr.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">p. 74</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_BULL_FIGHT" id="THE_BULL_FIGHT"></a>THE BULL FIGHT</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">THE couriers from Chihuahua go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To distant Cusi and Santavo,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Announce the feast of all the year the crown &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Se corren los toros!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Juan brings his Pepita into town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The rancherias on the mountain side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The haciendas of the Llano wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are quickened by the matador's renown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Se corren los toros!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Juan brings his Pepita into town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The women that on ambling burros ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The men that trudge behind or close beside<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make groups of dazzling red and white and brown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Se corren los toros!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Juan brings his Pepita into town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or else the lumbering carts are brought in play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That jolt and scream and groan along the way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But to their happy tenants cause no frown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Se corren los toros!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Juan brings his Pepita into town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Plaza De Los Toros offers seats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some deep in shade, on some the fierce sun beats;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">p. 75</a></span>
+<span class="i0">These for the don, those for the rustic clown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Se corren los toros!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Juan brings his Pepita into town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Pepita sits, so young and sweet and fresh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun shines on her hair's dusky mesh.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her day of days, how soon it will be flown!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Se corren los toros!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Juan's brought his Pepita into town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The bull is harried till the governor's word<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bids the Diestro give the agile sword;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then shower the bravos and the roses down!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>'Sta muerto el toro!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Juan takes his Pepita back from the town.<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>L. Worthington Green.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">p. 76</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_COWBOYS_VALENTINE" id="THE_COWBOYS_VALENTINE"></a>THE COWBOY'S VALENTINE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">SAY, Moll, now don't you 'llow to quit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-playin' maverick?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sech stock should be corralled a bit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' hev a mark 't 'll stick.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Old Val's a-roundin'-up today<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the Sweetheart Range,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'N me a-helpin', so to say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though this yere herd is strange<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To me &mdash;'n yit, ef I c'd rope<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jes <i>one</i> to wear my brand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'd strike f'r Home Ranch on a lope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The happiest in the land.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yo' savvy who I'm runnin' so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yo' savvy who I be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now, can't yo' take that brand &mdash; yo' know,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The <img src="images/f76heart.png" width="21" height="18" alt="Heart" title="" />
+M-I-N-E.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>C. F. Lummis.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">p. 77</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOYS_HOPELESS_LOVE" id="A_COWBOYS_HOPELESS_LOVE"></a>A COWBOY'S HOPELESS LOVE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'VE heard that story ofttimes about that little chap<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-cryin' for the shiney moon to fall into his lap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' jes a-raisin' merry hell because he couldn't git<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The same to swing down low so's he could nab a-holt of it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I'm a-feelin' that-a-way, locoed I reckon, wuss<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than that same kid, though maybe not a-makin' sich a fuss,&mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-goin' round with achin' eyes a-hankerin' fer a peach<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That's hangin' on the beauty tree, too high fer me to reach.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'm jes a rider of the range, plumb rough an' on-refined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' wild an' keerless in my ways, like others of my kind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A reckless cuss in leather chaps, an' tanned an' blackened so<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You'd think I wuz a Greaser from the plains of Mexico.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I never learnt to say a prayer, an' guess my style o' talk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If fired off in a Sunday School would give 'em all a shock;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">p. 78</a></span>
+<span class="i0">An' yet I got a-mopin' round as crazy as a loon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' actin' like the story kid that bellered fer the moon.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I wish to God she'd never come with them bright laughin' eyes,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had never flashed that smile that seems a sunburst from the skies,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had stayed there in her city home instead o' comin' here<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To visit at the ranch an' knock my heart plumb out o' gear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wish to God she'd talk to me in a way to fit the case,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In words t'd have a tendency to hold me in my place,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Instead o' bein' sociable an' actin' like she thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Us cowboys good as city gents in clothes that's tailor bought.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If I would hint to her o' love, she'd hit that love a jar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' laugh at sich a tough as me a-tryin' to rope a star;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She'd give them fluffy skirts a flirt, an' skate out o' my sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' leave me paralyzed,&mdash;an' it'd serve me cussed right.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wish she'd pack her pile o' trunks an' hit the city track,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">p. 79</a></span>
+<span class="i0">An' maybe I'd recover from this violent attack;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' in the future know enough to watch my feedin' ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' shun the loco weed o' love when there's an angel round.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>James Barton Adams.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">p. 80</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_CHASE" id="THE_CHASE"></a>THE CHASE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">HERE'S a moccasin track in the drifts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's no more than the length of my hand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' her instep,&mdash; just see how it lifts!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If that ain't the best in the land!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the maid ran as free as the wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her foot was as light as the snow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, as sure as I follow, I'll find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Me a kiss where her red blushes grow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here's two small little feet and a skirt;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here's a soft little heart all aglow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See me trail down the dear little flirt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the sign that she left in the snow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did she run? 'Twas a sign to make haste.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' why bless her! I'm sure she won't mind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If she's got any kisses to waste,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, she knew that a man was behind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Did she run 'cause she's only afraid?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No! For sure 'twas to set me the pace!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I'll follow in love with a maid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I ain't had a sight of her face.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There she is! An' I knew she was near.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will she pay me a kiss to be free?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will she hate? Will she love? Will she fear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, the darling! She's waiting to see!<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Pocock in "Curley."</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">p. 81</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="RIDING_SONG" id="RIDING_SONG"></a>RIDING SONG</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">LET us ride together,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blowing mane and hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Careless of the weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Miles ahead of care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ring of hoof and snaffle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swing of waist and hip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trotting down the twisted road<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the world let slip.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Let us laugh together,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Merry as of old<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the creak of leather<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the morning cold.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Break into a canter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shout to bank and tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rocking down the waking trail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Steady hand and knee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Take the life of cities,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here's the life for me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twere a thousand pities<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not to gallop free.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So we'll ride together,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comrade, you and I,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Careless of the weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Letting care go by.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">p. 82</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="OUR_LITTLE_COWGIRL" id="OUR_LITTLE_COWGIRL"></a>OUR LITTLE COWGIRL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">THAR she goes a-lopin', stranger,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Khaki-gowned, with flyin' hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Talk about your classy ridin',&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wal, you're gettin' it right thar.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jest a kid, but lemme tell you<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When she warms a saddle seat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On that outlaw bronc a-straddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is one that can't be beat!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Every buckaroo that sees her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tearin' cross the range astride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has some mighty jealous feelin's<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wishin' he knowed how to ride.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, she'll take a deep barranca<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Six-foot wide and never peep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That 'ere cayuse she's a-forkin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sure's somethin' on the leap.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ride? Why, she can cut a critter<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the herd as neat as pie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Read a brand out on the ranges<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just as well as you or I.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ain't much yet with the riata,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But you give her a few years<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And no puncher with the outfit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will beat her a-ropin' steers.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">p. 83</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Proud o' her? Say, lemme tell you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She's the queen of all the range;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Got a grip upon our heart-strings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mighty strong, but that ain't strange;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Cause she loves the lowin' cattle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loves the hills and open air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dusty trails on blossomed canons<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">God has strung around out here.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hoof-beats poundin' down the mesa,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chicken-time in lively tune,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jest below the trail to Keeber's,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wait, you'll see her pretty soon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You kin bet I know that ridin',&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now she's toppin' yonder swell.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thar she is; that's her a-smilin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the bars of the corral.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">p. 84</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="I_WANT_MY_TIME" id="I_WANT_MY_TIME"></a>I WANT MY TIME</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'M night guard all alone tonight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dead homesick, lonely, tired and blue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And none but you can make it right;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart is hungry, Girl, for you.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've longed all night to hug you, Dear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To speak my love I'm at a loss.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But just as soon as daylight's here<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm goin' straight to see the boss.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"How long's the round-up goin' to run?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Another week, or maybe three?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give me my time, then, I am done.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No, I'm not sick. Three weeks? Oh gee!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I know, though, when I've had enough.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will not work,&mdash; darned if I will.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm goin' to quit, and that's no bluff.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say, gimme some tobacco, Bill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">p. 85</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="WHOS_THAT_CALLING_SO_SWEET" id="WHOS_THAT_CALLING_SO_SWEET"></a>WHO'S THAT CALLING SO SWEET?</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">THE herds are gathered in from plain and hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who's that a-calling?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The boys are sleeping and the boys are still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who's that a-calling?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas the wind a-sighing in the prairie grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who's that a-calling?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or wild birds singing overhead as they pass.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Who's that a-calling?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Making heart and pulse to beat.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No, no, it wasn't earthly sound I heard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who's that a-calling?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was no sigh of breeze or song of bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who's that a-calling?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the tone I heard was softer far than these,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">that a-calling?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas loved ones' voices from far off across the seas<br /></span>
+<span class="i15"><i>Deveen.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">p. 86</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="SONG_OF_THE_CATTLE_TRAIL" id="SONG_OF_THE_CATTLE_TRAIL"></a>SONG OF THE CATTLE TRAIL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">THE dust hangs thick upon the trail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the horns and the hoofs are clashing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While off at the side through the chaparral<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The men and the strays go crashing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But in right good cheer the cowboy sings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the work of the fall is ending,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then it's ride for the old home ranch<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where a maid love's light is tending.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then it's crack! crack! crack!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the beef steer's back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's run, you slow-foot devil;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I'm soon to turn back where through the black<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love's lamp gleams along the level.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He's trailed them far o'er the trackless range,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has this knight of the saddle leather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He has risked his life in the mad stampede,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And has breasted all kinds of weather.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now is the end of the trail in sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the hours on wings are sliding;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For it's back to the home and the only girl<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the foreman O K's the option.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then it's quirt! quirt! quirt!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And it's run or git hurt,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">p. 87</a></span>
+<span class="i0">You hang-back, bawling critter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a man who's in love with a turtle dove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ain't got no time to fritter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">p. 88</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOYS_SON" id="A_COWBOYS_SON"></a>A COWBOY'S SON</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">WHAR y'u from, little stranger, little boy?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Y'u was ridin' a cloud on that star-strewn plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But y'u fell from the skies like a drop of rain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To this world of sorrow and long, long pain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will y'u care fo' yo' mothah, little boy?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When y'u grows, little varmint, little boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Y'u'll be ridin' a hoss by yo' fathah's side<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With yo' gun and yo' spurs and yo' howstrong pride.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will y'u think of yo' home when the world rolls wide?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will y'u wish for yo' mothah, little boy?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When y'u love in yo' manhood, little boy,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When y'u dream of a girl who is angel fair,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the stars are her eyes and the wind is her hair,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the sun is her smile and yo' heaven's there,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will y'u care for yo' mothah, little boy?<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Pocock in "Curley."</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">p. 89</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOY_SONG" id="A_COWBOY_SONG"></a>A COWBOY SONG</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I COULD not be so well content,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So sure of thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Se&ntilde;orita,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But well I know you must relent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And come to me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lolita!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Caballeros throng to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy laughing face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Se&ntilde;orita,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lolita.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But well I know thy heart's for me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy charm, thy grace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lolita!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I ride the range for thy dear sake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To earn thee gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Se&ntilde;orita,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lolita;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And steal the gringo's cows to make<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A ranch to hold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lolita!<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Pocock in "Curley."</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">p. 90</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_NEVADA_COWPUNCHER_TO_HIS" id="A_NEVADA_COWPUNCHER_TO_HIS"></a>A NEVADA COWPUNCHER TO HIS<br />BELOVED</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">LONESOME? Well, I guess so!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This place is mighty blue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The silence of the empty rooms<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jes' palpitates with &mdash; you.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The day has lost its beauty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun's a-shinin' pale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll round up my belongin's<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I guess I'll hit the trail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out there in the <ins class="transcriber"
+title="Transcriber&#8217;s note: original hyphen retained.">sage-brush</ins><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-harkin' to the "Coo-oo"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the wild dove in his matin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I can think alone of you.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Perhaps a gaunt coyote<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will go a-lopin' by<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' linger on the mountain ridge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' cock his wary eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">An' when the evenin' settles,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-waitin' for the dawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perhaps I'll hear the ground owl:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"She's gone &mdash; she's gone &mdash; she's gone!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">p. 91</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_COWBOY_TO_HIS_FRIEND_IN_NEED" id="THE_COWBOY_TO_HIS_FRIEND_IN_NEED"></a>THE COWBOY TO HIS FRIEND IN NEED</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">YOU'RE very well polished, I'm free to confess,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well balanced, well rounded, a power for right;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But cool and collected,&mdash; no steel could be less;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You're primed for continual fight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On hatred and choler you seem to have fed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when I control you, your temper is nil;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In fact, you're most easily led.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though lead is your diet and fight is your fun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I simply can't give you the jolt;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You forty-five caliber Colt!<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Burke Jenkins.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">p. 92</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="WHEN_BOB_GOT_THROWED" id="WHEN_BOB_GOT_THROWED"></a>WHEN BOB GOT THROWED</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">THAT time when Bob got throwed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I thought I sure would bust.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I like to died a-laffin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see him chewin' dust.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He crawled on that Andy bronc<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hit him with a quirt.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The next thing that he knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was wallowin' in the dirt.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yes, it might a-killed him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I heard the old ground pop;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But to see if he was injured<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You bet I didn't stop.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I just rolled on the ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And began to kick and yell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It like to tickled me to death<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see how hard he fell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Twarn't more than a week ago<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I myself got throwed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(But 'twas from a meaner horse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than old Bob ever rode).<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">p. 93</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">D'you reckon Bob looked sad and said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I hope that you ain't hurt!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Naw! He just laffed and laffed and laffed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see me chewin' dirt.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've been prayin' ever since<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For his horse to turn his pack;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when he done it, I'd a laffed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If it had broke his back.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So I was still a-howlin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Bob, he got up lame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He seen his horse had run clean off<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And so for me he came.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He first chucked sand into my eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a rock he rubbed my head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then he twisted both my arms,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Now go fetch that horse," he said.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So I went and fetched him back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I was feelin' good all day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I sure enough do love to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A feller get throwed that way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i15"><i>Ray.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">p. 94</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="COWBOY_VERSUS_BRONCHO" id="COWBOY_VERSUS_BRONCHO"></a>COWBOY VERSUS BRONCHO</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">HAVEN'T got no special likin' fur the toney sorts o' play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Chasin' foxes or that hossback polo game,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jumpin' critters over hurdles &mdash; sort o' things that any jay<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Could accomplish an' regard as rather tame.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">None o' them is worth a mention, to my thinkin' p'int o' view,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which the same I hold correct without a doubt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As a-toppin' of a broncho that has got it in fur you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' concludes that's just the time to have it out.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Don't no sooner hit the saddle than the exercises start,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' they're lackin' in perliminary fuss;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You kin hear his j'ints a-crackin' like he's breakin' 'em apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' the hide jes' seems a-rippin' off the cuss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you sometimes git a joltin' that makes everything turn blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' you want to strictly mind what you're about,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you're fightin' with a broncho that has got it in fur you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' imagines that's the time to have it out.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">p. 95</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bows his back when he is risin', sticks his nose between his knees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' he shakes hisself while a-hangin' in the air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then he hits the earth so solid that it somewhat disagrees<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the usual peace an' quiet of your hair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You imagine that your innards are a-gittin' all askew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' your spine don't feel so cussed firm an' stout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you're up agin a broncho that has got it in fur you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Doin' of his level best to have it out.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He will rise to the occasion with a lightnin' jump, an' then<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When he hits the face o' these United States<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Doesn't linger half a second till he's in the air agin &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Occupies the earth an' then evacuates.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Isn't any sense o' comfort like a-settin' in a pew<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Listenin' to hear a sleepy parson spout<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you're up on top a broncho that has got it in fur you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' is desputly a-tryin' to have it out.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Always feel a touch o' pity when he has to give it up<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">After makin' sich a well intentioned buck<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' is standin' broken hearted an' as gentle as a pup<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A reflectin' on the rottenness o' luck.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">p. 96</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Puts your sympathetic feelin's, as you might say, in a stew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though you're lame as if a-sufferin' from the gout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you're lightin' off a broncho that has had it in fur you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An' mistook the proper time to have it out.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>James Barton Adams.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">p. 97</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="WHEN_YOURE_THROWED" id="WHEN_YOURE_THROWED"></a>WHEN YOU'RE THROWED</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">IF a feller's been a-straddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since he's big enough to ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And has had to sling his saddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On most any colored hide,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though it's nothin' they take pride in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still most fellers I have knowed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If they ever done much ridin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has at different times got throwed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All the boys start out together<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the round-up some fine day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you're due to throw your leather<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a little wall-eyed bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' he swells to beat the nation<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you're cinchin' up the slack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' he keeps an elevation<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In your saddle at the back.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He stands still with feet a-sprawlin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' his eye shows lots of white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' he kinks his spinal column,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' his hide is puckered tight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He starts risin' an' a-jumpin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' he strikes when you get near,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">p. 98</a></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you cuss him an' you thump him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till you get him by the ear,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then your right hand grabs the saddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you ketch your stirrup, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you try to light a-straddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a woolly buckaroo;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he drops his head an' switches,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then he makes a backward jump,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of reach your stirrup twitches<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But your right spur grabs his hump.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">An' "Stay with him!" shouts some feller;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though you know it's hope forlorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet you'll show that you ain't yeller<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you choke the saddle horn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then you feel one rein a-droppin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you know he's got his head;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' your shirt tail's out an' floppin';<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the saddle pulls like lead.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then the boys all yell together<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fit to make a feller sick:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Hey, you short horn, drop the leather!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fan his fat an' ride him slick!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seems you're up-side-down an' flyin';<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then your spurs begin to slip.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's no further use in tryin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the horn flies from your grip,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">p. 99</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">An' you feel a vague sensation<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As upon the ground you roll,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a violent separation<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twixt your body an' your soul.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then you roll agin a hummock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where you lay an' gasp for breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' there's somethin' grips your stomach<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the finger-grips o' death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They all offers you prescriptions<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the grip an' for the croup,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' they give you plain descriptions<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How you looped the spiral loop;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They all swear you beat a circus<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or a hoochy-koochy dance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Moppin' up the canon's surface<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the bosom of your pants.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then you'll get up on your trotters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But you have a job to stand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the landscape round you totters<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' your collar's full o' sand.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lots of fellers give prescriptions<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How a broncho should be rode,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But there's few that gives descriptions<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the times when they got throwed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">p. 100</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="PARDNERS" id="PARDNERS"></a>PARDNERS</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">YOU bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye're a hard little beast to break,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ye're good for the fiercest kind of a run<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' ye're quick as a rattlesnake.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye jolted me good when we first met<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the dust of that bare corral,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' neither one of us will forget<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fight we fit, old pal.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But now &mdash; well, say, old hoss, if John<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">D. Rockefeller shud come<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With all the riches his paws are on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And want to buy you, you bum,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'd laugh in his face an' pat your neck<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' say to him loud an' strong:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I wouldn't sell you this derned old wreck<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For all your wealth &mdash; so long!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For we have slept on the barren plains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' cuddled against the cold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We've been through tempests of drivin' rains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the heaviest thunder rolled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We've raced from fire on the lone prairee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' run from the mad stampede;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' there ain't no money could buy from me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A pard of your style an' breed.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">p. 101</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So I reckon we'll stick together, pard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till one of us cashes in;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye're wirey an' tough an' mighty hard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' homlier, too, than sin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But yer head's all there an' yer heart's all right,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you've been a good pardner, too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' if ye've a soul it's clean an' white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You ugly ol' scoundrel, you!<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Berton Braley.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">p. 102</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_BRONC_THAT_WOULDNT_BUST" id="THE_BRONC_THAT_WOULDNT_BUST"></a>THE BRONC THAT WOULDN'T BUST</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'VE busted bronchos off and on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since first I struck their trail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you bet I savvy bronchos<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From nostrils down to tail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I struck one on Powder River,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And say, hands, he was the first<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And only living broncho<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That your servant couldn't burst.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He was a no-count buckskin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wasn't worth two-bits to keep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had a black stripe down his backbone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And was woolly like a sheep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That hoss wasn't built to tread the earth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He took natural to the air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every time he went aloft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He tried to leave me there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He went so high above the earth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lights from Jerusalem shone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Right thar we parted company<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he came down alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hit terra firma,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The buckskin's heels struck free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And brought a bunch of stars along<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dance in front of me.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">p. 103</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'm not a-riding airships<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor an electric flying beast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ain't got no rich relation<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-waitin' me back East;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I'll sell my chaps and saddle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My spurs can lay and rust;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For there's now and then a digger<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That a buster cannot bust.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">p. 104</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_OL_COW_HAWSE" id="THE_OL_COW_HAWSE"></a>THE OL' COW HAWSE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">WHEN it comes to saddle hawses, there's a difference in steeds:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is fancy-gaited critters that will suit some feller's needs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is nags high-bred an' tony, with a smooth an' shiny skin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That will capture all the races that you want to run 'em in.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But fer one that never tires; one that's faithful, tried and true;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One that allus is a "stayer" when you want to slam him through,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is but one breed o' critters that I ever came across<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That will allus stand the racket: 'tis the<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Ol'<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Cow<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Hawse<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No, he ain't so much fer beauty, fer he's scrubby an' he's rough,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' his temper's sort o' sassy, but you bet he's good enough!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer he'll take the trail o' mornin's, be it up or be it down,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">p. 105</a></span>
