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diff --git a/21723.txt b/21723.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ccb2a33 --- /dev/null +++ b/21723.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4986 @@ +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. | + | | + +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + + + +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.txt or 21723.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/7/2/21723/ + +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.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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