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Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads
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A COW CAMP ON THE RANGE
Oh, the prairie dogs are screaming,And the birds are on the wing,See the heel fly chase the heifer, boys!'Tis the first class sign of spring.The elm wood is budding,The earth is turning green.See the pretty things of natureThat make life a pleasant dream!I'm just living through the winterTo enjoy the coming change,For there is no place so homelikeAs a cow camp on the range.The boss is smiling radiant,Radiant as the setting sun;For he knows he's stealing glories,For he ain't a-cussin' none.The cook is at the chuck-boxWhistling "Heifers in the Green,"Making baking powder biscuits, boys,While the pot is biling beans.The boys untie their beddingAnd unroll it on the run,For they are in a monstrous hurryFor the supper's almost done."Here's your bloody wolf bait,"Cried the cook's familiar voiceAs he climbed the wagon wheelTo watch the cowboys all rejoice.Then all thoughts were turned from reverenceTo a plate of beef and beans,As we graze on beef and biscuitsLike yearlings on the range.To the dickens with your cityWhere they herd the brainless brats,On a range so badly crowdedThere ain't room to cuss the cat.This life is not so sumptuous,I'm not longing for a change,For there is no place so homelikeAs a cow camp on the range.FRECKLES. A FRAGMENT
He was little an' peaked an' thin, an' narry a no account horse,—Least that's the way you'd describe him in case that the beast had been lost;But, for single and double cussedness an' for double fired sin,The horse never came out o' Texas that was half-way knee-high to him!The first time that ever I saw him was nineteen years ago last spring;'Twas the year we had grasshoppers, that come an' et up everything,That a feller rode up here one evenin' an' wanted to pen over nightA small bunch of horses, he said; an' I told him I guessed 'twas all right.Well, the feller was busted, the horses was thin, an' the grass round here kind of good,An' he said if I'd let him hold here a few days he'd settle with me when he could.So I told him all right, turn them loose down the draw, that the latch string was always untied,He was welcome to stop a few days if he wished and rest from his weary ride.Well, the cuss stayed around for two or three weeks, till at last he was ready to go;And that cuss out yonder bein' too poor to move, he gimme,—the cuss had no dough.Well, at first the darn brute was as wild as a deer, an' would snort when he came to the branch,An' it took two cow punchers, on good horses, too, to handle him here at the ranch.Well, the winter came on an' the range it got hard, an' my mustang commenced to get thin,So I fed him some an' rode him around, an' found out old Freckles was game.For that was what the other cuss called him,—just Freckles, no more or no less,—His color,—couldn't describe it,—something like a paint shop in distress.Them was Indian times, young feller, that I am telling about;An' oft's the time I've seen the red man fight an' put the boys to rout.A good horse in them days, young feller, would save your life,—One that in any race could hold the pace when the red-skin bands were rife.WHOSE OLD COW?
'Twas the end of round-up, the last day of June,Or maybe July, I don't remember,Or it might have been August, 'twas some time ago,Or perhaps 'twas the first of September.Anyhow, 'twas the round-up we had at MayouOn the Lightning Rod's range, near Cayo;There were some twenty wagons, more or less, camped aboutOn the temporal in the cañon.First night we'd no cattle, so we only stood guardOn the horses, somewhere near two hundred head;So we side-lined and hoppled, we belled and we staked,Loosed our hot-rolls and fell into bed.Next morning 'bout day break we started our work,Our horses, like 'possums, felt fine.Each one "tendin' knittin'," none tryin' to shirk!So the round-up got on in good time.Well, we worked for a week till the country was cleanAnd the bosses said, "Now, boys, we'll stay here.We'll carve and we'll trim 'em and start out a herdUp the east trail from old Abilene."Next morning all on herd, and but two with the cut,And the boss on Piute, carving fine,Till he rode down his horse and had to pull out,And a new man went in to clean up.Well, after each outfit had worked on the bandThere was only three head of them left;When Nig Add from L F D outfit rode in,—A dictionary on earmarks and brands.He cut the two head out, told where they belonged;But when the last cow stood there aloneAdd's eyes bulged so he didn't know just what to say,'Ceptin', "Boss, dere's something here monstrous wrong!"White folks smarter'n Add, and maybe I'se wrong;But here's six months' wages dat I'll giveIf anyone'll tell me when I reads dis markTo who dis longhorned cow belong!"Overslope in right ear an' de underbill,Lef' ear swaller fork an' de undercrop,Hole punched in center, an' de jinglebobUnder half crop, an' de slash an' split."She's got O Block an' Lightnin' Rod,Nine Forty-Six an' A Bar Eleven,T Terrapin an' Ninety-Seven,Rafter Cross an' de Double Prod."Half circle A an' Diamond D,Four Cross L and Three P Z,B W I bar, X V V,Bar N cross an' A L C."So, if none o' you punchers claims dis cow,Mr. Stock 'Sociation needn't git 'larmed;For one more brand more or less won't do no harm,So old Nigger Add'l just brand her now."OLD TIME COWBOY