+<span class="i0">On the range a-huntin' cattle or a-lopin' into town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' he'll leave the miles behind him, an' he'll never sweat a hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Cuz he's a willin' critter when he's goin' anywhere.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, your thoroughbred at runnin' in a race may be the boss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But fer all day ridin' lemme have the<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Ol'<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Cow<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Hawse<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When my soul seeks peace and quiet on the home ranch of the blest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where no storms or stampedes bother, an' the trails are trails o' rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When my brand has been inspected an' pronounced to be O K,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the boss has looked me over an' has told me I kin stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, I'm hopin' when I'm lopin' off across that blessed range<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I won't be in a saddle on a critter new an' strange,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I'm prayin' every minnit that up there I'll ride across<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That big heaven range o' glory on an<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Ol'<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Cow<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Hawse<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>E. A. Brinninstool.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">p. 106</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_BUNK-HOUSE_ORCHESTRA" id="THE_BUNK-HOUSE_ORCHESTRA"></a>THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">WRANGLE up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">Shinin' dobe fire-place, shadows on the wall<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's the best grand high that there is within the law<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high-arched tail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But we held 'em and we shoved 'em for our longin' hearts were tried<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By a yearnin' for tobaccer and our dear fireside.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum' style="font-style: normal"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">p. 107</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in his boots?)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Livin' is a luxury that don't come high;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">Lively on the last turn! Lope'er to the death!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum' style="font-style: normal"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">p. 108</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw."<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Charles Badger Clark.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">p. 109</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_COWBOYS_DANCE_SONG" id="THE_COWBOYS_DANCE_SONG"></a>THE COWBOY'S DANCE SONG</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">YOU can't expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In etiquettish manner in aristocratic ranks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he's always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the rattling rancher dances where much etiquet don't go.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You can bet I set them laughing in quite an excited way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-giving of their squinters an astonished sort of play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I happened into Denver and was asked to take a prance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the smooth and easy mazes of a high-toned dance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the dudes togged out in wrappings that were simply out of sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell you what, I was embarrassed, and somehow I couldn't keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From feeling like a burro in a pretty flock of sheep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every step I made was awkward and I blushed a fiery red<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the principal adornment of a turkey gobbler's head.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">p. 110</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The ladies said 'twas seldom that they had had the chance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I cut me out a heifer from a bunch of pretty girls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yanked her to the center to dance the dreamy whirls.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She laid her head upon my bosom in a loving sort of way<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we drifted into heaven as the band began to play.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I could feel my neck a-burning from her nose's breathing heat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she do-ce-doed around me, half the time upon my feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She peered up in my blinkers with a soul-dissolving glance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quite conducive to the pleasures of a high-toned dance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Every nerve just got a-dancing to the music of delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As I hugged the little sagehen uncomfortably tight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">p. 111</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell you what the joys of heaven ain't a cussed circumstance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I fetched a cowboy whoop and started in to rag,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cut her with my trotters till the floor began to sag;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swung my pardner till she got sea-sick and rushed for a seat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat.&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell you what, I shook the creases from my go-to-meeting pants<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I put the cowboy trimmings on that high-toned dance.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>James Barton Adams.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">p. 112</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_COWBOYS_CHRISTMAS_BALL" id="THE_COWBOYS_CHRISTMAS_BALL"></a>THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">WAY out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the cattle are "a-browzin'" and the Spanish ponies grow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the Norther "comes a-whistlin'" from beyond the Neutral strip<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as if they had "the Grip";<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the mocking-birds are singin' to the lovely "medder lark";<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the 'possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes abound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was there that I attended "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">p. 113</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The town was Anson City, old Jones's county seat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where they raise Polled Angus cattle, and waving whiskered wheat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the air is soft and "bammy," an' dry an' full of health,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where they print the <i>Texas Western</i>, that Hec. McCann supplies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With news and yarns and stories, of most amazin' size;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger," on knowin' tender feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Democracy's triumphant, and mighty hard to beat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap from Lamar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who "used to be the sheriff, back East, in Paris, sah!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas there, I say, at Anson, with the lively "Widder Wall,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I went to that reception, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ladies &mdash; "kinder scatterin'" &mdash; had gathered in for miles.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">p. 114</a></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas got for the occasion at "The Morning Star Hotel."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a "viol come imported," by stage from Abilene.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The room was togged out gorgeous &mdash; with mistletoe and shawls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The "wimmin folks" looked lovely &mdash; the boys looked kinder treed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till their leader commenced yellin': "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The music started sighin' and a-wailin' through the hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As a kind of introduction to "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The leader was a fellow that came from Swenson's Ranch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They called him "Windy Billy," from "little Dead-man's Branch."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His rig was "kinder keerless," big spurs and high-heeled boots;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He had the reputation that comes when "fellers shoots."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain's height;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His feet were animated, an' a <i>mighty movin' sight</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he commenced to holler, "Neow, fellers, stake yer pen!<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">p. 115</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Lock horns to all them heifers, an' russle 'em like men.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an' let 'em go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Climb the grape vine round 'em &mdash; all hands do-ce-do!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><ins class="transcriber" title="Transcriber&#8217;s note: original illegible.">You</ins> Mavericks, jine the round-up &mdash; Jest skip her waterfall,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Huh! hit wuz gittin' happy, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The boys were tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That old bass viol's music <i>just got there with both feet</i>.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That wailin' frisky fiddle, I never shall forget;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Windy kept a singin' &mdash; I think I hear him yet &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"O Xes, chase your squirrels, an' cut 'em to one side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Doc. Hollis down the middle, an' twine the ladies' chain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Varn Andrews pen the fillies in big T. Diamond's train.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an' change,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Big Boston' lead the trail herd, through little Pitchfork's range.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">p. 116</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope 'em! Balance all!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Huh! hit wuz gittin' active &mdash; "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The dust riz fast an' furious, we all just galloped round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the scenery got so giddy, that Z Bar Dick was downed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We buckled to our partners, an' told 'em to hold on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir 'ee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">McAllister ain't nowhere! when Windy leads the show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've seen 'em both in harness, an' so I sorter know &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, Bill, I sha'n't forget yer, and I'll oftentimes recall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That lively-gaited sworray &mdash; "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."<br /></span>
+<span class="i8"><i>Larry Chittenden in "Ranch Verses."</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">p. 117</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_DANCE_AT_THE_RANCH" id="A_DANCE_AT_THE_RANCH"></a>A DANCE AT THE RANCH</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">FROM every point they gaily come, the broncho's unshod feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly gathered throng<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">p. 118</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until their ears are greeted with the warning words, "All set!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">S'lute yer pardners! Let 'er go!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Balance all an' do-ce-do!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Swing yer girls an' run away!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Right an' left an' gents sashay!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gents to right an' swing or cheat!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On to next gal an' repeat!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Balance next an' don't be shy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Swing yer pard an' swing 'er high!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Bunch the gals an' circle round!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whack yer feet until they bound!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Form a basket! Break away!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Swing an' kiss an' all git gay!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Al'man left an' balance all!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Swing yer op'sites! Swing agin!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Kiss the sagehens if you kin!"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' thus the merry dance went on till morning's struggling light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cowboys to the ranges speed to "work" the lowing herds,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">p. 119</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They had that night at Jackson's ranch down on the Owyhee.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">p. 120</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="AT_A_COWBOY_DANCE" id="AT_A_COWBOY_DANCE"></a>AT A COWBOY DANCE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">GIT yo' little sagehens ready;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Trot 'em out upon the floor &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Line up there, you critters! Steady!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lively, now! One couple more.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shorty, shed that ol' sombrero;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Broncho, douse that cigaret;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stop yer cussin', Casimero,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Fore the ladies. Now, all set:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">S'lute yer ladies, all together;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ladies opposite the same;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hit the lumber with yer leather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Balance all an' swing yer dame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bunch the heifers in the middle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Circle stags an' do-ce-do;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Keep a-steppin' to the fiddle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Swing 'em 'round an' off you go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">First four forward. Back to places.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Second foller. Shuffle back &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now you've got it down to cases &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Swing 'em till their trotters crack.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gents all right a-heel an' toein';<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Swing 'em &mdash; kiss 'em if yo' kin &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On to next an' keep a-goin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till yo' hit yer pards agin.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">p. 121</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Gents to center. Ladies 'round 'em;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Form a basket; balance all;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swing yer sweets to where yo' found 'em;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All p'mnade around the hall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Balance to yer pards an' trot 'em<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Round the circle double quick;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grab an' squeeze 'em while you've got 'em &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hold 'em to it if they kick.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ladies, left hand to yer sonnies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alaman; grand right an' left;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Balance all an' swing yer honies &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pick 'em up an' feel their heft.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All p'mnade like skeery cattle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Balance all an' swing yer sweets;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Keno! Promenade to seats.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>James Barton Adams.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">p. 122</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_COWBOYS_BALL" id="THE_COWBOYS_BALL"></a>THE COWBOYS' BALL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>YIP! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Say "How!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shake yo'r leg lively at the Cowboys' Ball.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin';<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin';<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Uncle Ed's gettin' red &mdash; had too many dippers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">p. 123</a></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Bow down! right in town &mdash; and sashay down the middle</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Got to keep a-movin' for to see the show!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All right! Fine night &mdash; Dance? There's nothin' in it!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That's my pony there, peekin' through the bars.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Henry Herbert Knibbs.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="section" />
+<p><span class='pagenum' style="display: none; visibility: hidden;"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">p. 124</a></span><br /></p>
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum' style="display: none; visibility: hidden;"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">p. 125</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="PART_III" id="PART_III"></a>PART III</h2>
+
+<h3>COWBOY TYPES</h3>
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">p. 126</a></span></p>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When there's water in its bed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where no man is ever drunken &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All prefer mescal instead;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where no lie is ever uttered &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There being nothin' one can trade;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where no marriage vows are broken<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Cause the same are never made.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="section" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">p. 127</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_COWBOY" id="THE_COWBOY"></a>THE COWBOY</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">HE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And leggins of fancy fringed leather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he's happy in all kinds of weather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For oh, he can ride like the devil;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He is old for his years and he always appears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a fellow who's lived on the level;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a man that to fear is a stranger;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For his wild life of duty and danger.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the rate of two-forty a minute;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But his knowledge is not got from your scholars;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he hates and despises a coward;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though he'll fight till by death overpowered.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">p. 128</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Hence I say unto you,&mdash; give the cowboy his due<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And be kind, my friends, to his folly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he's generous and brave though he may not behave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like your dudes, who are so melancholy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">p. 129</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="BAR-Z_ON_A_SUNDAY_NIGHT" id="BAR-Z_ON_A_SUNDAY_NIGHT"></a>BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis said &mdash; an' we know who 'tis &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' uses us in his biz."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you'd sure admit that's right,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If you happened &mdash; an' unbeknown to us &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Around, of a Sunday night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Th' week-day manners is stowed away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Th' jokes an' the card games halts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to play<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A toon &mdash; an' it ain't no waltz.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It delves through th' toughest crust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till we've got ter sing &mdash; er bust!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With pipin' treble the kid starts in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' Hell! how that kid kin sing!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He leads, an' the rafters ring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We shouts it with force an' vim;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">p. 130</a></span>
+<span class="i0">"Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That's puttin' it up to Him!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But many a time an' oft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me,"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our hearts gets kinder soft.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' we makes some promises there an' then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which we keeps &mdash; till we goes to bed,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What ain't no saints, as I said.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Percival Combes.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">p. 131</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOY_RACE" id="A_COWBOY_RACE"></a>A COWBOY RACE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A long roll of hoofs,&mdash; and the earth is a drum!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A swift-swirling dust-cloud &mdash; a mad hurricane<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>J. C. Davis.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">p. 132</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_HABIT" id="THE_HABIT"></a>THE HABIT</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"I'll never wander further till I come to die."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when it's time for leavin' I jes hits the trail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm a human bird of passage and the song I trill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">p. 133</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Berton Braley.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">p. 134</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_RANGER" id="A_RANGER"></a>A RANGER</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">HE never made parade of tooth or claw;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was shy of exercisin' it with words.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he labored with the sinners of the trail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And nobody missed the woman very bad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While they'd just a little rather missed the man.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then loped away to bring him back again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his business was to hunt for sinful men!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So the trail it led him southward all the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the heat had drove the lizards from their play<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">p. 135</a></span>
+<span class="i0">To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the mountains heaved and rippled far away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the desert broiled as on the devil's prong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and level<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Came the yellow west, and on a far off rise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighter<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the mountains that look into Mexico,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the canyon walls flung thunder back again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">p. 136</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That convinced the sinner &mdash; just above the eye.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So the sinner sprawled among the shadows black<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the ranger drifted north beneath the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When the sheriff got up early out of bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger said<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he labored with the sinners of the trail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Charles Badger Clark, Jr.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">p. 137</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_INSULT" id="THE_INSULT"></a>THE INSULT</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'VE swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've tackled every desert in the land;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've sampled XX whiskey till I couldn't hardly see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've been dragged free and fancy by a cow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' Ninth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I never lost my temper till right now.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As when you up and hands me ginger ale.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">p. 138</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_ROAD_TO_RUIN" id="THE_ROAD_TO_RUIN"></a>"THE ROAD TO RUIN"<a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>
+</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I WENT into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Corroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">p. 139</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You know the one you liked the best? &mdash; the <ins class="transcriber"
+title="Transcriber&#8217;s note: original hyphen retained.">hang-man</ins> laid him low,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I visited the old church yard and there I saw the graves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of those who used to drown their woes in old fermented ways.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw the graves of women thar, lying where the daisies grow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who wept and died of broken hearts some twenty years ago.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2"><span class="label">2</span></a>
+A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign.</p></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">p. 140</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_OUTLAW" id="THE_OUTLAW"></a>THE OUTLAW</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">WHEN my loop takes hold on a two-year-old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the feet or the neck or the horn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though the taut rope sing like a banjo string<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the latigoes creak and strain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steer<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I'll tumble him on the plain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i2">For a man is a man and a steer is a beast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the man is the boss of the herd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Must come down when he says the word.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And my spurs clinch into his hide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But wherever he goes I'll ride.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till he's happy to own he's broke.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i2">For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the hawse may be prince of his clan,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum' style="font-style: normal"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">p. 141</a></span>
+<span class="i2">But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And own that his boss is the man.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When the devil at rest underneath my vest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gets up and begins to paw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my hot tongue strains at its bridle-reins,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then I tackle the real outlaw;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And my temper has fractious growed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i2">For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He kin brag till he makes you deaf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But the one, lone brute, from the West to the East,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That he kaint quite break, is himse'f.<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Charles B. Clark, Jr.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">p. 142</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_DESERT" id="THE_DESERT"></a>THE DESERT</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'TWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"He came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop &mdash; just one."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"His name?" I asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">p. 143</a></span>
+<span class="i1">And I watched his face as he spelled it out &mdash; laughed as I laughed, and died.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"And thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And mine." I fumbled and pulled my gun &mdash; emptied it wild and fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There lay the shape of the Liar, dead! 'Twas I that should laugh the last.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Laugh? Nay, now I would write my name as the Upland Rider wrote;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Write? What need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Into a mist as the world grew dark; and I knew that the name was mine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hands that proffered a brimming cup &mdash; empty, ere I could take;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the burst of a thunder-head &mdash; rain! It was rude, fierce rain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Blindly down to the hole I crept, shivering, drenched, awake!<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">p. 144</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dawn &mdash; and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that I thought was dead;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun &mdash; and the old home trail ahead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Henry Herbert Knibbs.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">p. 145</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="WHISKEY_BILL_A_FRAGMENT" id="WHISKEY_BILL_A_FRAGMENT"></a>WHISKEY BILL,&mdash; A FRAGMENT</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A-DOWN the road and gun in hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-lookin' for some place to land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comes Whiskey Bill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' everybody'd like to be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ten miles away behind a tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When on his joyous, aching spree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Starts Whiskey Bill.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The times have changed since you made love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The happy sun grinned up above<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At Whiskey Bill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And down the middle of the street<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sheriff comes on toe and feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A-wishin' for one fretful peek<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At Whiskey Bill.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The cows go grazing o'er the lea,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' aching thoughts pour in on me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Whiskey Bill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sheriff up and found his stride;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bill's soul went shootin' down the slide,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How are things on the Great Divide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Whiskey Bill?<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">p. 146</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="DENVER_JIM" id="DENVER_JIM"></a>DENVER JIM</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"SAY, fellers, that ornery thief must be nigh us,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I jist saw him across this way to the right;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ah, there he is now right under that burr-oak<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As fearless and cool as if waitin' all night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all ready<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' that limb hangin' over him stands about right.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my lasso, boys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If it ain't Denver Jim that's corralled here at last.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Right aside for the jilly. Well, Jim, we are searchin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All night for a couple about of your cast.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' seein' yer enter this openin' so charmin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We thought perhaps yer might give us the trail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Haven't seen anything that would answer description?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What a nerve that chap has, but it will not avail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Want to trade hosses fur the one I am stridin'!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will you give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say, Jim, that air gold is the strongest temptation<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' many a man would say take it and scoot.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">p. 147</a></span>
+<span class="i0">But we don't belong to that denomination;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You have got to the end of your rope, Denver Jim.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you will be hangin' there right from that limb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't proper?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ar' not dry? Well, I am, an' will drink ter yer, pard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' wish that this court will not bungle this task.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"What's that? So yer want me to answer a letter,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well, give it to me till I make it all right,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A moment or two will be only good manners,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The judicious acts of this court will be white.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Long Point, Arkansas, the thirteenth of August,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My dearest son James, somewhere out in the West,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For long, weary months I've been waiting for tidings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"'God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">p. 148</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Remembering your mother when sorely in need.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May the angels from heaven now guard you from danger<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And happiness follow your generous deed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How I long so to see you come into the doorway,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May the days be but few when again I can greet you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Say, pard, here's your letter. I'm not good at writin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I think you'd do better to answer them lines;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' fer fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When her boy could come eastward to stay with her always.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the tenderest memories came like a blessing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">p. 149</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For higher than law is the love of a mother,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It reversed the decision,&mdash; the court was adjourned.<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Sherman D. Richardson.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">p. 150</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_VIGILANTES" id="THE_VIGILANTES"></a>THE VIGILANTES</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">WE are the whirlwinds that winnow the West &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We scatter the wicked like straw!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We are the Nemeses, never at rest &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A halt, a swift parley, a pause &mdash; then at last<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheer<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the blue steel of the sky; ghastly white<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every on-looking face. Men, our duty was clear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ours is a service brute-hateful and grim;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little we love the wild task that we seek;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are they dainty to deal with &mdash; the fear-rigid limb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">God made us strong to avenge Him the weak &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dispense his sure wages of sin &mdash; which is death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We stand for our duty: while wrong works its will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">p. 151</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That safety and honor may tread in our path;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We scatter the wicked like straw!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We are the Nemeses, never at rest &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Margaret Ashmun.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">p. 152</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_BANDITS_GRAVE" id="THE_BANDITS_GRAVE"></a>THE BANDIT'S GRAVE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'MID lava rock and glaring sand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Neath the desert's brassy skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bound in the silent chains of death<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A border bandit lies.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The poppy waves her golden glow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Above the lowly mound;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cactus stands with lances drawn,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A martial guard around.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His dreams are free from guile or greed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or foray's wild alarms.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No fears creep in to break his rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the desert's scorching arms.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sleeps in peace beside the trail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the twilight shadows play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though they watch each night for his return<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A thousand miles away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From the mesquite groves a night bird calls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the western skies grow red;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sand storm sings his deadly song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Above the sleeper's head.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His steed has wandered to the hills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And helpless are his hands,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">p. 153</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet peons curse his memory<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the shifting sands.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The desert cricket tunes his pipes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the half-grown moon shines dim;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sage thrush trills her evening song &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But what are they to him?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rude-built cross beside the trail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That follows to the west<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the sleeper's breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A lone coyote comes by night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sits beside his bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sobbing the midnight hours away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With gaunt, up-lifted head.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lizard trails his aimless way<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Across the lonely mound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the star-guards of the desert<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their pickets post around.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The winter snows will heap their drifts<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the leafless sage;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pallid hosts of the blizzard<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will lift their voice in rage;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gentle rains of early spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will woo the flowers to bloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And scatter their fleeting incense<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er the border bandit's tomb.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Charles Pitt.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">p. 154</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_OLD_MACKENZIE_TRAIL" id="THE_OLD_MACKENZIE_TRAIL"></a>THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">SEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divide<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which parts the falling rain,&mdash; the eastern slope<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sends down its waters to the southern sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through Double Mountain's winding length of stream;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The western side spreads out into a plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At last into the rushing Rio Grande,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See, faintly showing on that distant ridge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dim reminders of the olden times,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hunt of buffalo and antelope;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stampede and the wild ride through the storm;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The call of California's golden flood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho"<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which set our fathers' faces from the east,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To people all the regions 'neath the sun &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It winds &mdash; this old forgotten cattle trail &mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through valleys still and silent even now,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">p. 155</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Save when the yellow-breasted desert lark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In quivering notes set in a minor key;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The endless round of sunny days, of starry nights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The desert's blank immutability.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The coyote's howl is heard at dark from some<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Low-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolf<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They yelp in concert to the far off stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or gnaw the bleach&egrave;d bones in savage rage<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That lie unburied by the grass-grown paths.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The prairie dogs play sentinel by day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And backward slips the badger to his den;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A staring buzzard floating in the blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lost, always lost, and seeking evermore.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All else is mute and dormant; vacantly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun looks down, the days run idly on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The breezes whirl the dust, which eddying falls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smothering the records of the westward caravans,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where silent heaps of wreck and nameless graves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make milestones for the old Mackenzie Trail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Across the Brazos, Colorado, through<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Concho's broad, fair valley, sweeping on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By Abilene it climbs upon the plains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Llano Estacado (beyond lie wastes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of alkali and hunger gaunt and death),&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And here is lost in shifting rifts of sand.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Anon it lingers by a hidden spring<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">p. 156</a></span>
+<span class="i0">That bubbles joy into the wilderness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its pathway trenched that distant mountain side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now grown to gulches through torrential rain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">De Vaca gathered pinons by the way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">La Salle, the gentle Frenchman, crossed this course,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And went to death and to a nameless grave.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For ages and for ages through the past<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comanches and Apaches from the north<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came sweeping southward, searching for the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And charged in mimic combat on the sea.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The scions of Montezuma's low-browed race<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or sucked the cactus apples growing there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All these have passed, and passed the immigrants,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who bore the westward fever in their brain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Norseman tang for roving in their veins;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who loved the plains as sailors love the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Braved danger, death, and found a resting place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While traveling on the old Mackenzie Trail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Brave old Mackenzie long has laid him down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To rest beyond the trail that bears his name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A granite mountain makes his monument;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The northers, moaning o'er the low divide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Go gently past his long deserted camps.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more his rangers guard the wild frontier,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more he leads them in the border fight.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more the mavericks, winding stream of horns<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">p. 157</a></span>
+<span class="i0">To Kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cries, the pistol's sharp report,&mdash; the free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wild days in Texas by the Rio Grande.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some men say when dusky night shuts down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hard by Mackenzie's trail; and keener ears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have heard from deep within the bordering hills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rumble of a moving wagon train,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sometimes far echoes of a frontier song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On westward, westward, as they in olden time<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Went rangeing o'er the old Mackenzie Trail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>John A. Lomax.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">p. 158</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_SHEEP" id="THE_SHEEP"></a>THE SHEEP-HERDER<a name="FNanchor_3" id="FNanchor_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">ALL day across the sagebrush flat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beneath the sun of June,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My sheep they loaf and feed and bleat<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their never changin' tune.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then, at night time, when they lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As quiet as a stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear the gray wolf far away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">"Alo-one!" he says, "Alo-one!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The tune the woollies sing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's rasped my ears, it seems, for years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though really just since Spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And nothin', far as I can see<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Around the circle's sweep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But sky and plain, my dreams and me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And them infernal sheep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've got one book &mdash; it's poetry &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A bunch of pretty wrongs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An Eastern lunger gave to me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He said 'twas "shepherd songs."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, though that poet sure is deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And has sweet things to say,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">p. 159</a></span>
+<span class="i0">He never seen a herd of sheep<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or smelt them, anyway.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My woollies greasy gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An awful change has hit the range<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since that old poet's day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For you're just silly, on'ry brutes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I look like distress,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my pipe ain't the kind that toots<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And there's no "shepherdess."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet 'way down home in Kansas State,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bliss Township, Section Five,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's one that's promised me to wait,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sweetest girl alive;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That's why I salt my wages down<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And mend my clothes with strings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While others blow their pay in town<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For booze and other things.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My Minnie, don't be sad;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Next year we'll lease that splendid piece<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That corners on your dad.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll drive to "literary," dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The way we used to do<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And turn my lonely workin' here<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To happiness for you.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">p. 160</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Suppose, down near that rattlers' den,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While I sit here and dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'd spy a bunch of ugly men<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And hear a woman scream.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Suppose I'd let my rifle shout<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And drop the men in rows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then the woman should turn out &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My Minnie! &mdash; just suppose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The tune would then be gay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is, I mind, a parson kind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Just forty miles away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, Eden would come back again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With sage and sheep corrals,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I could swing a singin' pen<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To write her "pastorals."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I pack a rifle on my arm<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And jump at flies that buzz;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's nothin' here to do me harm;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I sometimes wish there was.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If through that brush above the pool<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A red should creep &mdash; and creep &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wah! cut down on 'im! &mdash; Stop, you fool!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That's nothin' but a sheep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A-a! ma-a! ba-a! &mdash; Hell!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Oh, sky and plain and bluff!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unless my mail comes up the trail<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">p. 161</a></span>
