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Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads
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BONNIE BLACK BESS
When fortune's blind goddessHad fled my abode,And friends proved unfaithful,I took to the road;To plunder the wealthyAnd relieve my distress,I bought you to aid me,My Bonnie Black Bess.No vile whip nor spurDid your sides ever gall,For none did you need,You would bound at my call;And for each act of kindnessYou would me caress,Thou art never unfaithful,My Bonnie Black Bess.When dark, sable midnightHer mantle had thrownO'er the bright face of nature,How oft we have goneTo the famed Houndslow heath,Though an unwelcome guestTo the minions of fortune,My Bonnie Black Bess.How silent you stoodWhen the carriage I stopped,The gold and the jewelsIts inmates would drop.No poor man I plunderedNor e'er did oppressThe widows or orphans,My Bonnie Black Bess.When Argus-eyed justiceDid me hot pursue,From Yorktown to LondonLike lightning we flew.No toll bars could stop you,The waters did breast,And in twelve hours we made it,My Bonnie Black Bess.But hate darkens o'er me,Despair is my lot,And the law does pursue meFor the many I've shot;To save me, poor brute,Thou hast done thy best,Thou art worn out and weary,My Bonnie Black Bess.Hark! they never shall haveA beast like thee;So noble and gentleAnd brave, thou must die,My dumb friend,Though it does me distress,—There! There! I have shot thee,My Bonnie Black Bess.In after yearsWhen I am dead and gone,This story will be handedFrom father to son;My fate some will pity,And some will confess'Twas through kindness I killed thee,My Bonnie Black Bess.No one can e'er sayThat ingratitude dweltIn the bosom of Turpin,—'Twas a vice never felt.I will die like a manAnd soon be at rest;Now, farewell forever,My Bonnie Black Bess.THE LAST LONGHORN
An ancient long-horned bovineLay dying by the river;There was lack of vegetationAnd the cold winds made him shiver;A cowboy sat beside himWith sadness in his face.To see his final passing,—This last of a noble race.The ancient eunuch struggledAnd raised his shaking head,Saying, "I care not to lingerWhen all my friends are dead.These Jerseys and these Holsteins,They are no friends of mine;They belong to the nobilityWho live across the brine."Tell the Durhams and the HerefordsWhen they come a-grazing round,And see me lying stark and stiffUpon the frozen ground,I don't want them to bellowWhen they see that I am dead,For I was born in TexasNear the river that is Red."Tell the cayotes, when they come at nightA-hunting for their prey,They might as well go further,For they'll find it will not pay.If they attempt to eat me,They very soon will seeThat my bones and hide are petrified,—They'll find no beef on me."I remember back in the seventies,Full many summers past,There was grass and water plenty,But it was too good to last.I little dreamed what would happenSome twenty summers hence,When the nester came with his wife, his kids,His dogs, and his barbed-wire fence."His voice sank to a murmur,His breath was short and quick;The cowboy tried to skin himWhen he saw he couldn't kick;He rubbed his knife upon his bootUntil he made it shine,But he never skinned old longhorn,Caze he couldn't cut his rine.And the cowboy riz up sadlyAnd mounted his cayuse,Saying, "The time has come when longhornsAnd their cowboys are no use!"And while gazing sadly backwardUpon the dead bovine,His bronc stepped in a dog-holeAnd fell and broke his spine.The cowboys and the longhornsWho partnered in eighty-fourHave gone to their last round-upOver on the other shore;They answered well their purpose,But their glory must fade and go,Because men say there's better thingsIn the modern cattle show.A PRISONER FOR LIFE
Fare you well, green fields,Soft meadows, adieu!Rocks and mountains,I depart from you;Nevermore shall my eyesBy your beauties be blest,Nevermore shall you sootheMy sad bosom to rest.Farewell, little birdies,That fly in the sky,You fly all day longAnd sing your troubles by;I am doomed to this cell,I heave a deep sigh;My heart sinks within me,In anguish I die.Fare you well, little fishes,That glides through the sea,Your life's all sunshine,All light, and all glee;Nevermore shall I watchYour skill in the wave,I'll depart from all friendsThis side of the grave.What would I giveSuch freedom to share,To roam at my easeAnd breathe the fresh air;I would roam through the cities,Through village and dell,But I never would returnTo my cold prison cell.What's life without liberty?I ofttimes have said,Of a poor troubled mindThat's always in dread;No sun, moon, and starsCan on me now shine,No change in my dangerFrom daylight till dawn.Fare you well, kind friends,I am willing to own,Such a wild outcastNever was known;I'm the downfall of my family,My children, my wife;God pity and pardonThe poor prisoner for life.