Come all you melancholy folks wherever you may be,I'll sing you about the cowboy whose life is light and free.He roams about the prairie, and, at night when he lies down,His heart is as gay as the flowers in May in his bed upon the ground.They're a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them, at least;But if you do not hunt a quarrel you can live with them in peace;For if you do, you're sure to rue the day you joined their band.They will follow you up and shoot it out with you just man to man.Did you ever go to a cowboy whenever hungry and dry,Asking for a dollar, and have him you deny?He'll just pull out his pocket book and hand you a note,—They are the fellows to help you whenever you are broke.Go to their ranches and stay a while, they never ask a cent;And when they go to town, their money is freely spent.They walk straight up and take a drink, paying for every one,And they never ask your pardon for anything they've done.When they go to their dances, some dance while others patThey ride their bucking bronchos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats;With their California saddles, and their pants stuck in their boots,You can hear their spurs a-jingling, and perhaps some of them shoots.Come all soft-hearted tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun;Go live among the cowboys, they'll show you how it's done.They'll treat you like a prince, my boys, about them there's nothing mean;But don't try to give them too much advice, for all of them ain't green.BUCKING BRONCHO
My love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks,Though he's promised to quit it, just for my sake.He ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,With a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.The first time I met him, 'twas early one spring,Riding a broncho, a high-headed thing.He tipped me a wink as he gaily did go;For he wished me to look at his bucking broncho.The next time I saw him 'twas late in the fall,Swinging the girls at Tomlinson's ball.He laughed and he talked as we danced to and fro,Promised never to ride on another broncho.He made me some presents, among them a ring;The return that I made him was a far better thing;'Twas a young maiden's heart, I'd have you all know;He's won it by riding his bucking broncho.My love has a gun, and that gun he can use,But he's quit his gun fighting as well as his booze;And he's sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope,And there's no more cow punching, and that's what I hope.My love has a gun that has gone to the bad,Which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad;For the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low,And it wobbles about like a bucking broncho.Now all you young maidens, where'er you reside,Beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide;He'll court you and pet you and leave you and goIn the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho.THE PECOS QUEEN
Where the Pecos River winds and turns in its journey to the sea,From its white walls of sand and rock striving ever to be free,Near the highest railroad bridge that all these modern times have seen,Dwells fair young Patty Morehead, the Pecos River queen.She is known by every cowboy on the Pecos River wide,They know full well that she can shoot, that she can rope and ride.She goes to every round-up, every cow work without fail,Looking out for her cattle, branded "walking hog on rail."She made her start in cattle, yes, made it with her rope;Can tie down every maverick before it can strike a lope.She can rope and tie and brand it as quick as any man;She's voted by all cowboys an A-1 top cow hand.Across the Comstock railroad bridge, the highest in the West,Patty rode her horse one day, a lover's heart to test;For he told her he would gladly risk all dangers for her sake—But the puncher wouldn't follow, so she's still without a mate.CHOPO
Through rocky arroyas so dark and so deep,Down the sides of the mountains so slippery and steep,—You've good judgment, sure-footed, wherever you go,You're a safety conveyance, my little Chopo.Refrain:—Chopo, my pony, Chopo, my pride,Chopo, my amigo, Chopo I will ride.From Mexico's borders 'cross Texas' LlanoTo the salt Pecos River, I ride you, Chopo.Whether single or double or in the lead of the team,Over highways or byways or crossing a stream,—You're always in fix and willing to go,Whenever you're called on, my chico Chopo.You're a good roping horse, you were never jerked down,When tied to a steer, you will circle him round;Let him once cross the string and over he'll go,—You sabe the business, my cow-horse, Chopo.One day on the Llano a hailstorm began,The herds were stampeded, the horses all ran,The lightning it glittered, a cyclone did blow,But you faced the sweet music, my little Chopo.TOP HAND