+<span class="i1">I'm locoed, sure enough.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What's that? &mdash; a dust-whiff near the butte<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Right where my last trail ran,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A movin' speck, a &mdash; wagon! Hoot!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thank God! here comes a man.<br /></span>
+<span class="i11"><i>Charles Badger Clark, Jr.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_3" id="Footnote_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3"><span class="label">3</span></a>
+<p>Only such cowboys as are in desperate need of employment ever
+become sheep-herders.</p></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="poem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">p. 162</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOY_AT_THE_CARNIVAL" id="A_COWBOY_AT_THE_CARNIVAL"></a>A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">YES, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mighty queerish, too, I tell you,&mdash; sich a racket fer a change;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O' humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Mighty curious to a rider comin' from the range, he feels<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What you'd call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To another run o' grazin' where the brands it sees are strange.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">p. 163</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Then I see a city herder, a policeman, don't you know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sort o' think he's got men spotted an' is 'bout to make a throw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every bone I got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'm hankerin', I tell you, fer to hit the trail an' run<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a crazy, locoed yearlin' from this big cloud-burst o' fun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Back toward the cattle ranches, where a feller's breath comes free<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' he wears the clothes that fits him, 'stead o' this slick toggery.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where his home is in the saddle, an' the heavens is his roof,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">p. 164</a></span>
+<span class="i0">An' his ever'day companions wears the hide an' cloven hoof,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the beller of the cattle is the only sound he hears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' he never thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Anonymous.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">p. 165</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_OLD_COWMAN" id="THE_OLD_COWMAN"></a>THE OLD COWMAN</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I RODE across a valley range<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hadn't seen for years.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The trail was all so spoilt and strange<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It nearly fetched the tears.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I had to let ten fences down,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(The fussy lanes ran wrong)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And each new line would make me frown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hum a mournin' song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The nester brand is on the land;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I reckon I'll retire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While progress toots her brassy horn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And makes her motor buzz,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I thank the Lord I wasn't born<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No later than I wuz!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Twas good to live when all the sod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Without no fence nor fuss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Belonged in partnership to God,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Government and us.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With skyline bounds from east to west<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And room to go and come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I loved my fellowman the best<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he was scattered some.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">p. 166</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Close and closer cramps the wire!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There's hardly play to back away<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And call a man a liar.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their house has locks on every door;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their land is in a crate.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There ain't the plains of God no more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They're only real estate.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's land where yet no ditchers dig<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor cranks experiment;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's only lovely, free and big<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And isn't worth a cent.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I pray that them who come to spoil<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May wait till I am dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before they foul that blessed soil<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With fence and cabbage head.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Far and farther crawls the wire!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To crowd and pinch another inch<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Is all their heart's desire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The world is over-stocked with men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And some will see the day<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When each must keep his little pen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But I'll be far away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When my old soul hunts range and rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond the last divide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just plant me in some stretch of West<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">p. 167</a></span>
+<span class="i0">That's sunny, lone and wide.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let cattle rub my tombstone down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And coyotes mourn their kin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let hawses paw and tramp the moun',&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But don't you fence it in!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And they pen the land with wire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They figure fence and copper cents<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where we laughed round the fire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Job cussed his birthday, night and morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In his old land of Uz,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But I'm just glad I wasn't born<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No later than I wuz!<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>Charles Badger Clark, Jr.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">p. 168</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_GILA_MONSTER_ROUTE" id="THE_GILA_MONSTER_ROUTE"></a>THE GILA MONSTER ROUTE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">THE lingering sunset across the plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kissed the rear-end door of an east-bound train,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shone on a passing track close by<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where a ding-bat sat on a rotting tie.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He was ditched by a shock and a cruel fate.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The con high-balled, and the manifest freight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pulled out on the stem behind the mail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she hit the ball on a sanded rail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As she pulled away in the falling light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He could see the gleam of her red tail-light.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the moon arose and the stars came out &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was ditched on the Gila Monster Route.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nothing in sight but sand and space;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No chance for a gink to feed his face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not even a shack to beg for a lump,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or a hen-house to frisk for a single gump.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He gazed far out on the solitude;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He drooped his head and began to brood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He thought of the time he lost his mate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a hostile burg on the Nickle Plate.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">p. 169</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They had mooched the stem and threw their feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And speared four-bits on which to eat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But deprived themselves of daily bread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shafted their coin for "dago red."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Down by the track in the jungle's glade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the cool green grass, in the tules' shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They shed their coats and ditched their shoes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tanked up full of that colored booze.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then they took a flop with their skins plumb full,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they did not hear the harnessed bull,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till he shook them out of their boozy nap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a husky voice and a loaded sap.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They were charged with "vag," for they had no kale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the judge said, "Sixty days in jail."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the John had a bindle,&mdash; a worker's plea,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So they gave him a floater and set him free.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They had turned him up, but ditched his mate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So he grabbed the guts of an east-bound freight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He flung his form on a rusty rod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till he heard the shack say, "Hit the sod!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The John piled off, he was in the ditch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With two switch lamps and a rusty switch,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a hostile pike, without a show.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">p. 170</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From away off somewhere in the dark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came the sharp, short notes of a coyote's bark.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bo looked round and quickly rose<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shook the dust from his threadbare clothes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Off in the west through the moonlit night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw the gleam of a big head-light &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An east-bound stock train hummed the rail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was due at the switch to clear the mail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As she drew up close, the head-end shack<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Threw the switch to the passenger track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stock rolled in and off the main,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the line was clear for the west-bound train.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When she hove in sight far up the track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was workin' steam, with her brake shoes slack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She hollered once at the whistle post,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then she flitted by like a frightened ghost.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He could hear the roar of the big six-wheel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her driver's pound on the polished steel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the screech of her flanges on the rail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As she beat it west o'er the desert trail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The John got busy and took the risk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He climbed aboard and began to frisk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He reached up high and began to feel<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the end-door pin &mdash; then he cracked the seal.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">p. 171</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Twas a double-decked stock-car, filled with sheep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old John crawled in and went to sleep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She whistled twice and high-balled out,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were off, down the Gila Monster Route.<br /></span>
+<span class="i11"><i>L. F. Post and Glenn Norton.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">p. 172</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_CALL_OF_THE_PLAINS" id="THE_CALL_OF_THE_PLAINS"></a>THE CALL OF THE PLAINS</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">HO! wind of the far, far prairies!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Free as the waves of the sea!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your voice is sweet as in alien street<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cry of a friend to me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You bring me the breath of the prairies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Known in the days that are sped,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wild geese's cry and the blue, blue sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the sailing clouds o'er head!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My eyes are weary with longing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a sight of the sage grass gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the dazzling light of a noontide bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the joy of the open day!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, to hear once more the clanking<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the noisy cowboy's spur,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the south wind's kiss like a mild caress<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Making the grasses stir.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I dream of the wide, wide prairies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Touched with their glistening sheen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The coyotes' cry and the wind-swept sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the waving billows of green!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And oh, for a night in the open<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where no sound discordant mars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the marvelous glow, when the sun is low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the silence under the stars!<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">p. 173</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ho, wind from the western prairies!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ho, voice from a far domain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I feel in your breath what I'll feel till death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The call of the plains again!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The call of the Spirit of Freedom<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the spirit of freedom in me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart leaps high with a jubilant cry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I answer in ecstasy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Ethel MacDiarmid.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">p. 174</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="WHERE_THE_GRIZZLY_DWELLS" id="WHERE_THE_GRIZZLY_DWELLS"></a>WHERE THE GRIZZLY DWELLS<a name="FNanchor_4" id="FNanchor_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I ADMIRE the artificial art of the East;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I love more the inimitable art of the West,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where nature's handiwork lies in virginal beauty.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Amidst the hum of city life<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saunter back to dreams of home.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Astride the back of my trusty steed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wander away, losing myself<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the foothills of the Rockies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Away from human habitations,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up the rugged slopes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the timbered stretches,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear the frightful cry of wolves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And see a bear sneaking up behind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Many nights ago,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While herding a bunch of cattle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">During the round-up season,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I lay upon the grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Looking at the mated stars;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wondered if a cowboy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could go to the Unknown Place,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">p. 175</a></span>
+<span class="i0">The Happy Hunting Ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When this short life is over.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But, here or there, I shall always live<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the land of mountain air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the grizzly dwells<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sage brush grows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where mountain trout are not a few;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the land of the Bitterroot,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Indian land,&mdash; Land of the Golden West.<br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>James Fox.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_4" id="Footnote_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4"><span class="label">4</span></a>
+<p>Fox is a halfbreed Indian who sent me a lot of verse. Although he
+had never heard of Walt Whitman, these stanzas suggest that poet. The
+spelling and punctuation are mine.</p></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">p. 176</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOY_TOAST" id="A_COWBOY_TOAST"></a>A COWBOY TOAST</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">HERE'S to the passing cowboy, the plowman's pioneer;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler's hide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His bridle sporting conchos, his lasso at his side.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kept vigil o'er thousands held by neither posts nor bars;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With never a diversion in all the lonesome land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some Texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With lasso, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill;<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">p. 177</a></span>
+<span class="i0">They pass with him to history and naught their place can fill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e'er endure<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the Llano Estacado to Dakota's distant sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">p. 178</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And weave of Texas grasses a garland for his grave;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun.<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>James Barton Adams.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">p. 179</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="RIDIN_UP_THE_ROCKY_TRAIL_FROM_TOWN" id="RIDIN_UP_THE_ROCKY_TRAIL_FROM_TOWN"></a>RIDIN' UP THE ROCKY TRAIL FROM TOWN</h3>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">"Billy Leamont rode out of the town &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i6"><i>Close at his shoulder rode Jack Lorell &mdash; </i><br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Over the leagues of the prairies brown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Into the hills where the sun goes down &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i6"><i>Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i11">*&nbsp;&nbsp; *&nbsp;&nbsp; *<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">Billy Leamont looked down the dell &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i6"><i>Dead below; him lay Jack Lorell &mdash; </i><br /></span>
+<span class="i5">With his gun at his forehead he fired and fell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Then rode they two through the streets of hell &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i6"><i>Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!</i>"<br /></span>
+<span class="i11"><span class="smcap" style="font-size: x-small">The Ballad of Billy Leamont.</span>
+<a name="FNanchor_5" id="FNanchor_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a><br /></span>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">WE'RE the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But we had to come to town to get the mail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we're ridin' home at daybreak &mdash; 'cause the air is cooler then &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All our toilets show a touch of disarray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For we found that City life is a constant round of strife<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we aint the breed for shyin' from a fray.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">p. 180</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">Chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twasn't long till we had got where talkin' ends,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he et his ill-bred chat, with a sauce of derby hat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While my merry pardners entertained his friends.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">p. 181</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law of six years' crop of calves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still is useful in the language of the range.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza" style="font-style: italic">
+<span class="i0">Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ee-Yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5" id="Footnote_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5"><span class="label">5</span></a>
+This fragment is not included in Mr. Clark's poem.</p></div>
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">p. 182</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_DISAPPOINTED_TENDERFOOT" id="THE_DISAPPOINTED_TENDERFOOT"></a>THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">HE reached the West in a palace car where the writers tell us the cowboys are,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the redskin bold and the centipede and the rattlesnake and the loco weed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He looked around for the Buckskin Joes and the things he'd seen in the Wild West shows &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cowgirls gay and the bronchos wild and the painted face of the Injun child.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He listened close for the fierce war-whoop, and his pent-up spirits began to droop,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of the sights of the story books.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He'd hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold bad man with a pistol shot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And entered a low saloon by chance, where the tenderfoot is supposed to dance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the cowboy shoots at his bootheels there and the smoke of powder begrims the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But all was quiet as if he'd strayed to that silent spot where the dead are laid.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not even a faro game was seen, and none flaunted the long, long green.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch of the real wild woolly West.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">p. 183</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He vainly sought for a bad cayuse and the swirl and swish of the flying noose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the cowboy's yell as he roped a steer, but nothing of this fell on his ear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flourished on every side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the spurs and the "chaps" and the flannel shirts, the high-heeled boots and the guns and the quirts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and swell outfits<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He'd read about in the novels grim, were not on hand for the likes of him.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He peered about for a stagecoach old, and a miner-man with a bag of gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a burro train with its pack-loads which he'd read they tie with the diamond hitch.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rattler's whir and the coyote's wail ne'er sounded out as he hit the trail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And no one knew of a branding bee or a steer <ins class="transcriber"
+title="Transcriber&#8217;s note: unhyphenated in original.">roundup</ins> that he longed to see.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the oldest settler named Six-Gun Sim rolled a cigarette and remarked to him:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">"The West hez gone to the East, my son, and it's only in tents sich things is done."<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>E. A. Brinninstool.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">p. 184</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="A_COWBOY_ALONE_WITH_HIS_CONSCIENCE" id="A_COWBOY_ALONE_WITH_HIS_CONSCIENCE"></a>A COWBOY ALONE WITH HIS CONSCIENCE</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">WHEN I ride into the mountains on my little broncho bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whar my ears are never pelted with the bawlin' o' the herd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a sort o' dreamy quiet hangs upon the western air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' thar ain't no animation to be noticed anywhere;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then I sort o' feel oneasy, git a notion in my head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm the only livin' mortal &mdash; everybody else is dead &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I feel a queer sensation, rather skeery like, an' odd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' God.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Every rabbit that I startle from its shaded restin' place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seems a furry shaft o' silence shootin' into noiseless space,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' a rattlesnake a crawlin' through the rocks so old an' gray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Helps along the ghostly feelin' in a rather startlin' way.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every breeze that dares to whisper does it with a bated breath,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">p. 185</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Every bush stands grim an' silent in a sort o' livin' death &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell you what, a feller's feelin's give him many an icy prod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' God.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Somehow allus git to thinkin' o' the error o' my ways,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' my memory goes wingin' back to childhood's happy days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When a mother, now a restin' in the grave so dark an' deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Used to listen while I'd whisper, "Now I lay me down to sleep."<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then a sort o' guilty feelin' gits a surgin' in my breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' I wonder how I'll stack up at the final judgment test,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Conscience allus welts it to me with a mighty cuttin' rod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' God.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Take the very meanest sinner that the nation ever saw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One that don't respect religion more'n he respects the law,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One that never does an action that's commendable or good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' immerse him fur a season out in Nature's solitude,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">p. 186</a></span>
+<span class="i0">An' the cog-wheels o' his conscience 'll be rattled out o' gear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More'n if he 'tended preachin' every Sunday in the year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fur his sins 'ill come a ridin' through his cranium rough shod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' God.<br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>James Barton Adams.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">p. 187</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="JUST_A-RIDIN" id="JUST_A-RIDIN"></a>JUST A-RIDIN'!</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">OH, for me a horse and saddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every day without a change;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the desert sun a-blazin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a hundred miles o' range,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Desert ripplin' in the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Mountains blue along the skyline,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I don't envy anyone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When my feet are in the stirrups<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my horse is on the bust;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When his hoofs are flashin' lightnin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From a golden cloud o' dust;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the bawlin' of the cattle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is a-comin' down the wind,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, a finer life than ridin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would be mighty hard to find,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Splittin' long cracks in the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Rootin' up the prickly pear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I don't need no art exhibits<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the sunset does his best,<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">p. 188</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Paintin' everlastin' glories<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the mountains of the west.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And your operas look foolish<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the night bird starts his tune<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the desert's silver-mounted<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the kisses of the moon,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I don't envy kings nor czars<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When the coyotes down the valley<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Are a-singin' to the stars.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When my earthly trail is ended<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my final bacon curled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the last great round up's finished<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the Home Ranch of the world,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I don't want no harps or haloes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Robes or other dress-up things, &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let me ride the starry ranges<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a pinto horse with wings,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Splittin' chunks o' wintry air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With your feet froze to your stirrups<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And a snowdrift in your hair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>(As sent by Elwood Adams, a Colorado</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>cowpuncher.) See "Sun and Saddle</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Leather," by Charles Badger Clark, Jr.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="major" />
+<p class="newpoem"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">p. 189</a></span></p>
+<h3><a name="THE_END_OF_THE_TRAIL" id="THE_END_OF_THE_TRAIL"></a>THE END OF THE TRAIL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">SOH, Bossie, soh!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The water's handy heah,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grass is plenty neah,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' all the stars a-sparkle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bekaze we drive no mo'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We drive no mo'.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The long trail ends today, &mdash; <br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The long trail ends today,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The punchers go to play<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all you weary cattle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May sleep in peace for sure,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May sleep in peace for sure,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleep, sleep for sure.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The moon can't bite you heah,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor punchers fright you heah.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' you-all will be beef befo'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We need you any mo',&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We need you any mo'!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>From Pocock's "Curley."</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<p class="center"><br /><br />THE END<br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p class="center" style="font-size:x-small">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p>
+
+<hr class="major" />
+
+<div class="tnote">
+<h3>Transcriber&#8217;s Notes:</h3>
+
+<p>Obvious spelling/typographical and punctuation
+errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other
+occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.</p>
+
+<p>Transcriber&#8217;s notes in text&mdash;mostly detailing corrections&mdash;are
+indicated by faint dotted underlining.
+Scroll the mouse over the word and the note will <ins class="transcriber"
+title="Transcriber&#8217;s note: original reads &#8216;rawrhide&#8217;">appear</ins>.</p>
+
+<p>Inconsistent spelling and inline hyphenation occurs across
+poems and songs and is retained.</p>
+
+<p>Introduction: original shows &ldquo;Travelling&rdquo; printed across a line break.</p>
+<p>Page 9:  &ldquo;Adios&rdquo; appears once, &ldquo;Adi&oacute;s&rdquo; elsewhere.</p>
+<p>Page 68: &ldquo;good-bye&rdquo; appears once, &ldquo;goodbye&rdquo; elsewhere.</p>
+<p>Page 90: &ldquo;sage-brush&rdquo; appears once, &ldquo;sagebrush&rdquo; elsewhere.</p>
+<p>Page 115: original illegible. &ldquo;You&rdquo; appears in the author's transcription of the song in John Avery Lomax,
+<i>Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads</i>, 338, (Macmillan 1918),
+http://www.archive.org/details/cowboysongsother00lomarich
+ (accessed March 29, 2007).</p>
+<p>Page 139: &ldquo;hang-man&rdquo; hyphenation retained.</p>
+<p>Page 183: &ldquo;roundup&rdquo; appears once, &ldquo;round-up&rdquo; elsewhere.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+</div> <!-- main -->
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp, by Various
+
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+Project Gutenberg's Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp
+
+Author: Various
+
+Compiler: John A. Lomax
+
+Contributor: William Lyon Phelps
+
+Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21723]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE CATTLE TRAIL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Edwards, Joe Longo and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
+book was produced from scanned images of public domain
+material from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+               SONGS OF THE CATTLE
+               TRAIL AND COW CAMP
+
+
+
+
+              THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+       NEW YORK . BOSTON . CHICAGO . DALLAS
+             ATLANTA . SAN FRANCISCO
+
+            MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
+           LONDON . BOMBAY . CALCUTTA
+                    MELBOURNE
+
+        THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
+                     TORONTO
+
+
+
+
+               SONGS OF THE CATTLE
+               TRAIL AND COW CAMP
+
+                   COLLECTED BY
+             JOHN A. LOMAX, B.A., M.A.
+
+     Executive Secretary Ex-Students' Association,
+              the University of Texas.
+
+ For three years Sheldon Fellow from Harvard University
+ for the Collection of American Ballads; Ex-President
+       American Folk-Lore Society. Collector of
+           "Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier
+            Ballads"; joint author with Dr.
+                H. Y. Benedict of "The
+                   Book of Texas."
+
+                WITH A FOREWORD BY
+                WILLIAM LYON PHELPS
+
+                      New York
+               THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+                        1919
+
+               _All rights reserved_
+
+                 COPYRIGHT, 1919
+             BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+ Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1919.
+
+
+
+
+"THAT THESE DEAR FRIENDS I LEAVE BEHIND
+MAY KEEP KIND HEARTS' REMEMBRANCE OF THE LOVE WE HAD."
+                                          _Solon._
+
+In affectionate gratitude to a group of men, my intimate friends during
+College days (brought under one roof by a "Fraternity"), whom I still
+love not less but more,
+
+_Will Prather_, _Hammett Hardy_, _Penn Hargrove_ and _Harry Steger_, of
+precious and joyous memory;
+
+_Norman Crozier_, not yet quite emerged from Presbyterianism;
+
+_Eugene Barker_, cynical, solid, unafraid;
+
+_"Cap'en" Duval_, a gentleman of Virginia, sah;
+
+_Ed Miller_, red-headed and royal-hearted;
+
+_Bates MacFarland_, calm and competent without camouflage;
+
+_Jimmie Haven_, who has put 'em over every good day since;
+
+_Charley Johnson_, "the Swede"--the fattest, richest and dearest of the
+bunch;
+
+_Edgar Witt_, whose loyal devotion and pertinacious energy built the
+"Frat" house;
+
+_Roy Bedichek_, too big for any job he has yet tackled;
+
+_"Curley" Duncan_, who possesses all the virtues of the old time
+cattleman and none of the vices of the new;
+
+_Rom Rhome_, the quiet and canny counter of coin;
+
+_Gavin Hunt_, student and lover of all things beautiful;
+
+_Dick Kimball_, the soldier; every inch of him a handsome man;
+
+_Alex_ and _Bruce_ and _Dave_ and _George_ and _"Freshman" Mathis_ and
+_Clarence_, the six Freshmen we "took in"; while _Ike MacFarland_,
+_Alfred Pierce Ward_, and _Guy_ and _Charlie Witt_ were still in the
+process of assimilation,--
+
+To this group of God's good fellows, I dedicate this little book.
+
+
+    No loopholes now are framing
+    Lean faces, grim and brown,
+    No more keen eyes are aiming
+    To bring the redskin down;
+    But every wind careening
+    Seems here to breathe a song--
+    A song of brave careering,
+    A saga of the strong.
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+
+In collecting, arranging, editing, and preserving the "Songs of the
+Cattle Trail and Cow Camp," my friend John Lomax has performed a real
+service to American literature and to America. No verse is closer to the
+soil than this; none more realistic in the best sense of that
+much-abused word; none more truly interprets and expresses a part of our
+national life. To understand and appreciate these lyrics one should hear
+Mr. Lomax talk about them and sing them; for they were made for the
+voice to pronounce and for the ears to hear, rather than for the lamplit
+silence of the library. They are as oral as the chants of Vachel
+Lindsay; and when one has the pleasure of listening to Mr. Lomax--who
+loves these verses and the men who first sang them--one reconstructs in
+imagination the appropriate figures and romantic setting.
+
+For nothing is so romantic as life itself. None of our illusions about
+life is so romantic as the truth. Hence the purest realism appeals to
+the mature imagination more powerfully than any impossible prettiness
+can do. The more we _know_ of individual and universal life, the more we
+are excited and stimulated.
+
+And the collection of these poems is an addition to American
+Scholarship as well as to American Literature. It was a wise policy of
+the Faculty of Harvard University to grant Mr. Lomax a traveling
+fellowship, that he might have the necessary leisure to discover and to
+collect these verses; it is really "original research," as interesting
+and surely as valuable as much that passes under that name; for it helps
+every one of us to understand our own country.
+
+WM. LYON PHELPS.
+
+Yale University,
+July 27, 1919.
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+
+    "Look down, look down, that weary road,
+     'Tis the road that the sun goes down."
+
+                  *     *     *
+
+    "'Twas way out West where the antelope roam,
+    And the coyote howls 'round the cowboy's home,
+    Where the mountains are covered with chaparral frail,
+    And the valleys are checkered with the cattle trail,
+    Where the miner digs for the golden veins,
+    And the cowboy rides o'er the silent plains,--"
+
+
+The "Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp" does not purport to be an
+anthology of Western verse. As its title indicates, the contents of the
+book are limited to attempts, more or less poetic, in translating scenes
+connected with the life of a cowboy. The volume is in reality a
+by-product of my earlier collection, "Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier
+Ballads." In the former book I put together what seemed to me to be the
+best of the songs created and sung by the cowboys as they went about
+their work. In making the collection, the cowboys often sang or sent to
+me songs which I recognized as having already been in print; although
+the singer usually said that some other cowboy had sung the song to him
+and that he did not know where it had originated. For example, one night
+in New Mexico a cowboy sang to me, in typical cowboy music, Larry
+Chittenden's entire "Cowboys' Christmas Ball"; since that time the poem
+has often come to me in manuscript form as an original cowboy song. The
+changes--usually, it must be confessed, resulting in bettering the
+verse--which have occurred in oral transmission, are most interesting.
+Of one example, Charles Badger Clark's "High Chin Bob," I have printed,
+following Mr. Clark's poem, a cowboy version, which I submit to Mr.
+Clark and his admirers for their consideration.
+
+In making selections for this volume from a large mass of material that
+came into my ballad hopper while hunting cowboy songs as a Traveling
+Fellow from Harvard University, I have included the best of the verse
+given me directly by the cowboys; other selections have come in through
+repeated recommendation of these men; others are vagrant verses from
+Western newspapers; and still others have been lifted from collections
+of Western verse written by such men as Charles Badger Clark, Jr., and
+Herbert H. Knibbs. To these two authors, as well as others who have
+permitted me to make use of their work, the grateful thanks of the
+collector are extended. As will be seen, almost one-half of the
+selections have no assignable authorship. I am equally grateful to these
+unknown authors.
+
+All those who found "Cowboy Songs" diverting, it is believed, will make
+welcome "The Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp." Many of these have
+this claim to be called songs: they have been set to music by the
+cowboys, who, in their isolation and loneliness, have found solace in
+narrative or descriptive verse devoted to cattle scenes. Herein, again,
+through these quondam songs we may come to appreciate something of the
+spirit of the big West--its largeness, its freedom, its wholehearted
+hospitality, its genuine friendship. Here again, too, we may see the
+cowboy at work and at play; hear the jingle of his big bell spurs, the
+swish of his rope, the creaking of his saddle gear, the thud of
+thousands of hoofs on the long, long trail winding from Texas to
+Montana; and know something of the life that attracted from the East
+some of its best young blood to a work that was necessary in the winning
+of the West. The trails are becoming dust covered or grass grown or lost
+underneath the farmers' furrow; but in the selections of this volume,
+many of them poems by courtesy, men of today and those who are to
+follow, may sense, at least in some small measure, the service, the
+glamour, the romance of that knight-errant of the plains--the American
+cowboy.
+
+                                     J. A. L.
+
+The University of Texas,
+  Austin, July 9, 1919.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+PART I. COWBOY YARNS
+
+ OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
+ THE SHALLOWS OF THE FORD
+ THE DANCE AT SILVER VALLEY
+ THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL
+ THE TEXAS COWBOY AND THE MEXICAN GREASER
+ BRONCHO VERSUS BICYCLE
+ RIDERS OF THE STARS
+ LASCA
+ THE TRANSFORMATION OF A TEXAS GIRL
+ THE GLORY TRAIL
+ HIGH CHIN BOB
+ TO HEAR HIM TELL IT
+ THE CLOWN'S BABY
+ THE DRUNKEN DESPERADO
+ MARTA OF MILRONE
+ JACK DEMPSEY'S GRAVE
+ THE CATTLE ROUND-UP
+
+PART II. THE COWBOY OFF GUARD
+
+ A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE
+ THE COWBOY AND THE MAID
+ A COWBOY'S LOVE SONG
+ A BORDER AFFAIR
+ SNAGTOOTH SAL
+ LOVE LYRICS OF A COWBOY
+ THE BULL FIGHT
+ THE COWBOY'S VALENTINE
+ A COWBOY'S HOPELESS LOVE
+ THE CHASE
+ RIDING SONG
+ OUR LITTLE COWGIRL
+ I WANT MY TIME
+ WHO'S THAT CALLING SO SWEET?
+ SONG OF THE CATTLE TRAIL
+ A COWBOY'S SON
+ A COWBOY SONG
+ A NEVADA COWPUNCHER TO HIS BELOVED
+ THE COWBOY TO HIS FRIEND IN NEED
+ WHEN BOB GOT THROWED
+ COWBOY VERSUS BRONCHO
+ WHEN YOU'RE THROWED
+ PARDNERS
+ THE BRONC THAT WOULDN'T BUST
+ THE OL' COW HAWSE
+ THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA
+ THE COWBOYS' DANCE SONG
+ THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL
+ A DANCE AT THE RANCH
+ AT A COWBOY DANCE
+ THE COWBOYS' BALL
+
+PART III. COWBOY TYPES
+
+ THE COWBOY
+ BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT
+ A COWBOY RACE
+ THE HABIT
+ A RANGER
+ THE INSULT
+ "THE ROAD TO RUIN"
+ THE OUTLAW
+ THE DESERT
+ WHISKEY BILL,--A FRAGMENT
+ DENVER JIM
+ THE VIGILANTES
+ THE BANDIT'S GRAVE
+ THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL
+ THE SHEEP-HERDER
+ A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL
+ THE OLD COWMAN
+ THE GILA MONSTER ROUTE
+ THE CALL OF THE PLAINS
+ WHERE THE GRIZZLY DWELLS
+ A COWBOY TOAST
+ RIDIN' UP THE ROCKY TRAIL FROM TOWN
+ THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT
+ A COWBOY ALONE WITH HIS CONSCIENCE
+ JUST A-RIDIN'!
+ THE END OF THE TRAIL
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+COWBOY YARNS
+
+
+
+
+    _The centipede runs across my head,
+    The vinegaroon crawls in my bed,
+    Tarantulas jump and scorpions play,
+    The broncs are grazing far away,
+    The rattlesnake gives his warning cry,
+    And the coyotes sing their lullaby,
+    While I sleep soundly beneath the sky._
+
+
+
+
+OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
+
+
+    OUT where the handclasp's a little stronger,
+    Out where the smile dwells a little longer,
+      That's where the West begins;
+    Out where the sun is a little brighter,
+    Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,
+    Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,
+      That's where the West begins.
+
+    Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,
+    Out where friendship's a little truer,
+      That's where the West begins;
+    Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,
+    Where there's laughter in every streamlet flowing,
+    Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing,
+      That's where the West begins.
