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Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads
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THE DRUNKARD'S HELL
It was on a cold and stormy nightI saw and heard an awful sight;The lightning flashed and thunder rolledAround my poor benighted soul.I thought I heard a mournful soundAmong the groans still lower down,That awful sight no tongue can tellIs this,—the place called Drunkard's Hell.I thought I saw the gulf belowWhere all the dying drunkards go.I raised my hand and sad to tellIt was the place called Drunkard's Hell.I traveled on and got there at lastAnd started to take a social glass;But every time I started,—well,I thought about the Drunkard's Hell.I dashed it down to leave that placeAnd started to seek redeeming grace.I felt like Paul, at once I'd prayTill all my sins were washed away.I then went home to change my lifeAnd see my long neglected wife.I found her weeping o'er the bedBecause her infant babe was dead.I told her not to mourn and weepBecause her babe had gone to sleep;Its happy soul had fled awayTo dwell with Christ till endless day.I taken her by her pale white hand,She was so weak she could not stand;I laid her down and breathed a prayerThat God might bless and save her there.I then went to the Temperance hallAnd taken a pledge among them all.They taken me in with a willing handAnd taken me in as a temperance man.So seven long years have passed awaySince first I bowed my knees to pray;So now I live a sober lifeWith a happy home and a loving wife.RAMBLING BOY
I am a wild and roving lad,A wild and rambling lad I'll be;For I do love a little girlAnd she does love me."O Willie, O Willie, I love you so,I love you more than I do know;And if my tongue could tell you soI'd give the world to let you know."When Julia's old father came this to know,—That Julia and Willie were loving so,—He ripped and swore among them all,And swore he'd use a cannon ball.She wrote Willie a letter with her right handAnd sent it to him in the western land."Oh, read these lines, sweet William dear.For this is the last of me you will hear."He read those lines while he wept and cried,"Ten thousand times I wish I had died",He read those lines while he wept and said,"Ten thousand times I wish I were dead."When her old father came home that nightHe called for Julia, his heart's delight,He ran up stairs and her door he brokeAnd found her hanging by her own bed rope.And with his knife he cut her down,And in her bosom this note he foundSaying, "Dig my grave both deep and wideAnd bury sweet Willie by my side."They dug her grave both deep and wideAnd buried sweet Willie by her side;And on her grave set a turtle doveTo show the world they died for love.BRIGHAM YOUNG. I
I'll sing you a song that has often been sungAbout an old Mormon they called Brigham Young.Of wives he had many who were strong in the lungs,Which Brigham found out by the length of their tongues.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.Oh, sad was the life of a Mormon to lead,Yet Brigham adhered all his life to his creed.He said 'twas such fun, and true, without doubt,To see the young wives knock the old ones about.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.One day as old Brigham sat down to his dinnerHe saw a young wife who was not getting thinner;When the elders cried out, one after the other,By the holy, she wants to go home to her mother.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.Old Brigham replied, which can't be denied,He couldn't afford to lose such a bride.Then do not be jealous but banish your fears;For the tree is well known by the fruit that it bears.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.That I love one and all you very well know,Then do not provoke me or my anger will show.What must be our fate if found here in a row,If Uncle Sam comes with his row-de-dow-dow.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.Then cease all your quarrels and do not despair,To meet Uncle Sam I will quickly prepare.Hark! I hear Yankee Doodle played over the hills!Ah! here's the enemy with their powder and pills.Ri tu ral, lol, lu ral.BRIGHAM YOUNG. II