While you're all so frisky I'll sing a little song,—Think a little horn of whiskey will help the thing along?It's all about the Top Hand, when he busted flatBummin' round the town, in his Mexican hat.He's laid up all winter, and his pocket book is flat,His clothes are all tatters, but he don't mind that.See him in town with a crowd that he knows,Rollin' cigarettes and smokin' through his nose.First thing he tells you, he owns a certain brand,—Leads you to think he is a daisy hand;Next thing he tells you 'bout his trip up the trail,All the way to Kansas, to finish out his tale.Put him on a hoss, he's a handy hand to work;Put him in the brandin'-pen, he's dead sure to shirk.With his natural leaf tobacco in the pockets of his vestHe'll tell you his California pants are the best.He's handled lots of cattle, hasn't any fears,Can draw his sixty dollars for the balance of his years.Put him on herd, he's a-cussin' all day;Anything he tries, it's sure to get away.When you have a round-up, he tells it all aboutHe's goin' to do the cuttin' an' you can't keep him out.If anything goes wrong, he lays it on the screws,Says the lazy devils were tryin' to take a snooze.When he meets a greener he ain't afraid to rig,Stands him on a chuck box and makes him dance a jig,—Waves a loaded cutter, makes him sing and shout,—He's a regular Ben Thompson when the boss ain't about.When the boss ain't about he leaves his leggins in camp,He swears a man who wears them is worse than a tramp.Says he's not carin' for the wages he earns,For Dad's rich in Texas,—got wagon loads to burn;But when he goes to town, he's sure to take it in,He's always been dreaded wherever he's been.He rides a fancy horse, he's a favorite man,Can get more credit than a common waddie can.When you ship the cattle he's bound to go alongTo keep the boss from drinking and see that nothing's wrong.Wherever he goes, catch on to his name,He likes to be called with a handle to his name.He's always primping with a pocket looking-glass,From the top to the bottom he's a bold Jackass.CALIFORNIA TRAIL
List all you California boysAnd open wide your ears,For now we start across the plainsWith a herd of mules and steers.Now, bear in mind before you start,That you'll eat jerked beef, not ham,And antelope steak, Oh cuss the stuff!It often proves a sham.You cannot find a stick of woodOn all this prairie wide;Whene'er you eat you've got to standOr sit on some old bull hide.It's fun to cook with buffalo chipsOr mesquite, green as corn,—If I'd once known what I know nowI'd have gone around Cape Horn.The women have the hardest timeWho emigrate by land;For when they cook out in the windThey're sure to burn their hand.Then they scold their husbands round,Get mad and spill the tea,—I'd have thanked my stars if they'd not come outUpon this bleak prairie.Most every night we put out guardsTo keep the Indians off.When night comes round some heads will ache,And some begin to cough.To be deprived of help at night,You know is mighty hard,But every night there's someone sickTo keep from standing guard.Then they're always talking of what they've got,And what they're going to do;Some will say they're content,For I've got as much as you.Others will say, "I'll buy or sell,I'm damned if I care which."Others will say, "Boys, buy him out,For he doesn't own a stitch."Old raw-hide shoes are hell on cornsWhile tramping through the sands,And driving jackass by the tail,—Damn the overland!I would as leaf be on a raft at seaAnd there at once be lost.John, let's leave the poor old mule,We'll never get him across!BRONC PEELER'S SONG
I've been upon the prairie,I've been upon the plain,I've never rid a steam-boat,Nor a double-cinched-up train.But I've driv my eight-up to wagonThat were locked three in a row,And that through blindin' sand storms,And all kinds of wind and snow.Cho:—Goodbye, Liza, poor gal,Goodbye, Liza Jane,Goodbye, Liza, poor gal,She died on the plain.There never was a place I've beenHad any kind of wood.We burn the roots of bar-grassAnd think it's very good.I've never tasted home bread,Nor cakes, nor muss like that;But I know fried dough and beefPulled from red-hot tallow fat.I hate to see the wire fenceA-closin' up the range;And all this fillin' in the trailWith people that is strange.We fellers don't know how to plow,Nor reap the golden grain;But to round up steers and brand the cowsTo us was allus plain.So when this blasted countryIs all closed in with wire,And all the top, as trot grass,Is burnin' in Sol's fire,I hope the settlers will be gladWhen rain hits the land.And all us cowdogs are in hellWith a "set"9 joined hand in hand.A DEER HUNT