+
+    Out where the world is in the making,
+    Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,
+      That's where the West begins;
+    Where there's more of singing and less of sighing,
+    Where there's more of giving and less of buying,
+    And a man makes friends without half trying,
+      That's where the West begins.
+                            _Arthur Chapman._
+
+
+
+
+THE SHALLOWS OF THE FORD
+
+
+    DID you ever wait for daylight when the stars along the river
+    Floated thick and white as snowflakes in the water deep and strange,
+    Till a whisper through the aspens made the current break and shiver
+    As the frosty edge of morning seemed to melt and spread and change?
+
+    Once I waited, almost wishing that the dawn would never find me;
+    Saw the sun roll up the ranges like the glory of the Lord;
+    Was about to wake my pardner who was sleeping close behind me,
+    When I saw the man we wanted spur his pony to the ford.
+
+    Saw the ripples of the shallows and the muddy streaks that followed,
+    As the pony stumbled toward me in the narrows of the bend;
+    Saw the face I used to welcome, wild and watchful, lined and hollowed;
+    And God knows I wished to warn him, for I once had called him friend.
+
+    But an oath had come between us--I was paid by Law and Order;
+    He was outlaw, rustler, killer--so the border whisper ran;
+    Left his word in Caliente that he'd cross the Rio border--
+    Call me coward? But I hailed him--"Riding close to daylight, Dan!"
+
+    Just a hair and he'd have got me, but my voice, and not the warning,
+    Caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my name,
+    Reined his pony round and fanned it in the bright and silent morning,
+    Back across the sunlit Rio up the trail on which he came.
+
+    He had passed his word to cross it--I had passed my word to get him--
+    We broke even and we knew it; 'twas a case of give and take
+    For old times. I could have killed him from the brush; instead, I let
+        him
+    Ride his trail--I turned--my pardner flung his arm and stretched
+        awake;
+
+    Saw me standing in the open; pulled his gun and came beside me;
+    Asked a question with his shoulder as his left hand pointed toward
+    Muddy streaks that thinned and vanished--not a word, but hard he
+        eyed me
+    As the water cleared and sparkled in the shallows of the ford.
+                          _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
+
+
+
+
+THE DANCE AT SILVER VALLEY
+
+
+         _DON'T you hear the big spurs jingle?_
+         _Don't you feel the red blood tingle?_
+         _Be it smile or be it frown,_
+         _Be it dance or be it fight,_
+         _Broncho Bill has come to town_
+         _To dance a dance tonight._
+
+    Chaps, sombrero, handkerchief, silver spurs at heel;
+    "Hello, Gil!" and "Hello, Pete!" "How do you think you feel?"
+    "Drinks are mine. Come fall in, boys; crowd up on the right.
+    Here's happy days and honey joys. I'm going to dance tonight."
+    (On his hip in leathern tube, a case of dark blue steel.)
+
+    Bill, the broncho buster, from the ranch at Beaver Bend,
+    Ninety steers and but one life in his hands to spend;
+    Ready for a fight or spree; ready for a race;
+    Going blind with bridle loose every inch of space.
+
+    Down at Johnny Schaeffer's place, see them trooping in,
+    Up above the women laugh; down below is gin.
+    Belle McClure is dressed in blue, ribbon in her hair;
+    Broncho Bill is shaved and slick, all his throat is bare.
+    Round and round with Belle McClure he whirls a dizzy spin.
+
+    Jim Kershaw, the gambler, waits,--white his hands and slim.
+    Bill whispers, "Belle, you know it well; it is me or him.
+    Jim Kershaw, so help me God, if you dance with Belle
+    It is either you or me must travel down to hell."
+    Jim put his arm around her waist, her graceful waist and slim.
+
+    Don't you hear the banjo laugh? Hear the fiddles scream?
+    Broncho Bill leaned at the door, watched the twirling stream.
+    Twenty fiends were at his heart snarling, "Kill him sure."
+    (Out of hell that woman came.) "I love you, Belle McClure."
+    Broncho Bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem.
+
+    The dance is done. Shots crack as one. The crowd shoves for the door.
+    Broncho Bill is lying there and blood upon the floor.
+    "You've finished me; you've gambler's luck; you've won the trick and
+        Belle.
+    Mine the soul that here tonight is passing down to hell.
+    And I must ride the trail alone. Goodbye to Belle McClure."
+
+    Downstairs on the billiard cloth, something lying white,
+    Upstairs still the dance goes on, all the lamps are bright.
+    Round and round in merry spin--on the floor a blot;
+    Laugh, and chaff and merry spin--such a little spot.
+    Broncho Bill has come to town and danced his dance tonight.
+
+         _Don't you hear the fiddle shrieking?_
+         _Don't you hear the banjo speaking?_
+         _Don't you hear the big spurs jingle?_
+         _Don't you feel the red blood tingle?_
+         _Faces dyed with desert brown,_
+         _(One that's set and white);_
+         _Broncho Bill has come to town_
+         _And danced his dance tonight._
+                           _William Maxwell._
+
+
+
+
+THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL
+
+
+    AT a round-up on the Gila
+    One sweet morning long ago,
+    Ten of us was throwed quite freely
+    By a hoss from Idaho.
+    An' we 'lowed he'd go a-beggin'
+    For a man to break his pride
+    Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin',
+    Boastful Bill cut loose an' cried:
+        "I'm a ornery proposition for to hurt,
+        I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt,
+        I can ride the highest liver
+        'Twixt the Gulf an' Powder River,
+        An' I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."
+
+    So Bill climbed the Northern fury
+    An' they mangled up the air
+    Till a native of Missouri
+    Would have owned the brag was fair.
+    Though the plunges kept him reelin'
+    An' the wind it flapped his shirt,
+    Loud above the hoss's squealin'
+    We could hear our friend assert:
+        "I'm the one to take such rockin's as a joke;
+        Someone hand me up the makin's of a smoke.
+        If you think my fame needs brightnin',
+        Why, I'll rope a streak o' lightnin'
+        An' spur it up an' quirt it till it's broke."
+
+    Then one caper of repulsion
+    Broke that hoss's back in two,
+    Cinches snapped in the convulsion,
+    Skyward man and saddle flew,
+    Up they mounted, never flaggin',
+    And we watched them through our tears,
+    While this last, thin bit o' braggin'
+    Came a-floatin' to our ears:
+        "If you ever watched my habits very close,
+        You would know I broke such rabbits by the gross.
+        I have kept my talent hidin',
+        I'm too good for earthly ridin',
+        So I'm off to bust the lightnin'--Adios!"
+
+    Years have passed since that ascension;
+    Boastful Bill ain't never lit;
+    So we reckon he's a-wrenchin'
+    Some celestial outlaw's bit.
+    When the night wind flaps our slickers,
+    And the rain is cold and stout,
+    And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
+    We can sometimes hear him shout:
+        "I'm a ridin' son o' thunder o' the sky,
+        I'm a broncho twistin' wonder on the fly.
+        Hey, you earthlin's, shut your winders,
+        We're a-rippin' clouds to flinders.
+        If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die."
+
+    Star-dust on his chaps and saddle,
+    Scornful still of jar and jolt,
+    He'll come back sometime a-straddle
+    Of a bald-faced thunderbolt;
+    And the thin-skinned generation
+    Of that dim and distant day
+    Sure will stare with admiration
+    When they hear old Boastful say:
+        "I was first, as old raw-hiders all confest,
+        I'm the last of all rough riders, and the best.
+        Huh! you soft and dainty floaters
+        With your aeroplanes and motors,
+        Huh! are you the greatgrandchildren of the West?"
+            _From recitation, original, by Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE TEXAS COWBOY AND THE MEXICAN GREASER
+
+
+    I THINK we can all remember when a Greaser hadn't no show
+    In Palo Pinto particular,--it ain't very long ago;
+    A powerful feelin' of hatred ag'in the whole Greaser race
+    That murdered bold Crockett and Bowie pervaded all in the place.
+    Why, the boys would draw on a Greaser as quick as they would on a
+        steer;
+    They was shot down without warnin' often, in the memory of many here.
+    One day the bark of pistols was heard ringin' out in the air,
+    And a Greaser, chased by some ranchmen, tore round here into the
+        square.
+    I don't know what he's committed,--'tain't likely anyone knew,--
+    But I wouldn't bet a check on the issue; if you knew the gang, neither
+        would you.
+    Breathless and bleeding, the Greaser fell down by the side of the
+        wall;
+    And a man sprang out before him,--a man both strong and tall,--
+    By his clothes I should say a cowboy,--a stranger in town, I think,--
+    With his pistol he waved back the gang, who was wild with rage and
+        drink.
+    "I warn ye, get back!" he said, "or I'll blow your heads in two!
+    A dozen on one poor creature, and him wounded and bleeding, too!"
+    The gang stood back for a minute; then up spoke Poker Bill:
+    "Young man, yer a stranger, I reckon. We don't wish yer any ill;
+    But come out of the range of the Greaser, or, as sure as I live,
+        you'll croak;"
+    And he drew a bead on the stranger. I'll tell yer it wa'n't no joke.
+    But the stranger moven' no muscle as he looked in the bore of Bill's
+        gun;
+    He hadn't no thought to stir, sir; he hadn't no thought to run;
+    But he spoke out cool and quiet, "I might live for a thousand year
+    And not die at last so nobly as defendin' this Greaser here;
+    For he's wounded, now, and helpless, and hasn't had no fair show;
+    And the first of ye boys that strikes him, I'll lay that first one
+        low."
+    The gang respected the stranger that for another was willing to die;
+    They respected the look of daring they saw in that cold, blue eye.
+    They saw before them a hero that was glad in the right to fall;
+    And he was a Texas cowboy,--never heard of Rome at all.
+    Don't tell me of yer Romans, or yer bridge bein' held by three;
+    True manhood's the same in Texas as it was in Rome, d'ye see?
+    Did the Greaser escape? Why certain. I saw the hull crowd over thar
+    At the ranch of Bill Simmons, the gopher, with their glasses over the
+        bar.
+                    _From recitation. Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+BRONCHO VERSUS BICYCLE
+
+
+    THE first that we saw of the high-tone tramp
+    War over thar at our Pecos camp;
+    He war comin' down the Santa Fe trail
+    Astride of a wheel with a crooked tail,
+    A-skinnin' along with a merry song
+    An' a-ringin' a little warnin' gong.
+    He looked so outlandish, strange and queer
+    That all of us grinned from ear to ear,
+    And every boy on the round-up swore
+    He never seed sich a hoss before.
+
+    Wal, up he rode with a sunshine smile
+    An' a-smokin' a cigarette, an' I'll
+    Be kicked in the neck if I ever seen
+    Sich a saddle as that on his queer machine.
+    Why, it made us laugh, fer it wasn't half
+    Big enough fer the back of a suckin' calf.
+    He tuk our fun in a keerless way,
+    A-venturin' only once to say
+    Thar wasn't a broncho about the place
+    Could down that wheel in a ten-mile race.
+
+    I'd a lightnin' broncho out in the herd
+    That could split the air like a flyin' bird,
+    An' I hinted round in an off-hand way,
+    That, providin' the enterprize would pay,
+    I thought as I might jes' happen to light
+    On a hoss that would leave him out er sight.
+    In less'n a second we seen him yank
+    A roll o' greenbacks out o' his flank,
+    An' he said if we wanted to bet, to name
+    The limit, an' he would tackle the game.
+
+    Jes' a week before we had all been down
+    On a jamboree to the nearest town,
+    An' the whiskey joints and the faro games
+    An' a-shakin' our hoofs with the dance hall dames,
+    Made a wholesale bust; an', pard, I'll be cussed
+    If a man in the outfit had any dust.
+    An' so I explained, but the youth replied
+    That he'd lay the money matter aside,
+    An' to show that his back didn't grow no moss
+    He'd bet his machine against my hoss.
+
+    I tuk him up, an' the bet war closed,
+    An' me a-chucklin', fer I supposed
+    I war playin' in dead-sure, winnin' luck
+    In the softest snap I had ever struck.
+    An' the boys chipped in with a knowin' grin,
+    Fer they thought the fool had no chance to win.
+    An' so we agreed fer to run that day
+    To the Navajo cross, ten miles away,--
+    As handsome a track as you ever seed
+    Fer testin' a hosses prettiest speed.
+
+    Apache Johnson and Texas Ned
+    Saddled up their hosses an' rode ahead
+    To station themselves ten miles away
+    An' act as judges an' see fair play;
+    While Mexican Bart and big Jim Hart
+    Stayed back fer to give us an even start.
+    I got aboard of my broncho bird
+    An' we came to the scratch an' got the word;
+    An' I laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear
+    To see that tenderfoot drop to the rear.
+
+    The first three miles slipped away first-rate;
+    Then bronc began fer to lose his gait.
+    But I warn't oneasy an' didn't mind
+    With tenderfoot more'n a mile behind.
+    So I jogged along with a cowboy song
+    Till all of a sudden I heard that gong
+    A-ringin' a warnin' in my ear--
+    _Ting, ting, ting, ting,_--too infernal near;
+    An' lookin' backwards I seen that chump
+    Of a tenderfoot gainin' every jump.
+
+    I hit old bronc a cut with the quirt
+    An' once more got him to scratchin' dirt;
+    But his wind got weak, an' I tell you, boss,
+    I seen he wasn't no ten-mile hoss.
+    Still, the plucky brute took another shoot
+    An' pulled away from the wheel galoot.
+    But the animal couldn't hold his gait;
+    An' the idea somehow entered my pate
+    That if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their grip
+    He'd own that hoss at the end of the trip.
+
+    Closer an' closer come tenderfoot,
+    An' harder the whip to the hoss I put;
+    But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his face
+    Ran up to my side with his easy pace--
+    Rode up to my side, an' dern his hide,
+    Remarked 'twere a pleasant day fer a ride;
+    Then axed, onconcerned, if I had a match,
+    An' on his britches give it a scratch,
+    Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day,
+    An' as fresh as a daisy scooted away.
+
+    Ahead he went, that infernal gong
+    A-ringin' "good-day" as he flew along,
+    An' the smoke from his cigarette came back
+    Like a vaporous snicker along his track.
+    On an' on he sped, gettin' further ahead,
+    His feet keepin' up that onceaseable tread,
+    Till he faded away in the distance, an' when
+    I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again
+    He war thar with the boys at the end of the race,
+    That same keerless, onconsarned smile on his face.
+
+    Now, pard, when a cowboy gits licked he don't swar
+    Nor kick, if the beatin' are done on the squar;
+    So I tuck that Easterner right by the hand
+    An' told him that broncho awaited his brand.
+    Then I axed him his name, an' where from he came,
+    An' how long he'd practiced that wheel-rollin' game.
+    Tom Stevens he said war his name, an' he come
+    From a town they call Bosting, in old Yankeedom.
+    Then he jist paralyzed us by sayin' he'd whirled
+    That very identical wheel round the world.
+
+    Wal, pard, that's the story of how that smart chap
+    Done me up w'en I thought I had sich a soft snap,
+    Done me up on a race with remarkable ease,
+    An' lowered my pride a good many degrees.
+    Did I give him the hoss? W'y o' course I did, boss,
+    An' I tell you it warn't no diminutive loss.
+    He writ me a letter from back in the East,
+    An' said he presented the neat little beast
+    To a feller named Pope, who stands at the head
+    O' the ranch where the cussed wheel hosses are bred.
+                                      _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+RIDERS OF THE STARS
+
+
+    TWENTY abreast down the Golden Street ten thousand riders marched;
+    Bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time;
+    And the Angel Host to the lone, last ghost their delicate eyebrows
+        arched
+    As the swaggering sons of the open range drew up to the throne
+        sublime.
+
+    Gaunt and grizzled, a Texas man from out of the concourse strode,
+    And doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle
+        head;
+    The sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage
+        glowed;
+    "Marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here," he
+        said.
+
+    A hush ran over the waiting throng as the Cherubim replied:
+    "He that readeth the hearts of men He deemeth your challenge strange,
+    Though He long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not
+        walk but ride,
+    Oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range!"
+
+    Then warily spake the Texas man: "A petition and no complaint
+    We here present, if the Law allows and the Marster He thinks it fit;
+    We-all agree to the things that be, but we're longing for things that
+        ain't,
+    So we took a vote and we made a plan and here is the plan we writ:--
+
+    "_'Give us a range and our horses and ropes, open the Pearly Gate,
+    And turn us loose in the unfenced blue riding the sunset rounds,
+    Hunting each stray in the Milky Way and running the Rancho straight;
+    Not crowding the dogie stars too much on their way to the
+        bedding-grounds._
+
+    "_'Maverick comets that's running wild, we'll rope 'em and brand 'em
+        fair,
+    So they'll quit stampeding the starry herd and scaring the folks
+        below,
+    And we'll save 'em prime for the round-up time, and we riders'll all
+        be there,
+    Ready and willing to do our work as we did in the long ago._
+
+    "_'We've studied the Ancient Landmarks, Sir; Taurus, the Bear, and
+        Mars,
+    And Venus a-smiling across the west as bright as a burning coal,
+    Plain to guide as we punchers ride night-herding the little stars,
+    With Saturn's rings for our home corral and the Dipper our water
+        hole._
+
+    "_'Here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long
+        gone by,
+    And our singing it doesn't fit in up here though we tried it for old
+        time's sake;
+    Our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that's
+        why
+    We ask you, Marster, to turn us loose--just give us an even break!'_"
+
+    Then the Lord He spake to the Cherubim, and this was His kindly word:
+    "He that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go;
+    Turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd;
+    My glory sings in the toil they crave; 'tis their right. I would have
+        it so."
+
+    Have you heard in the starlit dusk of eve when the lone coyotes roam,
+    The _Yip! Yip! Yip!_ of a hunting cry and the echo that shrilled
+        afar,
+    As you listened still on a desert hill and gazed at the twinkling
+        dome,
+    And a viewless rider swept the sky on the trail of a shooting star?
+                         _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
+
+
+
+
+LASCA
+
+
+    I WANT free life, and I want fresh air;
+    And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
+    The crack of the whips like shots in battle,
+    The medley of hoofs and horns and heads
+    That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;
+    The green beneath and the blue above,
+    And dash and danger, and life and love--
+    And Lasca!
+
+                Lasca used to ride
+    On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side,
+    With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
+    I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
+    Little knew she of books or creeds;
+    An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;
+    Little she cared save to be at my side,
+    To ride with me, and ever to ride,
+    From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.
+    She was as bold as the billows that beat,
+    She was as wild as the breezes that blow:
+    From her little head to her little feet,
+    She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
+    By each gust of passion; a sapling pine
+    That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff
+    And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,
+    Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
+    She would hunger that I might eat,
+    Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
+    But once, when I made her jealous for fun
+    At something I whispered or looked or done,
+    One Sunday, in San Antonio,
+    To a glorious girl in the Alamo,
+    She drew from her garter a little dagger,
+    And--sting of a wasp--it made me stagger!
+    An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
+    And I shouldn't be maundering here tonight;
+    But she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound
+    Her torn rebosa about the wound
+    That I swiftly forgave her. Scratches don't count
+        In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
+
+    Her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown;
+    Her hair was darker than her eye;
+    And something in her smile and frown,
+    Curled crimson lip and instep high,
+    Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
+    Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
+    The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
+    She was alive in every limb
+    With feeling, to the finger tips;
+    And when the sun is like a fire,
+    And sky one shining, soft sapphire
+    One does not drink in little sips.
+
+        .     .     .     .     .     .     .
+
+    The air was heavy, the night was hot,
+    I sat by her side and forgot, forgot;
+    Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,
+    Forgot that the air was close oppressed,
+    That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
+    In the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon;
+    That, once let the herd at its breath take fright,
+    Nothing on earth can stop their flight;
+    And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
+    That falls in front of their mad stampede!
+
+        .     .     .     .     .     .     .
+
+    Was that thunder? I grasped the cord
+    Of my swift mustang without a word.
+    I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.
+    Away! on a hot chase down the wind!
+    But never was fox-hunt half so hard,
+    And never was steed so little spared.
+    For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared
+        In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
+
+    The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
+    There was one chance left, and you have but one--
+    Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;
+    Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance;
+    And if the steers in their frantic course
+    Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
+    You may thank your star; if not, goodbye
+    To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
+    And the open air and the open sky,
+        In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
+
+    The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt
+    For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,
+    Down came the mustang, and down came we,
+    Clinging together--and, what was the rest?
+    A body that spread itself on my breast,
+    Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
+    Two lips that hard to my lips were prest;
+    Then came thunder in my ears,
+    As over us surged the sea of steers,
+    Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
+    And when I could rise--
+    Lasca was dead!
+
+        .     .     .     .     .     .     .
+
+    I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
+    And there in the Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
+    And there she is lying, and no one knows;
+    And the summer shines, and the winter snows;
+    For many a day the flowers have spread
+    A pall of petals over her head;
+    And the little grey hawk hangs aloft in the air,
+    And the sly coyote trots here and there,
+    And the black snake glides and glitters and slides
+    Into the rift of a cottonwood tree;
+    And the buzzard sails on,
+    And comes and is gone,
+    Stately and still, like a ship at sea.
+    And I wonder why I do not care
+    For the things that are, like the things that were.
+    Does half my heart lie buried there
+        In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
+                               _Frank Desprez._
+
+
+
+
+THE TRANSFORMATION OF A TEXAS GIRL
+
+
+    SHE was a Texas maiden, she came of low degree,
+    Her clothes were worn and faded, her feet from shoes were free;
+    Her face was tanned and freckled, her hair was sun-burned, too,
+    Her whole darned _tout ensemble_ was painful for to view!
+    She drove a lop-eared mule team attached unto a plow,
+    The trickling perspiration exuding from her brow;
+    And often she lamented her cruel, cruel fate,
+    As but a po' white's daughter down in the Lone Star State.
+
+    No courtiers came to woo her, she never had a beau,
+    Her misfit face precluded such things as that, you know,--
+    She was nobody's darling, no feller's solid girl,
+    And poets never called her an uncut Texas pearl.
+    Her only two companions was those two flea-bit mules,
+    And these she but regarded as animated tools
+    To plod along the furrows in patience up and down
+    And pull the ancient wagon when pap'd go to town.
+
+    No fires of wild ambition were flaming in her soul,
+    Her eyes with tender passion she'd never upward roll;
+    The wondrous world she'd heard of, to her was but a dream
+    As walked she in the furrows behind that lop-eared team.
+    Born on that small plantation, 'twas there she thought she'd die;
+    She never longed for pinions that she might rise and fly
+    To other lands far distant, where breezes fresh and cool
+    Would never shake and tremble from brayings of a mule.
+
+        .     .     .     .     .     .     .
+
+    But yesterday we saw her dressed up in gorgeous style!
+    A half a dozen fellows were basking in her smile!
+    She'd jewels on her fingers, and jewels in her ears--
+    Great sparkling, flashing brilliants that hung as frozen tears!
+    The feet once nude and soil-stained were clad in Frenchy boots,
+    The once tanned face bore tintings of miscellaneous fruits;
+    The voice that once admonished the mules to move along
+    Was tuned to new-born music, as sweet as Siren's song!
+
+    Her tall and lanky father, one knows as "Sleepy Jim,"
+    Is now addressed as Colonel by men who honor him;
+    And youths in finest raiment now take him by the paw,
+    Each in the hope that some day he'll call him dad-in-law.
+    Their days of toil are over, their sun has risen at last,
+    A gold-embroidered curtain now hides their rocky past;
+    For was it not discovered their little patch of soil
+    Had rested there for ages above a flow of oil?
+                           _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE GLORY TRAIL
+
+
+    'WAY high up the Mogollons,[1]
+    Among the mountain tops,
+    A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones
+    And licked his thankful chops,
+    When on the picture who should ride,
+    A-trippin' down the slope,
+    But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride
+    And mav'rick-hungry rope.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me," says he,
+    "And fame's unfadin' flowers!
+    All meddlin' hands are far away;
+    I ride my good top-hawse today
+    And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J--
+    Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!"_
+
+    That lion licked his paw so brown
+    And dreamed soft dreams of veal--
+    And then the circlin' loop sung down
+    And roped him 'round his meal.
+    He yowled quick fury to the world
+    Till all the hills yelled back;
+    The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled
+    And Bob caught up the slack.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me," laughs he.
+    "We hit the glory trail.
+    No human man as I have read
+    Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,
+    Nor ever hawse could drag one dead
+    Until we told the tale."_
+
+    'Way high up the Mogollons
+    That top-hawse done his best,
+    Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,
+    From canyon-floor to crest
+    But ever when Bob turned and hoped
+    A limp remains to find,
+    A red-eyed lion, belly roped
+    But healthy, loped behind.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me," grunts he,
+    "This glory trail is rough,
+    Yet even till the Judgment Morn
+    I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,
+    For never any hero born
+    Could stoop to holler: 'nuff!'"_
+
+    Three suns had rode their circle home
+    Beyond the desert's rim,
+    And turned their star herds loose to roam
+    The ranges high and dim;
+    Yet up and down and round and 'cross
+    Bob pounded, weak and wan,
+    For pride still glued him to his hawse
+    And glory drove him on.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me," sighs he.
+    "He kaint be drug to death,
+    But now I know beyond a doubt
+    Them heroes I have read about
+    Was only fools that stuck it out
+    To end of mortal breath."_
+
+    'Way high up the Mogollons
+    A prospect man did swear
+    That moon dreams melted down his bones
+    And hoisted up his hair:
+    A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,
+    A lion trailed along,
+    A rider, ga'nt, but chin on high,
+    Yelled out a crazy song.
+
+    _"Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,
+    "And to my noble noose!