Now Brigham Young is a Mormon bold,And a leader of the roaring rams,And shepherd of a lot of fine tub sheepAnd a lot of pretty little lambs.Oh, he lives with his five and forty wives,In the city of the Great Salt Lake,Where they breed and swarm like hens on a farmAnd cackle like ducks to a drake.Chorus:—Oh Brigham, Brigham Young,It's a miracle how you survive,With your roaring rams and your pretty little lambsAnd your five and forty wives.Number forty-five is about sixteen,Number one is sixty and three;And they make such a riot, how he keeps them quietIs a downright mystery to me.For they clatter and they chaw and they jaw, jaw, jaw,And each has a different desire;It would aid the renown of the best shop in townTo supply them with half they desire.Now, Brigham Young was a stout man once,And now he is thin and old;And I am sorry to state he is bald on the pate,Which once had a covering of gold.For his oldest wives won't have white wool,And his young ones won't have red,So, with tearing it out, and taking turn about,They have torn all the hair off his head.Now, the oldest wives sing songs all day,And the young ones all sing songs;And amongst such a crowd he has it pretty loud,—They're as noisy as Chinese gongs.And when they advance for a Mormon danceHe is filled with the direst alarms;For they are sure to end the night in a tabernacle fightTo see who has the fairest charms.Now, if any man here envies Brigham YoungLet him go to the Great Salt Lake;And if he has the leisure to enjoy his pleasure,He'll find it a great mistake.One wife at a time, so says my rhyme,Is enough,—there's no denial;—So, before you strive to be lord of forty-five,Take two for a month on trial.THE OLD GRAY MULE
I am an old man some sixty years oldAnd that you can plain-li see,But when I was a young man ten years oldThey made a stable boy of me.I have seen the fastest horsesThat made the fastest time,But I never saw one in all my lifeLike that old gray mule of mine.On a Sunday morn I dress myself,A-goin' out to ride;Now, my old mule is as gray as a bird,Then he is full of his pride.He never runs away with you,Never cuts up any shine;For the only friend I have on earthIs this old gray mule of mine.Now my old gray mule is dead and gone,Gone to join the heavenly band,With silver shoes upon his feetTo dance on the golden strand.THE FOOLS OF FORTY-NINE
When gold was found in forty-eight the people thought 'twas gas,And some were fools enough to think the lumps were only brass.But soon they all were satisfied and started off to mine;They bought their ships, came round the Horn, in the days of forty-nine.Refrain:Then they thought of what they'd been toldWhen they started after gold,—That they never in the world would make a pile.The people all were crazy then, they didn't know what to do.They sold their farms for just enough to pay their passage through.They bid their friends a long farewell, said, "Dear wife, don't you cry,I'll send you home the yellow lumps a piano for to buy."The poor, the old, and the rotten scows were advertised to sailFrom New Orleans with passengers, but they must pump and bail.The ships were crowded more than full, and some hung on behind,And others dived off from the wharf and swam till they were blind.With rusty pork and stinking beef and rotten, wormy bread!The captains, too, that never were up as high as the main mast head!The steerage passengers would rave and swear that they'd paid their passageAnd wanted something more to eat beside bologna sausage.They then began to cross the plain with oxen, hollowing "haw."And steamers then began to run as far as Panama.And there for months the people staid, that started after gold,And some returned disgusted with the lies that had been told.The people died on every route, they sickened and died like sheep;And those at sea before they died were launched into the deep;And those that died while crossing the plains fared not so well as that,For a hole was dug and they thrown in along the miserable Platte.The ships at last began to arrive and the people began to inquire.They say that flour is a dollar a pound, do you think it will be any higher?And to carry their blankets and sleep outdoors, it seemed so very droll!Both tired and mad, without a cent, they damned the lousy hole.A RIPPING TRIP13
You go aboard a leaky boatAnd sail for San Francisco,You've got to pump to keep her afloat,You've got that, by jingo!The engine soon begins to squeak,But nary a thing to oil her;Impossible to stop the leak,—Rip, goes the boiler.The captain on the promenadeLooking very savage;Steward and the cabin maidFightin' 'bout the cabbage;All about the cabin floorPassengers lie sea-sick;Steamer bound to go ashore,—Rip, goes the physic.Pork and beans they can't afford,The second cabin passengers;The cook has tumbled overboardWith fifty pounds of sassengers;The engineer, a little tight,Bragging on the Mail Line,Finally gets into a fight,—Rip, goes the engine.THE HAPPY MINER