One pleasant summer day it came a storm of snow;I picked my old gun and a-hunting I did go.I came across a herd of deer and I trailed them through the snow,I trailed them to the mountains where straight up they did go.I trailed them o'er the mountains, I trailed them to the brim,And I trailed them to the waters where they jumped in to swim.I cocked both my pistols and under water went,—To kill the fattest of them deer, that was my whole intent.While I was under water five hundred feet or moreI fired both my pistols; like cannons did they roar.I picked up my venison and out of water came,—To kill the balance of them deer, I thought it would be fun.So I bent my gun in circles and fired round a hill.And, out of three or four deer, ten thousand I did kill.Then I picked up my venison and on my back I tiedAnd as the sun came passing by I hopped up there to ride.The sun she carried me o'er the globe, so merrily I did roamThat in four and twenty hours I landed safe at home.And the money I received for my venison and skin,I taken it all to the barn door and it would not all go in.And if you doubt the truth of this I tell you how to know:Just take my trail and go my rounds, as I did, long ago.WINDY BILL
Windy Bill was a Texas man,—Well, he could rope, you bet.He swore the steer he couldn't tie,—Well, he hadn't found him yet.But the boys they knew of an old black steer,A sort of an old outlawThat ran down in the malpaisAt the foot of a rocky draw.This old black steer had stood his groundWith punchers from everywhere;So they bet old Bill at two to oneThat he couldn't quite get there.Then Bill brought out his old gray hoss,His withers and back were raw,And prepared to tackle the big black bruteThat ran down in the draw.With his brazen bit and his Sam Stack treeHis chaps and taps to boot,And his old maguey tied hard and fast,Bill swore he'd get the brute.Now, first Bill sort of sauntered roundOld Blackie began to paw,Then threw his tail straight in the airAnd went driftin' down the draw.The old gray plug flew after him,For he'd been eatin' corn;And Bill, he piled his old magueyRight round old Blackie's horns.The old gray hoss he stopped right still;The cinches broke like straw,And the old maguey and the Sam Stack treeWent driftin' down the draw.Bill, he lit in a flint rock pile,His face and hands were scratched.He said he thought he could rope a snakeBut he guessed he'd met his match.He paid his bets like a little manWithout a bit of jaw,And lowed old Blackie was the bossOf anything in the draw.There's a moral to my story, boys,And that you all must see.Whenever you go to tie a snake,10Don't tie it to your tree;But take your dolly welters11'Cordin' to California law,And you'll never see your old rim-fire12Go drifting down the draw.WILD ROVERS
Come all you wild roversAnd listen to meWhile I retail to youMy sad history.I'm a man of experienceYour favors to gain,Oh, love has been the ruinOf many a poor man.When you are singleAnd living at your easeYou can roam this world overAnd do as you please;You can roam this world overAnd go where you willAnd slyly kiss a pretty girlAnd be your own still.But when you are marriedAnd living with your wife,You've lost all the joysAnd comforts of life.Your wife she will scold you,Your children will cry,And that will make papaLook withered and dry.You can't step aside, boys,To speak to a friendWithout your wife at your elbowSaying, "What does this mean?"Your wife, she will scoldAnd there is sad news.Dear boys, take warning;'Tis a life to refuse.If you chance to be ridingAlong the highwayAnd meet a fair maiden,A lady so gay,With red, rosy cheeksAnd sparkling blue eyes,—Oh, heavens! what a tumultIn your bosom will rise!One more request, boys,Before we must part:Don't place your affectionsOn a charming sweetheart;She'll dance before youYour favors to gain.Oh, turn your back on themWith scorn and disdain!Come close to the bar, boys,We'll drink all around.We'll drink to the pure,If any be found;We'll drink to the single,For I wish them success;Likewise to the married,For I wish them no less.LIFE IN A HALF-BREED SHACK
'Tis life in a half-breed shack,The rain comes pouring down;"Drip" drops the mud through the roof,And the wind comes through the wall.A tenderfoot cursed his luckAnd feebly cried out "yah!"Refrain:Yah! Yah! I want to go home to my ma!Yah! Yah! this bloomin' country's a fraud!Yah! Yah! I want to go home to my ma!He tries to kindle a fireWhen it's forty-five below;He aims to chop at a logAnd amputates his toe;He hobbles back to the shackAnd feebly cries out "yah"!He gets on a bucking cayuseAnd thinks to flourish around,But the buzzard-head takes to buckingAnd lays him flat out on the ground.As he picks himself up with a curse,He feebly cries out "yah"!He buys all the town lots he can getIn the wrong end of Calgary,And he waits and he waits for the boomUntil he's dead broke like me.He couldn't get any tickSo he feebly cries out "yah"!He couldn't do any workAnd he wouldn't know how if he could;So the police run him for a vagAnd set him to bucking wood.As he sits in the guard room cell,He feebly cries out "yah"!Come all ye tenderfeetAnd listen to what I say,If you can't get a government jobYou had better remain where you be.Then you won't curse your luckAnd cry out feebly "yah"!THE ROAD TO COOK'S PEAK