+    O stranger, tell my pards below
+    I took a rampin' dream in tow,
+    And if I never lay him low,
+    I'll never turn him loose!"_
+                       _Charles Badger Clark._
+
+[1] Pronounced by the natives "muggy-yones."
+
+
+
+
+HIGH CHIN BOB
+
+
+    'WAY high up in the Mokiones, among the mountain tops,
+    A lion cleaned a yearling's bones and licks his thankful chops;
+    And who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope,
+    But High Chin Bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope.
+        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "an' fame's unfadin' flowers;
+        I ride my good top hoss today and I'm top hand of Lazy-J,
+        So, kitty-cat, you're ours!"
+
+    The lion licked his paws so brown, and dreamed soft dreams of veal,
+    As High Chin's rope came circlin' down and roped him round his meal;
+    She yowled quick fury to the world and all the hills yelled back;
+    That top horse gave a snort and whirled and Bob took up the slack.
+        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "we'll hit the glory trail.
+        No man has looped a lion's head and lived to drag the critter dead
+        Till I shall tell the tale."
+
+    'Way high up in the Mokiones that top hoss done his best,
+    'Mid whippin' brush and rattlin' stones from canon-floor to crest;
+    Up and down and round and cross Bob pounded weak and wan,
+    But pride still glued him to his hoss and glory spurred him on.
+        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "this glory trail is rough!
+        But I'll keep this dally round the horn until the toot of judgment
+        morn
+        Before I'll holler 'nough!"
+
+    Three suns had rode their circle home, beyond the desert rim,
+    And turned their star herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim;
+    And whenever Bob turned and hoped the limp remains to find,
+    A red-eyed lion, belly roped, but healthy, loped behind!
+        "Oh, glory be to me," says Bob, "he caint be drug to death!
+        These heroes that I've read about were only fools that stuck it
+        out
+        To the end of mortal breath."
+
+    'Way high up in the Mokiones, if you ever camp there at night,
+    You'll hear a rukus among the stones that'll lift your hair with
+        fright;
+    You'll see a cow-hoss thunder by--a lion trail along,
+    And the rider bold, with his chin on high, sings forth his glory song:
+        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "and to my mighty noose.
+        Oh, pardner, tell my friends below I took a ragin' dream in tow,
+        And if I didn't lay him low, I never turned him loose!"
+                             _From oral rendition._
+
+
+
+
+TO HEAR HIM TELL IT
+
+
+    I WAS just about to take a drink--
+    I was mighty dry--
+    So I hailed an old time cowman
+    Who was passing by,
+    "Come in, Ole Timer! have a drink!
+    Kinda warm today!"
+    As we leaned across the bar-rail--
+    "How's things up your way?"
+
+    "Stock is doin' fairly good,
+    Range is gettin' fine;
+    I jes dropped down to meetin' here
+    To spend a little time.
+    Con'sidable stuff a-movin' now--
+    Cows an' hosses, too,
+    Prices high an' a big demand--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "I've loaded out my feeders,
+    Got a good price all aroun';
+    Sold 'em in Kansas City
+    To a commission man named Brown.
+    A thousand told o' mixed stuff,
+    In pretty fair shape, too,"
+    Said the old Texas cowman,
+    "Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "I've been in this yere country
+    Since late in fifty-nine,
+    I know every foot o' sage brush
+    Clear to the southern line.
+    Got my first bunch started up
+    Long in seventy-two,
+    Had to ride range with a long rope--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "Lordy, I kin remember
+    Them good ole early days
+    When we ust t' trail the herds north
+    'N forty different ways.
+    Jes'n point 'em from the beddin' groun'
+    An' let 'em drift right through,"
+    Said the reminiscent cowman,
+    "Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "Yessir, trailed 'em up to Wichita,
+    Cross the Kansas line,
+    Made deliveries at Benton
+    As early as fifty-nine.
+    Turned 'em most to soldiers,
+    Some went to Injuns, too,
+    Beef wasn't nigh so high then--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "Son, I've fit nigh every Injun
+    That ever roamed the plains,
+    'N I was one o' the best hands
+    That ever pulled bridle reins.
+    Why, you boys don't know range life--
+    You don't seem to git the ways,
+    Like we did down in Texas
+    In them good ol' early days!
+
+    "Yes, thing's a heap sight diff'rent now!
+    'Tain't like in them ol' days
+    When cowmen trailed their herds north
+    'N forty diff'rent ways.
+    We ship 'em on the railroad now,
+    Load out on the big S. P.,"
+    Says the relic of Texas cowman
+    As he takes a drink with me.
+
+    "I figger on buyin' more feeders,
+    From down across the line--
+    Chihuahua an' Sonora stuff,
+    An' hold 'em till they're prime.
+    So here's to the steers an' yearlin's!"
+    As we clink our glasses two,
+    "Things ain't the same as they used to be,
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+
+    "I got t' git out an' hustle,
+    I ain't got time t' stay;
+    Jes' want t' see some uh the boys
+    'N then I'm on my way.
+    There's many a hand here right now
+    That I know'd long, long ago,
+    When ranch land was free an' open
+    An' the plowman had a show.
+
+    "'Tain't often we git together
+    To swap yarns an' tell our lies,"
+    Said the old time Texas cowman
+    As a mist comes to his eyes.
+    "So let's drink up; here's how!"
+    As we drain our glasses two,
+    "Them was good ol' days an' good ol' ways--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!"
+
+    He talked and talked and yarned away,
+    He harped on days of yore--
+    My head it ached and I grew faint;
+    My legs got tired and sore.
+    Then a woman yelled, "You come here, John!"
+    And Lordy! how he flew!
+    And the last I heard as he broke and ran
+    Was, "Now I'm tellin' you!"
+
+    I won't never hail old timers
+    To have a drink with me,
+    To learn the history of the range
+    As far back as seventy-three.
+    And the next time that I'm thirsty
+    And feeling kind of blue,
+    I'll step right up and drink alone--
+    Now I'm tellin' you!
+                           _From the Wild Bunch._
+
+
+
+
+THE CLOWN'S BABY
+
+
+    IT was on the western frontier,--
+    The miners, rugged and brown,
+    Were gathered round the posters,
+    The circus had come to town!
+    The great tent shone in the darkness
+    Like a wonderful palace of light,
+    And rough men crowded the entrance,--
+    Shows didn't come every night!
+
+    Not a woman's face among them;
+    Many a face that was bad,
+    And some that were only vacant,
+    And some that were very sad.
+    And behind a canvas curtain,
+    In a corner of the place,
+    The clown, with chalk and vermillion,
+    Was "making up" his face.
+
+    A weary looking woman
+    With a smile that still was sweet,
+    Sewed on a little garment,
+    With a cradle at her feet.
+    Pantaloon stood ready and waiting,
+    It was time for the going on;
+    But the clown in vain searched wildly,--
+    The "property baby" was gone!
+
+    He murmured, impatiently hunting,
+    "It's strange that I cannot find--
+    There, I've looked in every corner;
+    It must have been left behind!"
+    The miners were stamping and shouting,
+    They were not patient men;
+    The clown bent over the cradle,--
+    "I must take you, little Ben."
+
+    The mother started and shivered,
+    But trouble and want were near;
+    She lifted the baby gently,
+    "You'll be very careful, dear?"
+    "Careful? You foolish darling!"
+    How tenderly it was said!
+    What a smile shone through the chalk and paint!
+    "I love each hair of his head!"
+
+    The noise rose into an uproar,
+    Misrule for the time was king;
+    The clown with a foolish chuckle
+    Bolted into the ring.
+    But as, with a squeak and flourish,
+    The fiddles closed their tune
+    "You'll hold him as if he were made of glass?"
+    Said the clown to the pantaloon.
+
+    The jovial fellow nodded,
+    "I've a couple myself," he said.
+    "I know how to handle 'em, bless you!
+    Old fellow, go ahead!"
+    The fun grew fast and furious,
+    And not one of all the crowd
+    Had guessed that the baby was alive,
+    When he suddenly laughed aloud.
+
+    Oh, that baby laugh! It was echoed
+    From the benches with a ring,
+    And the roughest customer there sprang up
+    With, "Boys, it's the real thing."
+    The ring was jammed in a minute,
+    Not a man that did not strive
+    For a "shot at holding the baby,"--
+    The baby that was alive!
+
+    He was thronged with kneeling suitors
+    In the midst of the dusty ring,
+    And he held his court right royally,--
+    The fair little baby king,--
+    Till one of the shouting courtiers,--
+    A man with a bold, hard face,
+    The talk, for miles, of the country,
+    And the terror of the place,
+
+    Raised the little king to his shoulder
+    And chuckled, "Look at that!"
+    As the chubby fingers clutched his hair;
+    Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!"
+    There never was such a hatful
+    Of silver and gold and notes;
+    People are not always penniless
+    Because they don't wear coats.
+
+    And then, "Three cheers for the baby!"
+    I tell you those cheers were meant,
+    And the way that they were given
+    Was enough to raise the tent.
+    And then there was sudden silence
+    And a gruff old miner said,
+    "Come boys, enough of this rumpus;
+    It's time it was put to bed."
+
+    So, looking a little sheepish,
+    But with faces strangely bright,
+    The audience, somewhat lingering,
+    Flocked out into the night.
+    And the bold-faced leader chuckled,
+    "He wasn't a bit afraid!
+    He's as game as he's good-looking!
+    Boys, that was a show that _paid_!"
+                              _Margaret Vandergrift._
+
+
+
+
+THE DRUNKEN DESPERADO
+
+
+    I'M wild and woolly and full of fleas,
+    I'm hard to curry below the knees,
+    I'm a she-wolf from Shamon Creek,
+    For I was dropped from a lightning streak
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    I stayed in Texas till they runned me out,
+    Then in Bull Frog they chased me about,
+    I walked a little and rode some more,
+    For I've shot up a town before
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    Give me room and turn me loose
+    I'm peaceable without excuse.
+    I never killed for profit or fun,
+    But riled, I'm a regular son of a gun
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    Good-eye Jim will serve the crowd;
+    The rule goes here no sweetnin' 'lowed.
+    And we'll drink now the Nixon kid,
+    For I rode to town and lifted the lid
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    You can guess how quick a man must be,
+    For I killed eleven and wounded three;
+    And brothers and daddies aren't makin' a sound
+    Though they know where the kid is found
+    And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+
+    When I get old and my aim aint true
+    And it's three to one and wounded, too,
+    I won't beg and claw the ground;
+    For I'll be dead before I'm found
+    When it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee!
+                                _Baird Boyd._
+
+
+
+
+MARTA OF MILRONE
+
+
+    I SHOT him where the Rio flows;
+    I shot him when the moon arose;
+    And where he lies the vulture knows
+    Along the Tinto River.
+
+    In schools of eastern culture pale
+    My cloistered flesh began to fail;
+    They bore me where the deserts quail
+    To winds from out the sun.
+
+    I looked upon the land and sky,
+    Nor hoped to live nor feared to die;
+    And from my hollow breast a sigh
+    Fell o'er the burning waste.
+
+    But strong I grew and tall I grew;
+    I drank the region's balm and dew,--
+    It made me lithe in limb and thew,--
+    How swift I rode and ran!
+
+    And oft it was my joy to ride
+    Over the sand-blown ocean wide
+    While, ever smiling at my side,
+    Rode Marta of Milrone.
+
+    A flood of horned heads before,
+    The trampled thunder, smoke and roar,
+    Of full four thousand hoofs, or more--
+    A cloud, a sea, a storm!
+
+    Oh, wonderful the desert gleamed,
+    As, man and maid, we spoke and dreamed
+    Of love in life, till white wastes seemed
+    Like plains of paradise.
+
+    Her eyes with Love's great magic shone.
+    "Be mine, O Marta of Milrone,--
+    Your hand, your heart be all my own!"
+    Her lips made sweet response.
+
+    "I love you, yes; for you are he
+    Who from the East should come to me--
+    And I have waited long!" Oh, we
+    Were happy as the sun.
+
+    There came upon a hopeless quest,
+    With hell and hatred in his breast,
+    A stranger, who his love confessed
+    To Marta long in vain.
+
+    To me she spoke: "Chosen mate,
+    His eyes are terrible with fate,--
+    I fear his love, I fear his hate,--
+    I fear some looming ill!"
+
+    Then to the church we twain did ride,
+    I kissed her as she rode beside.
+    How fair--how passing fair my bride
+    With gold combs in her hair!
+
+    Before the Spanish priest we stood
+    Of San Gregorio's brotherhood--
+    A shot rang out!--and in her blood
+    My dark-eyed darling lay.
+
+    O God! I carried her beside
+    The Virgin's altar where she cried,--
+    Smiling upon me ere she died,--
+    "Adieu, my love, adieu!"
+
+    I knelt before St. Mary's shrine
+    And held my dead one's hand in mine,
+    "Vengeance," I cried, "O Lord, be thine,
+    But I thy minister!"
+
+    I kissed her thrice and sealed my vow,--
+    Her eyes, her sea-cold lips and brow,--
+    "Farewell, my heart is dying now,
+    O Marta of Milrone!"
+
+    Then swift upon my steed I lept;
+    My streaming eyes the desert swept;
+    I saw the accursed where he crept
+    Against the blood-red sun.
+
+    I galloped straight upon his track,
+    And never more my eyes looked back;
+    The world was barred with red and black;
+    My heart was flaming coal.
+
+    Through the delirious twilight dim
+    And the black night I followed him;
+    Hills did we cross and rivers swim,--
+    My fleet foot horse and I.
+
+    The morn burst red, a gory wound,
+    O'er iron hills and savage ground;
+    And there was never another sound
+    Save beat of horses' hoofs.
+
+    Unto the murderer's ear they said,
+    "_Thou'rt of the dead! Thou'rt of the dead!_"
+    Still on his stallion black he sped
+    While death spurred on behind.
+
+    Fiery dust from the blasted plain
+    Burnt like lava in every vein;
+    But I rode on with steady rein
+    Though the fierce sand-devils spun.
+
+    Then to a sullen land we came,
+    Whose earth was brass, whose sky was flame;
+    I made it balm with her blessed name
+    In the land of Mexico.
+
+    With gasp and groan my poor horse fell,--
+    Last of all things that loved me well!
+    I turned my head--a smoking shell
+    Veiled me his dying throes.
+
+    But fast on vengeful foot was I;
+    His steed fell, too, and was left to die;
+    He fled where a river's channel dry
+    Made way to the rolling stream.
+
+    Red as my rage the huge sun sank.
+    My foe bent low on the river's bank
+    And deep of the kindly flood he drank
+    While the giant stars broke forth.
+
+    Then face to face and man to man
+    I fought him where the river ran,
+    While the trembling palm held up its fan
+    And the emerald serpents lay.
+
+    The mad, remorseless bullets broke
+    From tongues of flame in the sulphur smoke;
+    The air was rent till the desert spoke
+    To the echoing hills afar.
+
+    Hot from his lips the curses burst;
+    He fell! The sands were slaked of thirst;
+    A stream in the stream ran dark at first,
+    And the stones grew red as hearts.
+
+    I shot him where the Rio flows;
+    I shot him when the moon arose;
+    And where he lies the vulture knows
+    Along the Tinto River.
+
+    But where she lies to none is known
+    Save to my poor heart and a lonely stone
+    On which I sit and weep alone
+    Where the cactus stars are white.
+
+    Where I shall lie, no man can say;
+    The flowers all are fallen away;
+    The desert is so drear and grey,
+    O Marta of Milrone!
+                               _Herman Scheffauer._
+
+
+
+
+JACK DEMPSEY'S GRAVE
+
+
+    FAR out in the wilds of Oregon,
+    On a lonely mountain side,
+    Where Columbia's mighty waters
+    Roll down to the Ocean's tide;
+    Where the giant fir and cedar
+    Are imaged in the wave,
+    O'ergrown with ferns and lichens,
+    I found poor Dempsey's grave.
+
+    I found no marble monolith,
+    No broken shaft nor stone,
+    Recording sixty victories
+    This vanquished victor won;
+    No rose, no shamrock could I find,
+    No mortal here to tell
+    Where sleeps in this forsaken spot
+    The immortal Nonpareil.
+
+    A winding, wooded canyon road
+    That mortals seldom tread
+    Leads up this lonely mountain
+    To this desert of the dead.
+    And the western sun was sinking
+    In Pacific's golden wave;
+    And these solemn pines kept watching
+    Over poor Jack Dempsey's grave.
+
+    That man of honor and of iron,
+    That man of heart and steel,
+    That man who far out-classed his class
+    And made mankind to feel
+    That Dempsey's name and Dempsey's fame
+    Should live in serried stone,
+    Is now at rest far in the West
+    In the wilds of Oregon.
+
+    Forgotten by ten thousand throats
+    That thundered his acclaim--
+    Forgotten by his friends and foes
+    That cheered his very name;
+    Oblivion wraps his faded form,
+    But ages hence shall save
+    The memory of that Irish lad
+    That fills poor Dempsey's grave.
+
+    O Fame, why sleeps thy favored son
+    In wilds, in woods, in weeds?
+    And shall he ever thus sleep on--
+    Interred his valiant deeds?
+    'Tis strange New York should thus forget
+    Its "bravest of the brave,"
+    And in the wilds of Oregon
+    Unmarked, leave Dempsey's grave.
+                      _MacMahon._
+
+
+
+
+THE CATTLE ROUND-UP
+
+
+    ONCE more are we met for a season of pleasure,
+    That shall smooth from our brows every furrow of care,
+    For the sake of old times shall we each tread a measure
+    And drink to the lees in the eyes of the fair.
+    Once more let the hand-clasp of years past be given;
+    Let us once more be boys and forget we are men;
+    Let friendships the chances of fortune have riven
+    Be renewed and the smiling past come back again.
+    The past, when the prairie was big and the cattle
+    Were as "scary" as ever the antelope grew--
+    When to carry a gun, to make our spurs rattle,
+    And to ride a blue streak was the most that we knew;
+    The past when we headed each year for Dodge City
+    And punched up the drags on the old Chisholm Trail;
+    When the world was all bright and the girls were all pretty,
+    And a feller could "mav'rick" and stay out of jail.
+
+    Then here's to the eyes that like diamonds are gleaming,
+    And make the lamps blush that their duties are o'er;
+    And here's to the lips where young love lies a-dreaming;
+    And here's to the feet light as air on the floor;
+    And here's to the memories--fun's sweetest sequel;
+    And here's to the night we shall ever recall;
+    And here's to the time--time shall know not its equal
+    When we danced the day in at the Cattlemen's Ball.
+                       _H. D. C. McLaclachlan._
+
+
+
+
+PART II
+
+THE COWBOY OFF GUARD
+
+
+
+
+    _I am the plain, barren since time began.
+    Yet do I dream of motherhood, when man
+    One day at last shall look upon my charms
+    And give me towns, like children, for my arms._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE
+
+
+    I UST to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod
+    From an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the Cupid god,
+    An' I'd laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin' their breath in
+        sighs
+    An' goin' around with a locoed look a-campin' inside their eyes.
+    I've read o' the gals that broke 'em up a-sailin' in airy flight
+    On angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o' the same at
+        night,
+    An' a sort o' disgusted frown'd bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow,
+    An' I'd call 'em a lot o' sissy boys--but I'm seein' it different now.
+
+    I got the jab in my rough ol' heart, an' I got it a-plenty, too,
+    A center shot from a pair o' eyes of the winninest sort o' blue,
+    An' I ride the ranges a-sighin' sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer--
+    A durned heap worse than the novel blokes that the narrative gals'd
+        queer.
+    Just hain't no energy left no mo', go 'round like a orphant calf
+    A-thinkin' about that sagehen's eyes that give me the Cupid gaff,
+    An' I'm all skeered up when I hit the thought some other rider might
+    Cut in ahead on a faster hoss an' rope her afore my sight.
+
+    There ain't a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd
+    Could switch a tail on the whole durned range 'long-side o' that
+        little bird;
+    A figger plump as a prairy dog's that's feedin' on new spring grass,
+    An' as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin' glass.
+    She's got a smile that 'd raise the steam in the icyist sort o' heart,
+    A couple o' soul inspirin' eyes, an' the nose that keeps 'em apart
+    Is the cutest thing in the sassy line that ever occurred to act
+    As a ornament stuck on a purty face, an' that's a dead open fact.
+
+    I'm a-goin' to brace her by an' by to see if there's any hope,
+    To see if she's liable to shy when I'm ready to pitch the rope;
+    To see if she's goin' to make a stand, or fly like a skeered up dove
+    When I make a pass with the brandin' iron that's het in the fire o'
+        love.
+    I'll open the little home corral an' give her the level hunch
+    To make a run fur the open gate when I cut her out o' the bunch,
+    Fur there ain't no sense in a-jammin' round with a heart that's as
+        soft as dough
+    An' a-throwin' the breath o' life away bunched up into sighs.
+        Heigh-ho!
+                              _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY AND THE MAID
+
+
+    FUNNY how it come about!
+    Me and Texas Tom was out
+    Takin' of a moonlight walk,
+    Fillin' in the time with talk.
+    Every star up in the sky
+    Seemed to wink the other eye
+    At each other, 'sif they
+    Smelt a mouse around our way!
+
+    Me and Tom had never grew
+    Spoony like some couples do;
+    Never billed and cooed and sighed;
+    He was bashful like and I'd
+    Notions of my own that it
+    Wasn't policy to git
+    Too abundant till I'd got
+    Of my feller good and caught.
+
+    As we walked along that night
+    He got talkin' of the bright
+    Prospects that he had, and I
+    Somehow felt, I dunno why,
+    That a-fore we cake-walked back
+    To the ranch he'd make a crack
+    Fer my hand, and I was plum
+    Achin' fer the shock to come.
+
+    By and by he says, "I've got
+    Fifty head o' cows, and not
+    One of 'em but, on the dead,
+    Is a crackin' thoroughbred.
+    Got a daisy claim staked out,
+    And I'm thinkin' it's about
+    Time fer me to make a shy
+    At a home." "O Tom!" says I.
+
+    "Bin a-lookin' round," says he,
+    "Quite a little while to see
+    'F I could git a purty face
+    Fer to ornament the place.
+    Plenty of 'em in the land;
+    But the one 'at wears my brand
+    Must be sproutin' wings to fly!"
+    "You deserve her, Tom," says I.
+
+    "Only one so fur," says he,
+    "Fills the bill, and mebbe she
+    Might shy off and bust my hope
+    If I should pitch the poppin' rope.
+    Mebbe she'd git hot an' say
+    That it was a silly play
+    Askin' her to make a tie."
+    "She would be a fool," says I.
+
+    'Tain't nobody's business what
+    Happened then, but I jist thought
+    I could see the moon-man smile
+    Cutely down upon us, while
+    Me and him was walkin' back,--
+    Stoppin' now and then to smack
+    Lips rejoicin' that at last
+    The dread crisis had been past.
+                                  _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S LOVE SONG
+
+
+    OH, the last steer has been branded
+    And the last beef has been shipped,
+    And I'm free to roam the prairies
+    That the round-up crew has stripped;
+    I'm free to think of Susie,--
+    Fairer than the stars above,--
+    She's the waitress at the station
+    And she is my turtle dove.
+
+        Biscuit-shootin' Susie,--
+        She's got us roped and tied;
+        Sober men or woozy
+        Look on her with pride.
+        Susie's strong and able,
+        And not a one gits rash
+        When she waits on the table
+        And superintends the hash.
+
+    Oh, I sometimes think I'm locoed
+    An' jes fit fer herdin' sheep,
+    'Cause I only think of Susie
+    When I'm wakin' or I'm sleep.
+    I'm wearin' Cupid's hobbles,
+    An' I'm tied to Love's stake-pin,
+    And when my heart was branded
+    The irons sunk deep in.
+
+    Chorus:--
+
+    I take my saddle, Sundays,--
+    The one with inlaid flaps,--
+    And don my new sombrero
+    And my white angora chaps;
+    Then I take a bronc for Susie
+    And she leaves her pots and pans
+    And we figure out our future
+    And talk o'er our homestead plans.
+
+    Chorus:--
+                             _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+A BORDER AFFAIR
+
+
+    SPANISH is the lovin' tongue,
+      Soft as music, light as spray;
+    'Twas a girl I learnt it from
+      Livin' down Sonora way.
+    I don't look much like a lover,
+    Yet I say her love-words over
+      Often, when I'm all alone--
+      "_Mi amor, mi corazon._"
+
+    Nights when she knew where I'd ride
+      She would listen for my spurs,
+    Throw the big door open wide,
+      Raise them laughin' eyes of hers,
+    And my heart would nigh stop beatin'
+    When I'd hear her tender greetin'
+      Whispered soft for me alone--
+      "_Mi amor! mi corazon!_"
+
+    Moonlight in the patio,
+      Old Senora noddin' near,
+    Me and Juana talkin' low
+      So the "madre" couldn't hear--
+    How those hours would go a-flyin',
+    And too soon I'd hear her sighin',
+      In her little sorry-tone--
+      "_Adios, mi corazon._"
+
+    But one time I had to fly
+      For a foolish gamblin' fight,
+    And we said a swift good-bye
+      On that black, unlucky night.
+    When I'd loosed her arms from clingin',
+    With her words the hoofs kept ringin',
+      As I galloped north alone--
+      "_Adios, mi corazon._"
+
+    Never seen her since that night;
+      I kaint cross the Line, you know.
+    She was Mex. and I was white;
+      Like as not it's better so.
+    Yet I've always sort of missed her
+    Since that last, wild night I kissed her,
+      Left her heart and lost my own--
+      "_Adios, mi corazon._"
+                     _Charles B. Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+SNAGTOOTH SAL
+
+
+    I WAS young and happy and my heart was light and gay,
+    Singin', always singin' through the sunny summer day;
+    Happy as a lizard in the wavin' chaparral,
+    Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.