I'm a happy miner,I love to sing and dance.I wonder what my love would sayIf she could see my pantsWith canvas patches on my kneesAnd one upon the stern?I'll wear them when I'm digging hereAnd home when I return.Refrain:So I get in a jovial way,I spend my money free.And I've got plenty!Will you drink lager beer with me?She writes about her poodle dog;But never thinks to say,"Oh, do come home, my honey dear,I'm pining all away."I'll write her half a letter,Then give the ink a tip.If that don't bring her to her milkI'll coolly let her rip.They wish to know if I can cookAnd what I have to eat,And tell me should I take a coldBe sure and soak my feet.But when they talk of cookingI'm mighty hard to beat,I've made ten thousand loaves of breadThe devil couldn't eat.I like a lazy partnerSo I can take my ease,Lay down and talk of golden home,As happy as you please;Without a thing to eat or drink,Away from care and grief,—I'm fat and sassy, ragged, too,And tough as Spanish beef.No matter whether rich or poor,I'm happy as a clam.I wish my friends at home could lookAnd see me as I am.With woolen shirt and rubber boots,In mud up to my knees,And lice as large as chili beansFighting with the fleas.I'll mine for half an ounce a day,Perhaps a little less;But when it comes to China payI cannot stand the press.Like thousands there, I'll make a pile,If I make one at all,About the time the allied forcesTake Sepasterpol.THE CALIFORNIA STAGE COMPANY
There's no respect for youth or ageOn board the California stage,But pull and haul about the seatsAs bed-bugs do about the sheets.Refrain:They started as a thieving lineIn eighteen hundred and forty-nine;All opposition they defy,So the people must root hog or die.You're crowded in with Chinamen,As fattening hogs are in a pen;And what will more a man provokeIs musty plug tobacco smoke.The ladies are compelled to sitWith dresses in tobacco spit;The gentlemen don't seem to care,But talk on politics and swear.The dust is deep in summer time,The mountains very hard to climb,And drivers often stop and yell,"Get out, all hands, and push up hill."The drivers, when they feel inclined,Will have you walking on behind,And on your shoulders lug a poleTo help them out some muddy hole.They promise when your fare you pay,"You'll have to walk but half the way";Then add aside, with cunning laugh,"You'll have to push the other half."NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM
My country, 'tis of thee,Land where things used to beSo cheap, we croak.Land of the mavericks,Land of the puncher's tricks,Thy culture-inroad pricksThe hide of this peeler-bloke.Some of the punchers swearThat what they eat and wearTakes all their calves.Others vow that theyEat only once a dayJerked beef and prairie hayWashed down with tallow salves.These salty-dogs14 but craveTo pull them out the graveJust one Kiowa spur.They know they still will dineOn flesh and beef the time;But give us, Lord divine,One "hen-fruit stir."15Our father's land, with thee,Best trails of liberty,We chose to stop.We don't exactly likeSo soon to henceward hike,But hell, we'll take the pikeIf this don't stop.1
In this song, as in several others, the chorus should come in after each stanza. The arrangement followed has been adopted to illustrate versions current in different sections.
2
Sung to the air of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.
3
Attributed to James Barton Adams.
4
Printed as a fugitive ballad in Grandon of Sierra, by Charles E. Winter.
5
A song current in Arizona, probably written by Berton Braley. Cowboys and miners often take verses that please them and fit them to music.
6
These verses are used in many parts of the West as a dance song. Sung to waltz music the song takes the place of "Home, Sweet Home" at the conclusion of a cowboy ball. The "fiddle" is silenced and the entire company sing as they dance.
7
A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.
8
This poem, one of the best in Larry Chittenden's Ranch Verses, published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. I have heard it in New Mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,—always as a song. None of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.
9
"set" means settler.
10
snake, bad steer.
11
Dolly welter, rope tied all around the saddle.
12
rim-fire saddle, without flank girth.
13
To tune of Pop Goes the Weasel.
14
Cowboy Dude.
15
Pancake.