If you'll listen a while I'll sing you a song,And as it is short it won't take me long.There are some things of which I will speakConcerning the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—Concerning the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.It was in the morning at eight-forty-five,I was hooking up all ready to driveOut where the miners for minerals seek,With two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak—On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—With two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.With my two little mules I jog alongAnd try to cheer them with ditty and song;O'er the wide prairie where coyotes sneak,While driving the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—While driving the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.Sometimes I have to haul heavy freight,Then it is I get home very late.In rain or shine, six days in the week,'Tis the same little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—'Tis the same little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.And when with the driving of stage I am throughI will to my two little mules bid adieu.And hope that those creatures, so gentle and meek,Will have a good friend on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—Will have a good friend on the road to Cook's Peak.Now all kind friends that travel about,Come take a trip on the Wallis stage route.With a plenty of grit, they never get weak,—Those two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.On the road to Cook's Peak,—On the road to Cook's Peak,—Those two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.ARAPHOE, OR BUCKSKIN JOE
'Twas a calm and peaceful evening in a camp called Araphoe,And the whiskey was a running with a soft and gentle flow,The music was a-ringing in a dance hall cross the way,And the dancers was a-swinging just as close as they could lay.People gathered round the tables, a-betting with their wealth,And near by stood a stranger who had come there for his health.He was a peaceful little stranger though he seemed to be unstrung;For just before he'd left his home he'd separated with one lung.Nearby at a table sat a man named Hankey Dean,A tougher man says Hankey, buckskin chaps had never seen.But Hankey was a gambler and he was plum sure to lose;For he had just departed with a sun-dried stack of blues.He rose from the table, on the floor his last chip flung,And cast his fiery glimmers on the man with just one lung."No wonder I've been losing every bet I made tonightWhen a sucker and a tenderfoot was between me and the light.Look here, little stranger, do you know who I am?""Yes, and I don't care a copper colored damn."The dealers stopped their dealing and the players held their breath;For words like those to Hankey were a sudden flirt with death."Listen, gentle stranger, I'll read my pedigree:I'm known on handling tenderfeet and worser men than thee;The lions on the mountains, I've drove them to their lairs;The wild-cats are my playmates, and I've wrestled grizzly bears;"Why, the centipedes can't mar my tough old hide,And rattle snakes have bit me and crawled off and died.I'm as wild as the horse that roams the range;The moss grows on my teeth and wild blood flows through my veins."I'm wild and woolly and full of fleasAnd never curried below the knees.Now, little stranger, if you'll give me your address,—How would you like to go, by fast mail or express?"The little stranger who was leaning on the doorPicked up a hand of playing cards that were scattered on the floor.Picking out the five of spades, he pinned it to the doorAnd then stepped back some twenty paces or more.He pulled out his life-preserver, and with a "one, two, three, four,"Blotted out a spot with every shot;For he had traveled with a circus and was a fancy pistol shot."I have one more left, kind sir, if you wish to call the play."Then Hanke stepped up to the stranger and made a neat apology,"Why, the lions in the mountains,—that was nothing but a joke.Never mind about the extra, you are a bad shooting man,And I'm a meek little child and as harmless as a lamb."ROUNDED UP IN GLORY
I have been thinking to-day,As my thoughts began to stray,Of your memory to me worth more than gold.As you ride across the plain,'Mid the sunshine and the rain,—You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye.Chorus:You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye,You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye,When the milling time is o'erAnd you will stampede no more,When he rounds you up within the Master's fold.As you ride across the plainWith the cowboys that have fame,And the storms and the lightning flash by.We shall meet to part no moreUpon the golden shoreWhen he rounds us up in glory bye and bye.May we lift our voices highTo that sweet bye and bye,And be known by the brand of the Lord;For his property we are,And he will know us from afarWhen he rounds us up in glory bye and bye.