+
+       Sal, Sal,
+       My heart is broke today--
+       Broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay;
+       I would give creation to be walkin' with my gal--
+       Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.
+
+    Bury me tomorrow where the lily blossoms spring
+    Underneath the willows where the little robins sing.
+    You will yearn to see me--but ah, nevermore you shall--
+    Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.
+
+      Refrain:--
+
+    Plant a little stone above the little mound of sod;
+    Write: "Here lies a lovin' an' a busted heart, begod!
+    Nevermore you'll see him walkin' proudly with his gal--
+    Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal."
+
+       Sal, Sal,
+       My heart is broke today--
+       Broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay;
+       I would give creation to be walkin' with my gal--
+       Walkin' down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.
+                        _Lowell O. Reese,
+                  In the Saturday Evening Post._
+
+
+
+
+LOVE LYRICS OF A COWBOY
+
+
+    IT hain't no use fer me to say
+    There's others with a style an' way
+    That beats hers to a fare-you-well,
+    Fer, on the square, I'm here to tell
+    I jes can't even start to see
+    But what she's perfect as kin be.
+    Fer any fault I finds excuse--
+    I'll tell you, pard, it hain't no use
+    Fer me to try to raise a hand,
+    When on my heart she's run her brand.
+
+    The bunk-house ain't the same to me;
+    The bunch jes makes me weary--Gee!
+    I never knew they was so coarse--
+    I warps my face to try to force
+    A smile at each old gag they spring;
+    Fer I'd heap ruther hear her sing
+    "Sweet Adeline," or softly play
+    The "Dream o' Heaven" that-a-way.
+    Besides this place, most anywhere
+    I'd ruther be--so she was there.
+
+    She called me "dear," an' do you know,
+    My heart jes skipped a beat, an' tho'
+    I'm hard to feaze, I'm free to yip
+    My reason nearly lost its grip.
+    She called me "dear," jes sweet an' slow,
+    An' lookin' down an' speakin' low;
+    An' if I had ten lives to live,
+    With everything the world could give,
+    I'd shake 'em all without one fear
+    If 'fore I'd go she'd call me "dear."
+
+    You wonders why I slicks up so
+    On Sundays, when I gits to go
+    To see her--well, I'm free to say
+    She's like religion that-a-way.
+    Jes sort o' like some holy thing,
+    As clean as young grass in the spring;
+    An' so before I rides to her
+    I looks my best from hat to spur--
+    But even then I hain't no right
+    To think I look good in her sight.
+
+    If she should pass me up--say, boy,
+    You jes put hobbles on your joy;
+    First thing you know, you gits so gay
+    Your luck stampedes and gits away.
+    An' don't you even start a guess
+    That you've a cinch on happiness;
+    Fer few e'er reach the Promised Land
+    If they starts headed by a band.
+    Ride slow an' quiet, humble, too,
+    Or Fate will slap its brand on you.
+
+    The old range sleeps, there hain't a stir.
+    Less it's a night-hawk's sudden whir,
+    Or cottonwoods a-whisperin while
+    The red moon smiles a lovin' smile.
+    An' there I set an' hold her hand
+    So glad I jes can't understand
+    The reason of it all, or see
+    Why all the world looks good to me;
+    Or why I sees in it heap more
+    Of beauty than I seen before.
+
+    Fool talk, perhaps, but it jes seems
+    We're ridin' through a range o' dreams;
+    Where medder larks the year round sing,
+    An' it's jes one eternal spring.
+    An' time--why time is gone--by gee!
+    There's no such thing as time to me
+    Until she says, "Here, boy, you know
+    You simply jes have got to go;
+    It's nearly twelve." I rides away,
+    "Dog-gone a clock!" is what I say.
+                                  _R. V. Carr._
+
+
+
+
+THE BULL FIGHT
+
+
+    THE couriers from Chihuahua go
+    To distant Cusi and Santavo,
+    Announce the feast of all the year the crown--
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    The rancherias on the mountain side,
+    The haciendas of the Llano wide,
+    Are quickened by the matador's renown.
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    The women that on ambling burros ride,
+    The men that trudge behind or close beside
+    Make groups of dazzling red and white and brown.
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    Or else the lumbering carts are brought in play,
+    That jolt and scream and groan along the way,
+    But to their happy tenants cause no frown.
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    The Plaza De Los Toros offers seats,
+    Some deep in shade, on some the fierce sun beats;
+    These for the don, those for the rustic clown.
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan brings his Pepita into town.
+
+    Pepita sits, so young and sweet and fresh,
+    The sun shines on her hair's dusky mesh.
+    Her day of days, how soon it will be flown!
+    _Se corren los toros!_
+    And Juan's brought his Pepita into town.
+
+    The bull is harried till the governor's word
+    Bids the Diestro give the agile sword;
+    Then shower the bravos and the roses down!
+    _'Sta muerto el toro!_
+    And Juan takes his Pepita back from the town.
+                          _L. Worthington Green._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY'S VALENTINE
+
+
+    SAY, Moll, now don't you 'llow to quit
+    A-playin' maverick?
+    Sech stock should be corralled a bit
+    An' hev a mark 't 'll stick.
+
+    Old Val's a-roundin'-up today
+    Upon the Sweetheart Range,
+    'N me a-helpin', so to say,
+    Though this yere herd is strange
+
+    To me--'n yit, ef I c'd rope
+    Jes _one_ to wear my brand
+    I'd strike f'r Home Ranch on a lope,
+    The happiest in the land.
+
+    Yo' savvy who I'm runnin' so,
+    Yo' savvy who I be;
+    Now, can't yo' take that brand--yo' know,--
+    The [Symbol: Heart] M-I-N-E.
+                                _C. F. Lummis._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S HOPELESS LOVE
+
+
+    I'VE heard that story ofttimes about that little chap
+    A-cryin' for the shiney moon to fall into his lap,
+    An' jes a-raisin' merry hell because he couldn't git
+    The same to swing down low so's he could nab a-holt of it,
+    An' I'm a-feelin' that-a-way, locoed I reckon, wuss
+    Than that same kid, though maybe not a-makin' sich a fuss,--
+    A-goin' round with achin' eyes a-hankerin' fer a peach
+    That's hangin' on the beauty tree, too high fer me to reach.
+
+    I'm jes a rider of the range, plumb rough an' on-refined,
+    An' wild an' keerless in my ways, like others of my kind;
+    A reckless cuss in leather chaps, an' tanned an' blackened so
+    You'd think I wuz a Greaser from the plains of Mexico.
+    I never learnt to say a prayer, an' guess my style o' talk,
+    If fired off in a Sunday School would give 'em all a shock;
+    An' yet I got a-mopin' round as crazy as a loon
+    An' actin' like the story kid that bellered fer the moon.
+
+    I wish to God she'd never come with them bright laughin' eyes,--
+    Had never flashed that smile that seems a sunburst from the skies,--
+    Had stayed there in her city home instead o' comin' here
+    To visit at the ranch an' knock my heart plumb out o' gear.
+    I wish to God she'd talk to me in a way to fit the case,--
+    In words t'd have a tendency to hold me in my place,--
+    Instead o' bein' sociable an' actin' like she thought
+    Us cowboys good as city gents in clothes that's tailor bought.
+
+    If I would hint to her o' love, she'd hit that love a jar
+    An' laugh at sich a tough as me a-tryin' to rope a star;
+    She'd give them fluffy skirts a flirt, an' skate out o' my sight,
+    An' leave me paralyzed,--an' it'd serve me cussed right.
+    I wish she'd pack her pile o' trunks an' hit the city track,
+    An' maybe I'd recover from this violent attack;
+    An' in the future know enough to watch my feedin' ground
+    An' shun the loco weed o' love when there's an angel round.
+                            _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE CHASE
+
+
+    HERE'S a moccasin track in the drifts,
+    It's no more than the length of my hand;
+    An' her instep,--just see how it lifts!
+    If that ain't the best in the land!
+    For the maid ran as free as the wind
+    And her foot was as light as the snow.
+    Why, as sure as I follow, I'll find
+    Me a kiss where her red blushes grow.
+
+    Here's two small little feet and a skirt;
+    Here's a soft little heart all aglow.
+    See me trail down the dear little flirt
+    By the sign that she left in the snow!
+    Did she run? 'Twas a sign to make haste.
+    An' why bless her! I'm sure she won't mind.
+    If she's got any kisses to waste,
+    Why, she knew that a man was behind.
+
+    Did she run 'cause she's only afraid?
+    No! For sure 'twas to set me the pace!
+    An' I'll follow in love with a maid
+    When I ain't had a sight of her face.
+    There she is! An' I knew she was near.
+    Will she pay me a kiss to be free?
+    Will she hate? Will she love? Will she fear?
+    Why, the darling! She's waiting to see!
+                         _Pocock in "Curley."_
+
+
+
+
+RIDING SONG
+
+
+    LET us ride together,--
+    Blowing mane and hair,
+    Careless of the weather,
+    Miles ahead of care,
+    Ring of hoof and snaffle,
+    Swing of waist and hip,
+    Trotting down the twisted road
+    With the world let slip.
+
+    Let us laugh together,--
+    Merry as of old
+    To the creak of leather
+    And the morning cold.
+    Break into a canter;
+    Shout to bank and tree;
+    Rocking down the waking trail,
+    Steady hand and knee.
+
+    Take the life of cities,--
+    Here's the life for me.
+    'Twere a thousand pities
+    Not to gallop free.
+    So we'll ride together,
+    Comrade, you and I,
+    Careless of the weather,
+    Letting care go by.
+                          _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+OUR LITTLE COWGIRL
+
+
+    THAR she goes a-lopin', stranger,
+    Khaki-gowned, with flyin' hair,
+    Talk about your classy ridin',--
+    Wal, you're gettin' it right thar.
+    Jest a kid, but lemme tell you
+    When she warms a saddle seat
+    On that outlaw bronc a-straddle
+    She is one that can't be beat!
+
+    Every buckaroo that sees her
+    Tearin' cross the range astride
+    Has some mighty jealous feelin's
+    Wishin' he knowed how to ride.
+    Why, she'll take a deep barranca
+    Six-foot wide and never peep;
+    That 'ere cayuse she's a-forkin'
+    Sure's somethin' on the leap.
+
+    Ride? Why, she can cut a critter
+    From the herd as neat as pie,
+    Read a brand out on the ranges
+    Just as well as you or I.
+    Ain't much yet with the riata,
+    But you give her a few years
+    And no puncher with the outfit
+    Will beat her a-ropin' steers.
+
+    Proud o' her? Say, lemme tell you,
+    She's the queen of all the range;
+    Got a grip upon our heart-strings
+    Mighty strong, but that ain't strange;
+    'Cause she loves the lowin' cattle,
+    Loves the hills and open air,
+    Dusty trails on blossomed canons
+    God has strung around out here.
+
+    Hoof-beats poundin' down the mesa,
+    Chicken-time in lively tune,
+    Jest below the trail to Keeber's,--
+    Wait, you'll see her pretty soon.
+    You kin bet I know that ridin',--
+    Now she's toppin' yonder swell.
+    Thar she is; that's her a-smilin'
+    At the bars of the corral.
+                                _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+I WANT MY TIME
+
+
+    I'M night guard all alone tonight,
+    Dead homesick, lonely, tired and blue;
+    And none but you can make it right;
+    My heart is hungry, Girl, for you.
+
+    I've longed all night to hug you, Dear;
+    To speak my love I'm at a loss.
+    But just as soon as daylight's here
+    I'm goin' straight to see the boss.
+
+    "How long's the round-up goin' to run?
+    Another week, or maybe three?
+    Give me my time, then, I am done.
+    No, I'm not sick. Three weeks? Oh gee!"
+
+    I know, though, when I've had enough.
+    I will not work,--darned if I will.
+    I'm goin' to quit, and that's no bluff.
+    Say, gimme some tobacco, Bill.
+                                    _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+WHO'S THAT CALLING SO SWEET?
+
+
+    THE herds are gathered in from plain and hill,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    The boys are sleeping and the boys are still,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    'Twas the wind a-sighing in the prairie grass,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    Or wild birds singing overhead as they pass.
+
+        Who's that a-calling?
+        Making heart and pulse to beat.
+
+    No, no, it wasn't earthly sound I heard,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    It was no sigh of breeze or song of bird,
+          Who's that a-calling?
+    For the tone I heard was softer far than these,
+            that a-calling?
+    'Twas loved ones' voices from far off across the seas
+                                            _Deveen._
+
+
+
+
+SONG OF THE CATTLE TRAIL
+
+
+    THE dust hangs thick upon the trail
+    And the horns and the hoofs are clashing,
+    While off at the side through the chaparral
+    The men and the strays go crashing;
+    But in right good cheer the cowboy sings,
+    For the work of the fall is ending,
+    And then it's ride for the old home ranch
+    Where a maid love's light is tending.
+
+    Then it's crack! crack! crack!
+    On the beef steer's back,
+    And it's run, you slow-foot devil;
+    For I'm soon to turn back where through the black
+    Love's lamp gleams along the level.
+
+    He's trailed them far o'er the trackless range,
+    Has this knight of the saddle leather;
+    He has risked his life in the mad stampede,
+    And has breasted all kinds of weather.
+    But now is the end of the trail in sight,
+    And the hours on wings are sliding;
+    For it's back to the home and the only girl
+    When the foreman O K's the option.
+
+    Then it's quirt! quirt! quirt!
+    And it's run or git hurt,
+    You hang-back, bawling critter.
+    For a man who's in love with a turtle dove
+    Ain't got no time to fritter.
+                                     _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S SON
+
+
+    WHAR y'u from, little stranger, little boy?
+    Y'u was ridin' a cloud on that star-strewn plain,
+    But y'u fell from the skies like a drop of rain
+    To this world of sorrow and long, long pain.
+    Will y'u care fo' yo' mothah, little boy?
+
+    When y'u grows, little varmint, little boy,
+    Y'u'll be ridin' a hoss by yo' fathah's side
+    With yo' gun and yo' spurs and yo' howstrong pride.
+    Will y'u think of yo' home when the world rolls wide?
+    Will y'u wish for yo' mothah, little boy?
+
+    When y'u love in yo' manhood, little boy,--
+    When y'u dream of a girl who is angel fair,--
+    When the stars are her eyes and the wind is her hair,--
+    When the sun is her smile and yo' heaven's there,--
+    Will y'u care for yo' mothah, little boy?
+                             _Pocock in "Curley."_
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY SONG
+
+
+    I COULD not be so well content,
+    So sure of thee,
+    Senorita,
+    But well I know you must relent
+    And come to me,
+    Lolita!
+
+    The Caballeros throng to see
+    Thy laughing face,
+    Senorita,
+    Lolita.
+    But well I know thy heart's for me,
+    Thy charm, thy grace,
+    Lolita!
+
+    I ride the range for thy dear sake,
+    To earn thee gold,
+    Senorita,
+    Lolita;
+    And steal the gringo's cows to make
+    A ranch to hold
+    Lolita!
+                       _Pocock in "Curley."_
+
+
+
+
+A NEVADA COWPUNCHER TO HIS BELOVED
+
+
+    LONESOME? Well, I guess so!
+    This place is mighty blue;
+    The silence of the empty rooms
+    Jes' palpitates with--you.
+
+    The day has lost its beauty,
+    The sun's a-shinin' pale;
+    I'll round up my belongin's
+    An' I guess I'll hit the trail.
+
+    Out there in the sage-brush
+    A-harkin' to the "Coo-oo"
+    Of the wild dove in his matin'
+    I can think alone of you.
+
+    Perhaps a gaunt coyote
+    Will go a-lopin' by
+    An' linger on the mountain ridge
+    An' cock his wary eye.
+
+    An' when the evenin' settles,
+    A-waitin' for the dawn
+    Perhaps I'll hear the ground owl:
+    "She's gone--she's gone--she's gone!"
+                            _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY TO HIS FRIEND IN NEED
+
+
+    YOU'RE very well polished, I'm free to confess,
+    Well balanced, well rounded, a power for right;
+    But cool and collected,--no steel could be less;
+    You're primed for continual fight.
+
+    Your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will,
+    On hatred and choler you seem to have fed;
+    But when I control you, your temper is nil;
+    In fact, you're most easily led.
+
+    Though lead is your diet and fight is your fun,
+    I simply can't give you the jolt;
+    For I love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun,--
+    You forty-five caliber Colt!
+                                   _Burke Jenkins._
+
+
+
+
+WHEN BOB GOT THROWED
+
+
+    THAT time when Bob got throwed
+    I thought I sure would bust.
+    I like to died a-laffin'
+    To see him chewin' dust.
+
+    He crawled on that Andy bronc
+    And hit him with a quirt.
+    The next thing that he knew
+    He was wallowin' in the dirt.
+
+    Yes, it might a-killed him,
+    I heard the old ground pop;
+    But to see if he was injured
+    You bet I didn't stop.
+
+    I just rolled on the ground
+    And began to kick and yell;
+    It like to tickled me to death
+    To see how hard he fell.
+
+    'Twarn't more than a week ago
+    That I myself got throwed,
+    (But 'twas from a meaner horse
+    Than old Bob ever rode).
+
+    D'you reckon Bob looked sad and said,
+    "I hope that you ain't hurt!"
+    Naw! He just laffed and laffed and laffed
+    To see me chewin' dirt.
+
+    I've been prayin' ever since
+    For his horse to turn his pack;
+    And when he done it, I'd a laffed
+    If it had broke his back.
+
+    So I was still a-howlin'
+    When Bob, he got up lame;
+    He seen his horse had run clean off
+    And so for me he came.
+
+    He first chucked sand into my eyes,
+    With a rock he rubbed my head,
+    Then he twisted both my arms,--
+    "Now go fetch that horse," he said.
+
+    So I went and fetched him back,
+    But I was feelin' good all day;
+    For I sure enough do love to see
+    A feller get throwed that way.
+                                  _Ray._
+
+
+
+
+COWBOY VERSUS BRONCHO
+
+
+    HAVEN'T got no special likin' fur the toney sorts o' play,
+      Chasin' foxes or that hossback polo game,
+    Jumpin' critters over hurdles--sort o' things that any jay
+      Could accomplish an' regard as rather tame.
+    None o' them is worth a mention, to my thinkin' p'int o' view,
+      Which the same I hold correct without a doubt,
+    As a-toppin' of a broncho that has got it in fur you
+      An' concludes that's just the time to have it out.
+
+    Don't no sooner hit the saddle than the exercises start,
+      An' they're lackin' in perliminary fuss;
+    You kin hear his j'ints a-crackin' like he's breakin' 'em apart,
+      An' the hide jes' seems a-rippin' off the cuss,
+    An' you sometimes git a joltin' that makes everything turn blue,
+      An' you want to strictly mind what you're about,
+    When you're fightin' with a broncho that has got it in fur you
+      An' imagines that's the time to have it out.
+
+    Bows his back when he is risin', sticks his nose between his knees,
+      An' he shakes hisself while a-hangin' in the air;
+    Then he hits the earth so solid that it somewhat disagrees
+      With the usual peace an' quiet of your hair.
+    You imagine that your innards are a-gittin' all askew,
+      An' your spine don't feel so cussed firm an' stout,
+    When you're up agin a broncho that has got it in fur you
+      Doin' of his level best to have it out.
+
+    He will rise to the occasion with a lightnin' jump, an' then
+      When he hits the face o' these United States
+    Doesn't linger half a second till he's in the air agin--
+      Occupies the earth an' then evacuates.
+    Isn't any sense o' comfort like a-settin' in a pew
+      Listenin' to hear a sleepy parson spout
+    When you're up on top a broncho that has got it in fur you
+      An' is desputly a-tryin' to have it out.
+
+    Always feel a touch o' pity when he has to give it up
+      After makin' sich a well intentioned buck
+    An' is standin' broken hearted an' as gentle as a pup
+      A reflectin' on the rottenness o' luck.
+    Puts your sympathetic feelin's, as you might say, in a stew,
+      Though you're lame as if a-sufferin' from the gout,
+    When you're lightin' off a broncho that has had it in fur you
+      An' mistook the proper time to have it out.
+                            _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+WHEN YOU'RE THROWED
+
+
+    IF a feller's been a-straddle
+    Since he's big enough to ride,
+    And has had to sling his saddle
+    On most any colored hide,--
+    Though it's nothin' they take pride in,
+    Still most fellers I have knowed,
+    If they ever done much ridin',
+    Has at different times got throwed.
+
+    All the boys start out together
+    For the round-up some fine day
+    When you're due to throw your leather
+    On a little wall-eyed bay,
+    An' he swells to beat the nation
+    When you're cinchin' up the slack,
+    An' he keeps an elevation
+    In your saddle at the back.
+
+    He stands still with feet a-sprawlin',
+    An' his eye shows lots of white,
+    An' he kinks his spinal column,
+    An' his hide is puckered tight,
+    He starts risin' an' a-jumpin',
+    An' he strikes when you get near,
+    An' you cuss him an' you thump him
+    Till you get him by the ear,--
+
+    Then your right hand grabs the saddle
+    An' you ketch your stirrup, too,
+    An' you try to light a-straddle
+    Like a woolly buckaroo;
+    But he drops his head an' switches,
+    Then he makes a backward jump,
+    Out of reach your stirrup twitches
+    But your right spur grabs his hump.
+
+    An' "Stay with him!" shouts some feller;
+    Though you know it's hope forlorn,
+    Yet you'll show that you ain't yeller
+    An' you choke the saddle horn.
+    Then you feel one rein a-droppin'
+    An' you know he's got his head;
+    An' your shirt tail's out an' floppin';
+    An' the saddle pulls like lead.
+
+    Then the boys all yell together
+    Fit to make a feller sick:
+    "Hey, you short horn, drop the leather!
+    Fan his fat an' ride him slick!"
+    Seems you're up-side-down an' flyin';
+    Then your spurs begin to slip.
+    There's no further use in tryin',
+    For the horn flies from your grip,
+
+    An' you feel a vague sensation
+    As upon the ground you roll,
+    Like a violent separation
+    'Twixt your body an' your soul.
+    Then you roll agin a hummock
+    Where you lay an' gasp for breath,
+    An' there's somethin' grips your stomach
+    Like the finger-grips o' death.
+
+    They all offers you prescriptions
+    For the grip an' for the croup,
+    An' they give you plain descriptions
+    How you looped the spiral loop;
+    They all swear you beat a circus
+    Or a hoochy-koochy dance,
+    Moppin' up the canon's surface
+    With the bosom of your pants.
+
+    Then you'll get up on your trotters,
+    But you have a job to stand;
+    For the landscape round you totters
+    An' your collar's full o' sand.
+    Lots of fellers give prescriptions
+    How a broncho should be rode,
+    But there's few that gives descriptions
+    Of the times when they got throwed.
+                                _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+PARDNERS
+
+
+    YOU bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun,
+    Ye're a hard little beast to break,
+    But ye're good for the fiercest kind of a run
+    An' ye're quick as a rattlesnake.
+    Ye jolted me good when we first met
+    In the dust of that bare corral,
+    An' neither one of us will forget
+    The fight we fit, old pal.
+
+    But now--well, say, old hoss, if John
+    D. Rockefeller shud come
+    With all the riches his paws are on
+    And want to buy you, you bum,
+    I'd laugh in his face an' pat your neck
+    An' say to him loud an' strong:
+    "I wouldn't sell you this derned old wreck
+    For all your wealth--so long!"
+
+    For we have slept on the barren plains
+    An' cuddled against the cold;
+    We've been through tempests of drivin' rains
+    When the heaviest thunder rolled;
+    We've raced from fire on the lone prairee
+    An' run from the mad stampede;
+    An' there ain't no money could buy from me
+    A pard of your style an' breed.
+
+    So I reckon we'll stick together, pard,
+    Till one of us cashes in;
+    Ye're wirey an' tough an' mighty hard,
+    An' homlier, too, than sin.
+    But yer head's all there an' yer heart's all right,
+    An' you've been a good pardner, too,
+    An' if ye've a soul it's clean an' white,
+    You ugly ol' scoundrel, you!
+                                  _Berton Braley._
+
+
+
+
+THE BRONC THAT WOULDN'T BUST
+
+
+    I'VE busted bronchos off and on
+    Since first I struck their trail,
+    And you bet I savvy bronchos
+    From nostrils down to tail;
+    But I struck one on Powder River,
+    And say, hands, he was the first
+    And only living broncho
+    That your servant couldn't burst.
+
+    He was a no-count buckskin,
+    Wasn't worth two-bits to keep,
+    Had a black stripe down his backbone,
+    And was woolly like a sheep.
+    That hoss wasn't built to tread the earth;
+    He took natural to the air;
+    And every time he went aloft
+    He tried to leave me there.
+
+    He went so high above the earth
+    Lights from Jerusalem shone.
+    Right thar we parted company
+    And he came down alone.
+    I hit terra firma,
+    The buckskin's heels struck free,
+    And brought a bunch of stars along
+    To dance in front of me.
+
+    I'm not a-riding airships
+    Nor an electric flying beast;
+    Ain't got no rich relation
+    A-waitin' me back East;
+    So I'll sell my chaps and saddle,
+    My spurs can lay and rust;
+    For there's now and then a digger
+    That a buster cannot bust.
+                                _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+THE OL' COW HAWSE
+
+
+    WHEN it comes to saddle hawses, there's a difference in steeds:
+    There is fancy-gaited critters that will suit some feller's needs;
+    There is nags high-bred an' tony, with a smooth an' shiny skin,
+    That will capture all the races that you want to run 'em in.
+    But fer one that never tires; one that's faithful, tried and true;
+    One that allus is a "stayer" when you want to slam him through,
+    There is but one breed o' critters that I ever came across
+    That will allus stand the racket: 'tis the
+               Ol'
+                 Cow
+                   Hawse
+
+    No, he ain't so much fer beauty, fer he's scrubby an' he's rough,
+    An' his temper's sort o' sassy, but you bet he's good enough!
+    Fer he'll take the trail o' mornin's, be it up or be it down,
+    On the range a-huntin' cattle or a-lopin' into town,
+    An' he'll leave the miles behind him, an' he'll never sweat a hair,
+    'Cuz he's a willin' critter when he's goin' anywhere.
+    Oh, your thoroughbred at runnin' in a race may be the boss,
+    But fer all day ridin' lemme have the
+               Ol'
+                 Cow
+                   Hawse!
+
+    When my soul seeks peace and quiet on the home ranch of the blest,
+    Where no storms or stampedes bother, an' the trails are trails o'
+        rest,
+    When my brand has been inspected an' pronounced to be O K,
+    An' the boss has looked me over an' has told me I kin stay,
+    Oh, I'm hopin' when I'm lopin' off across that blessed range
+    That I won't be in a saddle on a critter new an' strange,
+    But I'm prayin' every minnit that up there I'll ride across
+    That big heaven range o' glory on an
+               Ol'
+                 Cow
+                   Hawse
+                              _E. A. Brinninstool._
+
+
+
+
+THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA
+
+
+    WRANGLE up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,
+    Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,
+    For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,
+    But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain.
+
+      _Shinin' dobe fire-place, shadows on the wall
+      (See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)
+      It's the best grand high that there is within the law
+      When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+    Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,
+    Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high-arched tail,
+    But we held 'em and we shoved 'em for our longin' hearts were tried
+    By a yearnin' for tobaccer and our dear fireside.
+
+      _Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop
+      (You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)
+      Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,
+      But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+    Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford--
+    Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord,
+    But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete
+    When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!
+
+      _Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots!
+      (Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in his boots?)
+      Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,
+      But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+    Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,
+    Livin' is a luxury that don't come high;
+    Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,
+    For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!
+
+      _Lively on the last turn! Lope'er to the death!
+      (Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)
+      Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw
+      When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw."_
+                      _Charles Badger Clark._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY'S DANCE SONG
+
+
+    YOU can't expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks
+    In etiquettish manner in aristocratic ranks
+    When he's always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe
+    At the rattling rancher dances where much etiquet don't go.
+    You can bet I set them laughing in quite an excited way,
+    A-giving of their squinters an astonished sort of play,
+    When I happened into Denver and was asked to take a prance
+    In the smooth and easy mazes of a high-toned dance.
+
+    When I got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white,
+    And the dudes togged out in wrappings that were simply out of sight,
+    Tell you what, I was embarrassed, and somehow I couldn't keep
+    From feeling like a burro in a pretty flock of sheep.
+    Every step I made was awkward and I blushed a fiery red
+    Like the principal adornment of a turkey gobbler's head.
+    The ladies said 'twas seldom that they had had the chance
+    To see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance.
+
+    I cut me out a heifer from a bunch of pretty girls
+    And yanked her to the center to dance the dreamy whirls.
+    She laid her head upon my bosom in a loving sort of way
+    And we drifted into heaven as the band began to play.
+    I could feel my neck a-burning from her nose's breathing heat,
+    And she do-ce-doed around me, half the time upon my feet;
+    She peered up in my blinkers with a soul-dissolving glance
+    Quite conducive to the pleasures of a high-toned dance.
+
+    Every nerve just got a-dancing to the music of delight
+    As I hugged the little sagehen uncomfortably tight;
+    But she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes
+    Seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise.
+    She snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way,
+    And I hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play,--
+    Tell you what the joys of heaven ain't a cussed circumstance
+    To the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance.
+
+    When they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare,
+    Every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear.
+    I fetched a cowboy whoop and started in to rag,
+    And cut her with my trotters till the floor began to sag;
+    Swung my pardner till she got sea-sick and rushed for a seat;
+    I balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat.--
+    Tell you what, I shook the creases from my go-to-meeting pants
+    When I put the cowboy trimmings on that high-toned dance.
+                          _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL
+
+
+    WAY out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow,
+    Where the cattle are "a-browzin'" and the Spanish ponies grow;
+    Where the Norther "comes a-whistlin'" from beyond the Neutral strip
+    And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as if they had "the Grip";
+    Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark,
+    And the mocking-birds are singin' to the lovely "medder lark";
+    Where the 'possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes abound,
+    And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound;
+    Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams,
+    While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams;
+    Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call--
+    It was there that I attended "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."
+
+    The town was Anson City, old Jones's county seat,
+    Where they raise Polled Angus cattle, and waving whiskered wheat;
+    Where the air is soft and "bammy," an' dry an' full of health,
+    And the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth;
+    Where they print the _Texas Western_, that Hec. McCann supplies,
+    With news and yarns and stories, of most amazin' size;
+    Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger," on knowin' tender feet,
+    And Democracy's triumphant, and mighty hard to beat;
+    Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap from Lamar,
+    Who "used to be the sheriff, back East, in Paris, sah!"
+    'Twas there, I say, at Anson, with the lively "Widder Wall,"
+    That I went to that reception, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."
+
+    The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles;
+    The ladies--"kinder scatterin'"--had gathered in for miles.
+    And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well,
+    'Twas got for the occasion at "The Morning Star Hotel."
+    The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine,
+    And a "viol come imported," by stage from Abilene.
+    The room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls,
+    And candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls.
+    The "wimmin folks" looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed,
+    Till their leader commenced yellin': "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede."
+    The music started sighin' and a-wailin' through the hall,
+    As a kind of introduction to "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."
+
+    The leader was a fellow that came from Swenson's Ranch,
+    They called him "Windy Billy," from "little Dead-man's Branch."
+    His rig was "kinder keerless," big spurs and high-heeled boots;
+    He had the reputation that comes when "fellers shoots."
+    His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain's height;
+    His feet were animated, an' a _mighty movin' sight_,
+    When he commenced to holler, "Neow, fellers, stake yer pen!
+    Lock horns to all them heifers, an' russle 'em like men.
+    Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an' let 'em go,
+    Climb the grape vine round 'em--all hands do-ce-do!
+    And Mavericks, jine the round-up--Jest skip her waterfall,"
+    Huh! hit wuz gittin' happy, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"
+
+    The boys were tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat,
+    That old bass viol's music _just got there with both feet_.
+    That wailin' frisky fiddle, I never shall forget;
+    And Windy kept a singin'--I think I hear him yet--
+    "O Xes, chase your squirrels, an' cut 'em to one side,
+    Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride,
+    Doc. Hollis down the middle, an' twine the ladies' chain,
+    Varn Andrews pen the fillies in big T. Diamond's train.
+    All pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an' change,
+    'Big Boston' lead the trail herd, through little Pitchfork's range.
+    Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope 'em! Balance all!"
+    Huh! hit wuz gittin' active--"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"
+
+    The dust riz fast an' furious, we all just galloped round,
+    Till the scenery got so giddy, that Z Bar Dick was downed.
+    We buckled to our partners, an' told 'em to hold on,
+    Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.
+    Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir 'ee!
+    That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me.
+    I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill,
+    Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill.
+    McAllister ain't nowhere! when Windy leads the show,
+    I've seen 'em both in harness, an' so I sorter know--
+    Oh, Bill, I sha'n't forget yer, and I'll oftentimes recall,
+    That lively-gaited sworray--"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."
+           _Larry Chittenden in_ "_Ranch Verses."_
+
+
+
+
+A DANCE AT THE RANCH
+
+
+    FROM every point they gaily come, the broncho's unshod feet
+    Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat;
+    The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind--
+    Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind.
+    The dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones
+    And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones,
+    Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers,
+    And pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears.
+    Within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly gathered throng
+    Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song;
+    The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein
+    In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain.
+    The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow,
+    Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low;
+    Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret
+    Until their ears are greeted with the warning words, "All set!
+         S'lute yer pardners! Let 'er go!
+         Balance all an' do-ce-do!
+         Swing yer girls an' run away!
+         Right an' left an' gents sashay!
+         Gents to right an' swing or cheat!
+         On to next gal an' repeat!
+         Balance next an' don't be shy!
+         Swing yer pard an' swing 'er high!
+         Bunch the gals an' circle round!
+         Whack yer feet until they bound!
+         Form a basket! Break away!
+         Swing an' kiss an' all git gay!
+         Al'man left an' balance all!
+         Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall!
+         Swing yer op'sites! Swing agin!
+         Kiss the sagehens if you kin!"
+        An' thus the merry dance went on till morning's struggling light
+    In lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night,
+    And broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies
+    By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes.
+    The cowboys to the ranges speed to "work" the lowing herds,
+    The girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds,
+    And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree
+    They had that night at Jackson's ranch down on the Owyhee.
+                                      _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+AT A COWBOY DANCE
+
+
+    GIT yo' little sagehens ready;
+      Trot 'em out upon the floor--
+    Line up there, you critters! Steady!
+      Lively, now! One couple more.
+    Shorty, shed that ol' sombrero;
+      Broncho, douse that cigaret;
+    Stop yer cussin', Casimero,
+      'Fore the ladies. Now, all set:
+
+    S'lute yer ladies, all together;
+      Ladies opposite the same;
+    Hit the lumber with yer leather;
+      Balance all an' swing yer dame;
+    Bunch the heifers in the middle;
+      Circle stags an' do-ce-do;
+    Keep a-steppin' to the fiddle;
+      Swing 'em 'round an' off you go.
+
+    First four forward. Back to places.
+      Second foller. Shuffle back--
+    Now you've got it down to cases--
+      Swing 'em till their trotters crack.
+    Gents all right a-heel an' toein';
+      Swing 'em--kiss 'em if yo' kin--
+    On to next an' keep a-goin'
+      Till yo' hit yer pards agin.
+
+    Gents to center. Ladies 'round 'em;
+      Form a basket; balance all;
+    Swing yer sweets to where yo' found 'em;
+      All p'mnade around the hall.
+    Balance to yer pards an' trot 'em
+      'Round the circle double quick;
+    Grab an' squeeze 'em while you've got 'em--
+      Hold 'em to it if they kick.
+
+    Ladies, left hand to yer sonnies;
+      Alaman; grand right an' left;
+    Balance all an' swing yer honies--
+      Pick 'em up an' feel their heft.
+    All p'mnade like skeery cattle;
+      Balance all an' swing yer sweets;
+    Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle--
+      Keno! Promenade to seats.
+                  _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOYS' BALL
+
+
+    _YIP! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_;
+    You an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall!
+    _Say "How!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle_;
+    Shake yo'r leg lively at the Cowboys' Ball.
+
+    Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin';
+    Everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high;
+    Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin';
+    Keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye.
+
+    Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin'
+    Jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head;
+    Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin',
+    Just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead!
+
+    High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers;
+    Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!
+    Uncle Ed's gettin' red--had too many dippers;
+    Better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg!
+
+    _Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_;
+    Pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow.
+    _Bow down! right in town--and sashay down the middle_;
+    Got to keep a-movin' for to see the show!
+
+    Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute?
+    Like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars?
+    All right! Fine night--Dance? There's nothin' in it!
+    That's my pony there, peekin' through the bars.
+
+    Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten!
+    Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see;
+    Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin'
+    Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.
+
+    _Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_;
+    Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all!
+    _Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle..._
+    But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball.
+                            _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
+
+
+
+
+PART III
+
+COWBOY TYPES
+
+
+
+
+    _DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples--
+    When there's water in its bed;
+    Where no man is ever drunken--
+    All prefer mescal instead;
+    Where no lie is ever uttered--
+    There being nothin' one can trade;
+    Where no marriage vows are broken
+    'Cause the same are never made._
+
+
+
+
+THE COWBOY
+
+
+    HE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,
+    And leggins of fancy fringed leather;
+    He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots,
+    And he's happy in all kinds of weather;
+    He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course,
+    For oh, he can ride like the devil;
+    He is old for his years and he always appears
+    Like a fellow who's lived on the level;
+    He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look
+    Of a man that to fear is a stranger;
+    Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve
+    For his wild life of duty and danger.
+    He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet,
+    And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it;
+    He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear
+    At the rate of two-forty a minute;
+    His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West,
+    Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;
+    Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks,
+    But his knowledge is not got from your scholars;
+    He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,
+    And he hates and despises a coward;
+    Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kind
+    Though he'll fight till by death overpowered.
+    Hence I say unto you,--give the cowboy his due
+    And be kind, my friends, to his folly;
+    For he's generous and brave though he may not behave
+    Like your dudes, who are so melancholy.
+                                     _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT
+
+
+    WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,
+    'Tis said--an' we know who 'tis--
+    "Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch,
+    An' uses us in his biz."
+    Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss,
+    An' you'd sure admit that's right,
+    If you happened--an' unbeknown to us--
+    Around, of a Sunday night.
+
+    Th' week-day manners is stowed away,
+    Th' jokes an' the card games halts,
+    When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to play
+    A toon--an' it ain't no waltz.
+    It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight,
+    It delves through th' toughest crust,
+    It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight,
+    Till we've got ter sing--er bust!
+
+    With pipin' treble the kid starts in,
+    An' Hell! how that kid kin sing!
+    "Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin,"
+    He leads, an' the rafters ring;
+    "Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,"
+    We shouts it with force an' vim;
+    "Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"--
+    That's puttin' it up to Him!
+
+    We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z,
+    But many a time an' oft
+    When ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me,"
+    Our hearts gets kinder soft.
+    An' we makes some promises there an' then
+    Which we keeps--till we goes to bed,--
+    That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men
+    What ain't no saints, as I said.
+                              _Percival Combes._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY RACE
+
+
+    A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail
+    When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail,
+    A long roll of hoofs,--and the earth is a drum!
+    The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!
+
+    A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;
+    A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;
+    A swift-swirling dust-cloud--a mad hurricane
+    Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;
+
+    Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun
+    The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!
+                                       _J. C. Davis._
+
+
+
+
+THE HABIT
+
+
+    I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown;
+    I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone;
+    From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,--
+    For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
+
+    I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I,
+    "I'll never wander further till I come to die."
+    But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will."
+    An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still.
+
+    I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay,
+    But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way.
+    I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill,
+    An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
+
+    I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail,
+    But when it's time for leavin' I jes hits the trail.
+    I'm a human bird of passage and the song I trill
+    Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."
+
+    The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear,
+    An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.
+    It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill;
+    For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
+                                    _Berton Braley._
+
+
+
+
+A RANGER
+
+
+    HE never made parade of tooth or claw;
+    He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds.
+    Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw,
+    He was shy of exercisin' it with words.
+    As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law,
+    All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail;
+    He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger,
+    And he labored with the sinners of the trail.
+
+    Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad,
+    Then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan,
+    And nobody missed the woman very bad,
+    While they'd just a little rather missed the man.
+    But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad,
+    And then loped away to bring him back again,
+    For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border
+    And his business was to hunt for sinful men!
+
+    So the trail it led him southward all the day,
+    Through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake,
+    Where the heat had drove the lizards from their play
+    To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake.
+    And the mountains heaved and rippled far away
+    And the desert broiled as on the devil's prong,
+    But he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and level
+    And the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.
+
+    Came the yellow west, and on a far off rise
+    Something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim,
+    And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes
+    While he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim.
+    Down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries,
+    Like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark,
+    And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighter
+    As he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.
+
+    Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher
+    Through the mountains that look into Mexico,
+    And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire
+    And the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow.
+    Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire
+    And the canyon walls flung thunder back again,
+    And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled
+    That his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.
+
+    Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack
+    And he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy,
+    Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back
+    That convinced the sinner--just above the eye.
+    So the sinner sprawled among the shadows black
+    While the ranger drifted north beneath the moon,
+    Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddle
+    While the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.
+
+    When the sheriff got up early out of bed,
+    How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss,
+    As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red
+    That came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse.
+    But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger said
+    And you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale;
+    He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger
+    And he labored with the sinners of the trail.
+                       _Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE INSULT
+
+
+    I'VE swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell;
+    I've braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne;
+    I've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swine
+    An' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;
+
+    I've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath;
+    I've tackled every desert in the land;
+    I've sampled XX whiskey till I couldn't hardly see
+    An' dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;
+
+    I've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs;
+    I've been dragged free and fancy by a cow;
+    I've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' Ninth,
+    An' I never lost my temper till right now.
+
+    I've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes;
+    I've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail;
+    But I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad
+    As when you up and hands me ginger ale.
+                                    _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+"THE ROAD TO RUIN"[2]
+
+
+    I WENT into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar,
+    And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.
+    The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to know
+    When we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.
+
+    The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sell
+    Corroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell.
+    This one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low,
+    He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.
+
+    Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grin
+    While others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin.
+    Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woe
+    And wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.
+
+    I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men;
+    And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen.
+    You know the one you liked the best?--the hang-man laid him low,--
+    Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.
+
+    You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,--
+    He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone.
+    He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow,--
+    Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.
+
+    I visited the old church yard and there I saw the graves
+    Of those who used to drown their woes in old fermented ways.
+    I saw the graves of women thar, lying where the daisies grow,
+    Who wept and died of broken hearts some twenty years ago.
+                                  _Anonymous._
+
+[2] A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign.
+
+
+
+
+THE OUTLAW
+
+
+    WHEN my loop takes hold on a two-year-old,
+      By the feet or the neck or the horn,
+    He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white,
+      But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.
+    Though the taut rope sing like a banjo string
+      And the latigoes creak and strain,
+    Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steer
+      And I'll tumble him on the plain.
+
+    _For a man is a man and a steer is a beast,
+      And the man is the boss of the herd;
+    And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,
+      Must come down when he says the word._
+
+    When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse
+      And my spurs clinch into his hide,
+    He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,
+      But wherever he goes I'll ride.
+    Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top,
+      Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,
+    But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel
+      Till he's happy to own he's broke.
+
+    _For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,
+      And the hawse may be prince of his clan,
+    But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot
+      And own that his boss is the man._
+
+    When the devil at rest underneath my vest
+      Gets up and begins to paw,
+    And my hot tongue strains at its bridle-reins,
+      Then I tackle the real outlaw;
+    When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild,
+      And my temper has fractious growed,
+    If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,
+      Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.
+
+    _For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast--
+      He kin brag till he makes you deaf,
+    But the one, lone brute, from the West to the East,
+      That he kaint quite break, is himse'f._
+                        _Charles B. Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE DESERT
+
+
+    'TWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul,
+      As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert
+        sky,
+    The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole
+      For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry!
+
+    "He came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell;
+      And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done.
+    He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of
+        hell,
+      Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop--just
+        one."
+
+    "His name?" I asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin:
+      "His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside;
+    Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin,
+      And I watched his face as he spelled it out--laughed as I laughed,
+        and died.
+
+    "And thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast,
+      And mine." I fumbled and pulled my gun--emptied it wild and fast,
+    But one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast;
+      There lay the shape of the Liar, dead! 'Twas I that should laugh
+        the last.
+
+    Laugh? Nay, now I would write my name as the Upland Rider wrote;
+      Write? What need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line
+    I saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float
+      Into a mist as the world grew dark; and I knew that the name was
+        mine.
+
+    Dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain;
+      Hands that proffered a brimming cup--empty, ere I could take;
+    Then the burst of a thunder-head--rain! It was rude, fierce rain!
+      Blindly down to the hole I crept, shivering, drenched, awake!
+
+    Dawn--and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame,
+      As stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that I thought
+        was dead;
+    But never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name;
+      Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun--and the old home trail
+        ahead.
+                          _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
+
+
+
+
+WHISKEY BILL,--A FRAGMENT
+
+
+    A-DOWN the road and gun in hand
+    Comes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill;
+    A-lookin' for some place to land
+    Comes Whiskey Bill.
+    An' everybody'd like to be
+    Ten miles away behind a tree
+    When on his joyous, aching spree
+    Starts Whiskey Bill.
+
+    The times have changed since you made love,
+    O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!
+    The happy sun grinned up above
+    At Whiskey Bill.
+    And down the middle of the street
+    The sheriff comes on toe and feet
+    A-wishin' for one fretful peek
+    At Whiskey Bill.
+
+    The cows go grazing o'er the lea,--
+    Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill!
+    An' aching thoughts pour in on me
+    Of Whiskey Bill.
+    The sheriff up and found his stride;
+    Bill's soul went shootin' down the slide,--
+    How are things on the Great Divide,
+    O Whiskey Bill?
+                               _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+DENVER JIM
+
+
+    "SAY, fellers, that ornery thief must be nigh us,
+    For I jist saw him across this way to the right;
+    Ah, there he is now right under that burr-oak
+    As fearless and cool as if waitin' all night.
+    Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all ready
+    Fur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight;
+    The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic
+    An' that limb hangin' over him stands about right.
+
+    "Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my lasso, boys,
+    If it ain't Denver Jim that's corralled here at last.
+    Right aside for the jilly. Well, Jim, we are searchin'
+    All night for a couple about of your cast.
+    An' seein' yer enter this openin' so charmin'
+    We thought perhaps yer might give us the trail.
+    Haven't seen anything that would answer description?
+    What a nerve that chap has, but it will not avail.
+
+    "Want to trade hosses fur the one I am stridin'!
+    Will you give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot?
+    Say, Jim, that air gold is the strongest temptation
+    An' many a man would say take it and scoot.
+    But we don't belong to that denomination;
+    You have got to the end of your rope, Denver Jim.
+    In ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie,
+    An' you will be hangin' there right from that limb.
+
+    "Have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't proper?
+    Here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask.
+    Ar' not dry? Well, I am, an' will drink ter yer, pard,
+    An' wish that this court will not bungle this task.
+    There, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture;
+    Here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word;
+    I am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under;
+    Fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd.
+
+    "What's that? So yer want me to answer a letter,--
+    Well, give it to me till I make it all right,
+    A moment or two will be only good manners,
+    The judicious acts of this court will be white.
+    'Long Point, Arkansas, the thirteenth of August,
+    My dearest son James, somewhere out in the West,
+    For long, weary months I've been waiting for tidings
+    Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless.
+
+    "'God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money,
+    Remembering your mother when sorely in need.
+    May the angels from heaven now guard you from danger
+    And happiness follow your generous deed.
+    How I long so to see you come into the doorway,
+    As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest.
+    May the days be but few when again I can greet you,
+    My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.'
+
+    "Say, pard, here's your letter. I'm not good at writin',
+    I think you'd do better to answer them lines;
+    An' fer fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso,
+    An' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines.
+    An' Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her
+    That a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the day
+    When her boy could come eastward to stay with her always.
+    Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away."
+
+    O'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor,
+    The dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright,
+    As the tenderest memories came like a blessing
+    From the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light.
+    Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning,
+    Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned;
+    For higher than law is the love of a mother,--
+    It reversed the decision,--the court was adjourned.
+                          _Sherman D. Richardson._
+
+
+
+
+THE VIGILANTES
+
+
+        WE are the whirlwinds that winnow the West--
+        We scatter the wicked like straw!
+        We are the Nemeses, never at rest--
+        We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!
+
+    Moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast,
+    Sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear,
+    A halt, a swift parley, a pause--then at last
+    A stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheer
+    Against the blue steel of the sky; ghastly white
+    Every on-looking face. Men, our duty was clear;
+    Yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night!
+
+    Ours is a service brute-hateful and grim;
+    Little we love the wild task that we seek;
+    Are they dainty to deal with--the fear-rigid limb,
+    The curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek?
+    Nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath;
+    God made us strong to avenge Him the weak--
+    To dispense his sure wages of sin--which is death.
+
+    We stand for our duty: while wrong works its will,
+    Our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide;
+    Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still,
+    And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide,
+    That safety and honor may tread in our path;
+    The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side,
+    As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath.
+
+        We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West--
+        We scatter the wicked like straw!
+        We are the Nemeses, never at rest--
+        We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!
+                            _Margaret Ashmun._
+
+
+
+
+THE BANDIT'S GRAVE
+
+
+    'MID lava rock and glaring sand,
+    'Neath the desert's brassy skies,
+    Bound in the silent chains of death
+    A border bandit lies.
+    The poppy waves her golden glow
+    Above the lowly mound;
+    The cactus stands with lances drawn,--
+    A martial guard around.
+
+    His dreams are free from guile or greed,
+    Or foray's wild alarms.
+    No fears creep in to break his rest
+    In the desert's scorching arms.
+    He sleeps in peace beside the trail,
+    Where the twilight shadows play,
+    Though they watch each night for his return
+    A thousand miles away.
+
+    From the mesquite groves a night bird calls
+    When the western skies grow red;
+    The sand storm sings his deadly song
+    Above the sleeper's head.
+    His steed has wandered to the hills
+    And helpless are his hands,
+    Yet peons curse his memory
+    Across the shifting sands.
+
+    The desert cricket tunes his pipes
+    When the half-grown moon shines dim;
+    The sage thrush trills her evening song--
+    But what are they to him?
+    A rude-built cross beside the trail
+    That follows to the west
+    Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow
+    Across the sleeper's breast.
+
+    A lone coyote comes by night
+    And sits beside his bed,
+    Sobbing the midnight hours away
+    With gaunt, up-lifted head.
+    The lizard trails his aimless way
+    Across the lonely mound,
+    When the star-guards of the desert
+    Their pickets post around.
+
+    The winter snows will heap their drifts
+    Among the leafless sage;
+    The pallid hosts of the blizzard
+    Will lift their voice in rage;
+    The gentle rains of early spring
+    Will woo the flowers to bloom,
+    And scatter their fleeting incense
+    O'er the border bandit's tomb.
+                                 _Charles Pitt._
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL
+
+
+    SEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divide
+    Which parts the falling rain,--the eastern slope
+    Sends down its waters to the southern sea
+    Through Double Mountain's winding length of stream;
+    The western side spreads out into a plain,
+    Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues
+    At last into the rushing Rio Grande,--
+    See, faintly showing on that distant ridge,
+    The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest,
+    Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral,
+    The dim reminders of the olden times,
+    The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid,
+    The hunt of buffalo and antelope;
+    The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers;
+    The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night;
+    The stampede and the wild ride through the storm;
+    The call of California's golden flood;
+    The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho"
+    Which set our fathers' faces from the east,
+    To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes,
+    To people all the regions 'neath the sun--
+    Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.
+
+    It winds--this old forgotten cattle trail--
+    Through valleys still and silent even now,
+    Save when the yellow-breasted desert lark
+    Cries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite,
+    In quivering notes set in a minor key;
+    The endless round of sunny days, of starry nights,
+    The desert's blank immutability.
+    The coyote's howl is heard at dark from some
+    Low-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolf
+    They yelp in concert to the far off stars,
+    Or gnaw the bleached bones in savage rage
+    That lie unburied by the grass-grown paths.
+    The prairie dogs play sentinel by day
+    And backward slips the badger to his den;
+    The whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake,
+    A staring buzzard floating in the blue,
+    And, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,--
+    Lost, always lost, and seeking evermore.
+    All else is mute and dormant; vacantly
+    The sun looks down, the days run idly on,
+    The breezes whirl the dust, which eddying falls
+    Smothering the records of the westward caravans,
+    Where silent heaps of wreck and nameless graves
+    Make milestones for the old Mackenzie Trail.
+
+    Across the Brazos, Colorado, through
+    Concho's broad, fair valley, sweeping on
+    By Abilene it climbs upon the plains,
+    The Llano Estacado (beyond lie wastes
+    Of alkali and hunger gaunt and death),--
+    And here is lost in shifting rifts of sand.
+    Anon it lingers by a hidden spring
+    That bubbles joy into the wilderness;
+    Its pathway trenched that distant mountain side,
+    Now grown to gulches through torrential rain.
+    De Vaca gathered pinons by the way,
+    Long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill,
+    Cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels;
+    La Salle, the gentle Frenchman, crossed this course,
+    And went to death and to a nameless grave.
+    For ages and for ages through the past
+    Comanches and Apaches from the north
+    Came sweeping southward, searching for the sun,
+    And charged in mimic combat on the sea.
+    The scions of Montezuma's low-browed race
+    Perhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree;
+    Or sucked the cactus apples growing there.
+    All these have passed, and passed the immigrants,
+    Who bore the westward fever in their brain,
+    The Norseman tang for roving in their veins;
+    Who loved the plains as sailors love the sea,
+    Braved danger, death, and found a resting place
+    While traveling on the old Mackenzie Trail.
+
+    Brave old Mackenzie long has laid him down
+    To rest beyond the trail that bears his name;
+    A granite mountain makes his monument;
+    The northers, moaning o'er the low divide,
+    Go gently past his long deserted camps.
+    No more his rangers guard the wild frontier,
+    No more he leads them in the border fight.
+    No more the mavericks, winding stream of horns
+    To Kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songs
+    And cries, the pistol's sharp report,--the free,
+    Wild days in Texas by the Rio Grande.
+    And some men say when dusky night shuts down,
+    Dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star,
+    One sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plain
+    Hard by Mackenzie's trail; and keener ears
+    Have heard from deep within the bordering hills
+    The tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows,
+    The rumble of a moving wagon train,
+    Sometimes far echoes of a frontier song;
+    Then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,--
+    On westward, westward, as they in olden time
+    Went rangeing o'er the old Mackenzie Trail.
+                                _John A. Lomax._
+
+
+
+
+THE SHEEP-HERDER[3]
+
+
+    ALL day across the sagebrush flat,
+      Beneath the sun of June,
+    My sheep they loaf and feed and bleat
+      Their never changin' tune.
+    And then, at night time, when they lay
+      As quiet as a stone,
+    I hear the gray wolf far away,
+      "Alo-one!" he says, "Alo-one!"
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!
+      The tune the woollies sing;
+    It's rasped my ears, it seems, for years,
+      Though really just since Spring;
+    And nothin', far as I can see
+      Around the circle's sweep,
+    But sky and plain, my dreams and me
+      And them infernal sheep.
+
+    I've got one book--it's poetry--
+      A bunch of pretty wrongs
+    An Eastern lunger gave to me;
+      He said 'twas "shepherd songs."
+    But, though that poet sure is deep
+      And has sweet things to say,
+    He never seen a herd of sheep
+      Or smelt them, anyway.
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!
+      My woollies greasy gray,
+    An awful change has hit the range
+      Since that old poet's day.
+    For you're just silly, on'ry brutes
+      And I look like distress,
+    And my pipe ain't the kind that toots
+      And there's no "shepherdess."
+
+    Yet 'way down home in Kansas State,
+      Bliss Township, Section Five,
+    There's one that's promised me to wait,
+      The sweetest girl alive;
+    That's why I salt my wages down
+      And mend my clothes with strings,
+    While others blow their pay in town
+      For booze and other things.
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!
+      My Minnie, don't be sad;
+    Next year we'll lease that splendid piece
+      That corners on your dad.
+    We'll drive to "literary," dear,
+      The way we used to do
+    And turn my lonely workin' here
+      To happiness for you.
+
+    Suppose, down near that rattlers' den,
+      While I sit here and dream,
+    I'd spy a bunch of ugly men
+      And hear a woman scream.
+    Suppose I'd let my rifle shout
+      And drop the men in rows,
+    And then the woman should turn out--
+      My Minnie!--just suppose.
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh!
+      The tune would then be gay;
+    There is, I mind, a parson kind
+      Just forty miles away.
+    Why, Eden would come back again,
+      With sage and sheep corrals,
+    And I could swing a singin' pen
+      To write her "pastorals."
+
+    I pack a rifle on my arm
+      And jump at flies that buzz;
+    There's nothin' here to do me harm;
+      I sometimes wish there was.
+    If through that brush above the pool
+      A red should creep--and creep--
+    Wah! cut down on 'im!--Stop, you fool!
+      That's nothin' but a sheep.
+
+    A-a! ma-a! ba-a!--Hell!
+      Oh, sky and plain and bluff!
+    Unless my mail comes up the trail
+      I'm locoed, sure enough.
+    What's that?--a dust-whiff near the butte
+      Right where my last trail ran,
+    A movin' speck, a--wagon! Hoot!
+      Thank God! here comes a man.
+                  _Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+[3] Only such cowboys as are in desperate need of employment ever
+become sheep-herders.
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL
+
+
+    YES, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range,
+    Mighty queerish, too, I tell you,--sich a racket fer a change;
+    From a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps
+    To the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps.
+    Never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand
+    O' humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land
+    Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed.
+    Actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede.
+
+    Mighty curious to a rider comin' from the range, he feels
+    What you'd call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels;
+    Like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range
+    To another run o' grazin' where the brands it sees are strange.
+    Then I see a city herder, a policeman, don't you know,
+    Sort o' think he's got men spotted an' is 'bout to make a throw
+    Fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk
+    On the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock.
+
+    Yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say,
+    Fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay;
+    But I want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me
+    Isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree.
+    Every bone I got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if
+    I had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff
+    From a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,--
+    'Taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit.
+
+    I'm hankerin', I tell you, fer to hit the trail an' run
+    Like a crazy, locoed yearlin' from this big cloud-burst o' fun
+    Back toward the cattle ranches, where a feller's breath comes free
+    An' he wears the clothes that fits him, 'stead o' this slick toggery.
+    Where his home is in the saddle, an' the heavens is his roof,
+    An' his ever'day companions wears the hide an' cloven hoof,
+    Where the beller of the cattle is the only sound he hears,
+    An' he never thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers.
+                                       _Anonymous._
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD COWMAN
+
+
+    I RODE across a valley range
+    I hadn't seen for years.
+    The trail was all so spoilt and strange
+    It nearly fetched the tears.
+    I had to let ten fences down,--
+    (The fussy lanes ran wrong)
+    And each new line would make me frown
+    And hum a mournin' song.
+
+        Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
+        Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!
+        The nester brand is on the land;
+        I reckon I'll retire.
+        While progress toots her brassy horn
+        And makes her motor buzz,
+        I thank the Lord I wasn't born
+        No later than I wuz!
+
+    'Twas good to live when all the sod,
+    Without no fence nor fuss,
+    Belonged in partnership to God,
+    The Government and us.
+    With skyline bounds from east to west
+    And room to go and come,
+    I loved my fellowman the best
+    When he was scattered some.
+
+        Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
+        Close and closer cramps the wire!
+        There's hardly play to back away
+        And call a man a liar.
+        Their house has locks on every door;
+        Their land is in a crate.
+        There ain't the plains of God no more,
+        They're only real estate.
+
+    There's land where yet no ditchers dig
+    Nor cranks experiment;
+    It's only lovely, free and big
+    And isn't worth a cent.
+    I pray that them who come to spoil
+    May wait till I am dead
+    Before they foul that blessed soil
+    With fence and cabbage head.
+
+        Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
+        Far and farther crawls the wire!
+        To crowd and pinch another inch
+        Is all their heart's desire.
+        The world is over-stocked with men,
+        And some will see the day
+        When each must keep his little pen,
+        But I'll be far away.
+
+    When my old soul hunts range and rest
+    Beyond the last divide,
+    Just plant me in some stretch of West
+    That's sunny, lone and wide.
+    Let cattle rub my tombstone down
+    And coyotes mourn their kin,
+    Let hawses paw and tramp the moun',--
+    But don't you fence it in!
+
+        Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
+        And they pen the land with wire.
+        They figure fence and copper cents
+        Where we laughed round the fire.
+        Job cussed his birthday, night and morn
+        In his old land of Uz,
+        But I'm just glad I wasn't born
+        No later than I wuz!
+                     _Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE GILA MONSTER ROUTE
+
+
+    THE lingering sunset across the plain
+    Kissed the rear-end door of an east-bound train,
+    And shone on a passing track close by
+    Where a ding-bat sat on a rotting tie.
+
+    He was ditched by a shock and a cruel fate.
+    The con high-balled, and the manifest freight
+    Pulled out on the stem behind the mail,
+    And she hit the ball on a sanded rail.
+
+    As she pulled away in the falling light
+    He could see the gleam of her red tail-light.
+    Then the moon arose and the stars came out--
+    He was ditched on the Gila Monster Route.
+
+    Nothing in sight but sand and space;
+    No chance for a gink to feed his face;
+    Not even a shack to beg for a lump,
+    Or a hen-house to frisk for a single gump.
+
+    He gazed far out on the solitude;
+    He drooped his head and began to brood;
+    He thought of the time he lost his mate
+    In a hostile burg on the Nickle Plate.
+
+    They had mooched the stem and threw their feet,
+    And speared four-bits on which to eat;
+    But deprived themselves of daily bread
+    And shafted their coin for "dago red."
+
+    Down by the track in the jungle's glade,
+    In the cool green grass, in the tules' shade,
+    They shed their coats and ditched their shoes
+    And tanked up full of that colored booze.
+
+    Then they took a flop with their skins plumb full,
+    And they did not hear the harnessed bull,
+    Till he shook them out of their boozy nap,
+    With a husky voice and a loaded sap.
+
+    They were charged with "vag," for they had no kale,
+    And the judge said, "Sixty days in jail."
+    But the John had a bindle,--a worker's plea,--
+    So they gave him a floater and set him free.
+
+    They had turned him up, but ditched his mate,
+    So he grabbed the guts of an east-bound freight,
+    He flung his form on a rusty rod,
+    Till he heard the shack say, "Hit the sod!"
+
+    The John piled off, he was in the ditch,
+    With two switch lamps and a rusty switch,--
+    A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo
+    On a hostile pike, without a show.
+
+    From away off somewhere in the dark
+    Came the sharp, short notes of a coyote's bark.
+    The bo looked round and quickly rose
+    And shook the dust from his threadbare clothes.
+
+    Off in the west through the moonlit night
+    He saw the gleam of a big head-light--
+    An east-bound stock train hummed the rail;
+    She was due at the switch to clear the mail.
+
+    As she drew up close, the head-end shack
+    Threw the switch to the passenger track,
+    The stock rolled in and off the main,
+    And the line was clear for the west-bound train.
+
+    When she hove in sight far up the track,
+    She was workin' steam, with her brake shoes slack,
+    She hollered once at the whistle post,
+    Then she flitted by like a frightened ghost.
+
+    He could hear the roar of the big six-wheel,
+    And her driver's pound on the polished steel,
+    And the screech of her flanges on the rail
+    As she beat it west o'er the desert trail.
+
+    The John got busy and took the risk,
+    He climbed aboard and began to frisk,
+    He reached up high and began to feel
+    For the end-door pin--then he cracked the seal.
+
+    'Twas a double-decked stock-car, filled with sheep,
+    Old John crawled in and went to sleep.
+    She whistled twice and high-balled out,--
+    They were off, down the Gila Monster Route.
+                   _L. F. Post and Glenn Norton._
+
+
+
+
+THE CALL OF THE PLAINS
+
+
+    HO! wind of the far, far prairies!
+    Free as the waves of the sea!
+    Your voice is sweet as in alien street
+    The cry of a friend to me!
+    You bring me the breath of the prairies,
+    Known in the days that are sped,
+    The wild geese's cry and the blue, blue sky
+    And the sailing clouds o'er head!
+
+    My eyes are weary with longing
+    For a sight of the sage grass gray,
+    For the dazzling light of a noontide bright
+    And the joy of the open day!
+    Oh, to hear once more the clanking
+    Of the noisy cowboy's spur,
+    And the south wind's kiss like a mild caress
+    Making the grasses stir.
+
+    I dream of the wide, wide prairies
+    Touched with their glistening sheen,
+    The coyotes' cry and the wind-swept sky
+    And the waving billows of green!
+    And oh, for a night in the open
+    Where no sound discordant mars,
+    And the marvelous glow, when the sun is low,
+    And the silence under the stars!
+
+    Ho, wind from the western prairies!
+    Ho, voice from a far domain!
+    I feel in your breath what I'll feel till death,
+    The call of the plains again!
+    The call of the Spirit of Freedom
+    To the spirit of freedom in me;
+    My heart leaps high with a jubilant cry
+    And I answer in ecstasy!
+                            _Ethel MacDiarmid._
+
+
+
+
+WHERE THE GRIZZLY DWELLS[4]
+
+
+    I ADMIRE the artificial art of the East;
+    But I love more the inimitable art of the West,
+    Where nature's handiwork lies in virginal beauty.
+    Amidst the hum of city life
+    I saunter back to dreams of home.
+    Astride the back of my trusty steed
+    I wander away, losing myself
+    In the foothills of the Rockies.
+
+    Away from human habitations,
+    Up the rugged slopes,
+    Through the timbered stretches,
+    I hear the frightful cry of wolves
+    And see a bear sneaking up behind.
+
+    Many nights ago,
+    While herding a bunch of cattle
+    During the round-up season,
+    I lay upon the grass
+    Looking at the mated stars;
+    I wondered if a cowboy
+    Could go to the Unknown Place,
+    The Happy Hunting Ground,
+    When this short life is over.
+
+    But, here or there, I shall always live
+    In the land of mountain air
+    Where the grizzly dwells
+    And sage brush grows;
+    Where mountain trout are not a few;
+    In the land of the Bitterroot,--
+    The Indian land,--Land of the Golden West.
+                                   _James Fox._
+
+[4] Fox is a halfbreed Indian who sent me a lot of verse. Although he
+had never heard of Walt Whitman, these stanzas suggest that poet. The
+spelling and punctuation are mine.
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY TOAST
+
+
+    HERE'S to the passing cowboy, the plowman's pioneer;
+    His home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer;
+    Around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler's hide,
+    His bridle sporting conchos, his lasso at his side.
+    All day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars,
+    Kept vigil o'er thousands held by neither posts nor bars;
+    With never a diversion in all the lonesome land,
+    But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand.
+
+    Sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat;
+    And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat;
+    The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod
+    Some Texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod.
+    With lasso, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill;
+    They pass with him to history and naught their place can fill;
+    While he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page,--
+    But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage.
+
+    And oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies!
+    When lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes;
+    When raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart
+    Lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start.
+    That meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede,
+    When none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead;
+    Ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near,--
+    With cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere.
+
+    Then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure,
+    To the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e'er endure
+    From the Llano Estacado to Dakota's distant sands,
+    Where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands.
+    Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave,
+    And weave of Texas grasses a garland for his grave;
+    And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done
+    With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun.
+                              _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+RIDIN' UP THE ROCKY TRAIL FROM TOWN
+
+
+    "Billy Leamont rode out of the town--
+       _Close at his shoulder rode Jack Lorell--_
+    Over the leagues of the prairies brown,
+    Into the hills where the sun goes down--
+       _Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!_
+
+                  *     *     *
+
+    Billy Leamont looked down the dell--
+       _Dead below; him lay Jack Lorell--_
+    With his gun at his forehead he fired and fell,
+    Then rode they two through the streets of hell--
+       _Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!_"
+                    THE BALLAD OF BILLY LEAMONT.[5]
+
+
+    WE'RE the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men,
+    But we had to come to town to get the mail.
+    And we're ridin' home at daybreak--'cause the air is cooler then--
+    All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail.
+    Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin',
+    All our toilets show a touch of disarray,
+    For we found that City life is a constant round of strife
+    And we aint the breed for shyin' from a fray.
+
+    _Chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with
+        fear
+    And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'
+    For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror
+    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_
+
+    We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.
+    From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights.
+    We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed
+    And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites.
+    So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin'
+    'Twasn't long till we had got where talkin' ends,
+    And he et his ill-bred chat, with a sauce of derby hat,
+    While my merry pardners entertained his friends.
+
+    _Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news.
+    Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.
+    We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for
+        howlin'
+    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town._
+
+    Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves,
+    Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight,
+    Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law of six years' crop of calves
+    And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,
+    There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle
+    And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange.
+    And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds
+    Still is useful in the language of the range.
+
+    _Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,
+    For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.
+    We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation--
+    Ee-Yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_
+
+[5] This fragment is not included in Mr. Clark's poem.
+
+
+
+
+THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT
+
+
+    HE reached the West in a palace car where the writers tell us the
+        cowboys are,
+    With the redskin bold and the centipede and the rattlesnake and the
+        loco weed.
+    He looked around for the Buckskin Joes and the things he'd seen in
+        the Wild West shows--
+    The cowgirls gay and the bronchos wild and the painted face of the
+        Injun child.
+    He listened close for the fierce war-whoop, and his pent-up spirits
+        began to droop,
+    And he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of the sights
+        of the story books.
+
+    He'd hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold bad man with a
+        pistol shot,
+    And entered a low saloon by chance, where the tenderfoot is supposed
+        to dance
+    While the cowboy shoots at his bootheels there and the smoke of powder
+        begrims the air,
+    But all was quiet as if he'd strayed to that silent spot where the
+        dead are laid.
+    Not even a faro game was seen, and none flaunted the long, long green.
+    'Twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch of the real
+        wild woolly West.
+
+    He vainly sought for a bad cayuse and the swirl and swish of the
+        flying noose,
+    And the cowboy's yell as he roped a steer, but nothing of this fell
+        on his ear.
+    Not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flourished on every
+        side,
+    And the spurs and the "chaps" and the flannel shirts, the high-heeled
+        boots and the guns and the quirts,
+    The cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and swell outfits
+    He'd read about in the novels grim, were not on hand for the likes of
+        him.
+
+    He peered about for a stagecoach old, and a miner-man with a bag of
+        gold,
+    And a burro train with its pack-loads which he'd read they tie with
+        the diamond hitch.
+    The rattler's whir and the coyote's wail ne'er sounded out as he hit
+        the trail;
+    And no one knew of a branding bee or a steer roundup that he longed to
+        see.
+    But the oldest settler named Six-Gun Sim rolled a cigarette and
+        remarked to him:
+    "The West hez gone to the East, my son, and it's only in tents sich
+        things is done."
+                           _E. A. Brinninstool._
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY ALONE WITH HIS CONSCIENCE
+
+
+    WHEN I ride into the mountains on my little broncho bird,
+    Whar my ears are never pelted with the bawlin' o' the herd,
+    An' a sort o' dreamy quiet hangs upon the western air,
+    An' thar ain't no animation to be noticed anywhere;
+    Then I sort o' feel oneasy, git a notion in my head
+    I'm the only livin' mortal--everybody else is dead--
+    An' I feel a queer sensation, rather skeery like, an' odd,
+      When thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' God.
+
+    Every rabbit that I startle from its shaded restin' place,
+    Seems a furry shaft o' silence shootin' into noiseless space,
+    An' a rattlesnake a crawlin' through the rocks so old an' gray
+    Helps along the ghostly feelin' in a rather startlin' way.
+    Every breeze that dares to whisper does it with a bated breath,
+    Every bush stands grim an' silent in a sort o' livin' death--
+    Tell you what, a feller's feelin's give him many an icy prod,
+      When thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' God.
+
+    Somehow allus git to thinkin' o' the error o' my ways,
+    An' my memory goes wingin' back to childhood's happy days,
+    When a mother, now a restin' in the grave so dark an' deep,
+    Used to listen while I'd whisper, "Now I lay me down to sleep."
+    Then a sort o' guilty feelin' gits a surgin' in my breast,
+    An' I wonder how I'll stack up at the final judgment test,
+    Conscience allus welts it to me with a mighty cuttin' rod,
+      When thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' God.
+
+    Take the very meanest sinner that the nation ever saw,
+    One that don't respect religion more'n he respects the law,
+    One that never does an action that's commendable or good,
+    An' immerse him fur a season out in Nature's solitude,
+    An' the cog-wheels o' his conscience 'll be rattled out o' gear,
+    More'n if he 'tended preachin' every Sunday in the year,
+    Fur his sins 'ill come a ridin' through his cranium rough shod,
+      When thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' God.
+                          _James Barton Adams._
+
+
+
+
+JUST A-RIDIN'!
+
+
+    OH, for me a horse and saddle
+    Every day without a change;
+    With the desert sun a-blazin'
+    On a hundred miles o' range,
+
+        Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
+        Desert ripplin' in the sun,
+        Mountains blue along the skyline,--
+        I don't envy anyone.
+
+    When my feet are in the stirrups
+    And my horse is on the bust;
+    When his hoofs are flashin' lightnin'
+    From a golden cloud o' dust;
+    And the bawlin' of the cattle
+    Is a-comin' down the wind,--
+    Oh, a finer life than ridin'
+    Would be mighty hard to find,
+
+        Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
+        Splittin' long cracks in the air,
+        Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,
+        Rootin' up the prickly pear.
+
+    I don't need no art exhibits
+    When the sunset does his best,
+    Paintin' everlastin' glories
+    On the mountains of the west.
+    And your operas look foolish
+    When the night bird starts his tune
+    And the desert's silver-mounted
+    By the kisses of the moon,
+
+        Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
+        I don't envy kings nor czars
+        When the coyotes down the valley
+        Are a-singin' to the stars.
+
+    When my earthly trail is ended
+    And my final bacon curled,
+    And the last great round up's finished
+    At the Home Ranch of the world,
+    I don't want no harps or haloes,
+    Robes or other dress-up things,--
+    Let me ride the starry ranges
+    On a pinto horse with wings,
+
+        Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
+        Splittin' chunks o' wintry air,
+        With your feet froze to your stirrups
+        And a snowdrift in your hair.
+        _(As sent by Elwood Adams, a Colorado
+          cowpuncher.) See "Sun and Saddle
+          Leather," by Charles Badger Clark, Jr._
+
+
+
+
+THE END OF THE TRAIL
+
+
+    SOH, Bossie, soh!
+    The water's handy heah,
+    The grass is plenty neah,
+    An' all the stars a-sparkle
+    Bekaze we drive no mo'--
+    We drive no mo'.
+
+    The long trail ends today,--
+    The long trail ends today,
+    The punchers go to play
+    And all you weary cattle
+    May sleep in peace for sure,--
+    May sleep in peace for sure,--
+    Sleep, sleep for sure.
+
+    The moon can't bite you heah,
+    Nor punchers fright you heah.
+    An' you-all will be beef befo'
+    We need you any mo',--
+    We need you any mo'!
+             _From Pocock's "Curley."_
+
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+
+
+  +---------------------------------------------------------------------+
+  |                                                                     |
+  | Transcriber's notes: Obvious spelling/typographical and             |
+  | punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison     |
+  | with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external |
+  | sources.                                                            |
+  | Inconsistent spelling and inline hyphenation occurs across poems    |
+  | and songs and is retained.                                          |
+  | Introduction: original shows "Travelling" printed across a line     |
+  |   break.                                                            |
+  | Page 9: "Adios" appears once, "Adios" elsewhere.                    |
+  | Page 68: "good-bye" appears once, "goodbye" elsewhere.              |
+  | Page 90: "sage-brush" appears once, "sagebrush" elsewhere.          |
+  | Page 115: original illegible. "You" in the author's transcription   |
+  |   of the song in John Avery Lomax, Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier  |
+  |   Ballads, 338, (Macmillan 1918),                                   |
+  |   http://www.archive.org/details/cowboysongsother00lomarich         |
+  |   (accessed March 29, 2007).                                        |
+  | Page 139: "hang-man" hyphenation retained.                          |
+  | Page 183: "roundup" appears once, "round-up" elsewhere.             |
+  |                                                                     |
+  +---------------------------------------------------------------------+
+
+
+
+
+
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