THE WARS OF GERMANY
There was a wealthy merchant,In London he did dwell,He had an only daughter,The truth to you I'll tell.Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone.She was courted by a lordOf very high degree,She was courted by a sailor JackJust from the wars of Germany.Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone.Her parents came to know this,That such a thing could be,A sailor Jack, a sailor lad,Just from the wars of Germany.Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone.So Polly she's at homeWith money at command,She taken a notionTo view some foreign land.Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone.She went to the tailor's shopAnd dressed herself in man's array,And was off to an officerTo carry her straight away.Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone."Good morning," says the officer,And "Morning," says she,"Here's fifty guineas if you'll carry meTo the wars of Germany."Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone."Your waist is too slender,Your fingers are too small,I am afraid from your countenanceYou can't face a cannon ball."Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone."My waist is not too slender,My fingers are not too small,And never would I quiverTo face a cannon ball."Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone."We don't often 'list an officerUnless the name we know;"She answered him in a low, sweet voice,"You may call me Jack Munro."Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone.We gathered up our menAnd quickly we did sail,We landed in FranceWith a sweet and pleasant gale.Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone.We were walking on the land,Up and down the line,—Among the dead and woundedHer own true love she did find.Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone.She picked him up all in her arms,To Tousen town she went;She soon found a doctorTo dress and heal his wounds,Sing I am left alone,Sing I am left alone.So Jacky, he is married,And his bride by his side,In spite of her old parentsAnd all the world beside.Sing no longer left alone,Sing no longer left alone.FREIGHTING FROM WILCOX TO GLOBE
Come all you jolly freightersThat has freighted on the road,That has hauled a load of freightFrom Wilcox to Globe;We freighted on this roadFor sixteen years or moreA-hauling freight for Livermore,—No wonder that I'm poor.And it's home, dearest home;And it's home you ought to be,Over on the GilaIn the white man's country,Where the poplar and the ashAnd mesquite will ever beGrowing green down on the Gila;There's a home for you and me.'Twas in the spring of seventy-threeI started with my team,Led by false illusionAnd those foolish, golden dreams;The first night out from WilcoxMy best wheel horse was stole,And it makes me curse a littleTo come out in the hole.This then only left me three,—Kit, Mollie and old Mike;Mike being the best one of the threeI put him out on spike;I then took the mountain roadSo the people would not smile,And it took fourteen daysTo travel thirteen mile.But I got there all the sameWith my little three-up spike;It taken all my money, then,To buy a mate for Mike.You all know how it isWhen once you get behind,You never get even againTill you damn steal them blind.I was an honest manWhen I first took to the road,I would not swear an oath,Nor would I tap a load;But now you ought to see my mulesWhen I begin to cuss,They flop their ears and wiggle their tailsAnd pull the load or bust.Now I can tap a whiskey barrelWith nothing but a stick,No one can detect meI've got it down so slick;Just fill it up with water,—Sure, there's no harm in that.Now my clothes are not the finest,Nor are they genteel;But they will have to do meTill I can make another steal.My boots are number elevens,For I swiped them from a chow,And my coat cost dos realsFrom a little Apache squaw.Now I have freighted in the sand,I have freighted in the rain,I have bogged my wagons downAnd dug them out again;I have worked both late and earlyTill I was almost dead,And I have spent some nights sleepingIn an Arizona bed.Now barbed wire and baconIs all that they will pay,But you have to show your copper checksTo get your grain and hay;If you ask them for five dollars,Old Meyers will scratch his pate,And the clerks in their white, stiff collarsSay, "Get down and pull your freight."But I want to die and go to hell,Get there before Livermore and Meyers,And get a job of hauling cokeTo keep up the devil's fires;If I get the job of singeing them,I'll see they don't get free;I'll treat them like a yaller dog,As they have treated me.And it's home, dearest home;And it's home you ought to be,Over on the Gila,In the white man's country,Where the poplar and the ashAnd mesquite will ever beGrowing green down on the Gila;There's a home for you and me.THE ARIZONA BOYS AND GIRLS
Come all of you people, I pray you draw near,A comical ditty you all shall hear.The boys in this country they try to advanceBy courting the ladies and learning to dance,—And they're down, down, and they're down.The boys in this country they try to be plain,Those words that you hear you may hear them again,With twice as much added on if you can.There's many a boy stuck up for a man,—And they're down, down, and they're down.They will go to their parties, their whiskey they'll take,And out in the dark their bottles they'll break;You'll hear one say, "There's a bottle around here;So come around, boys, and we'll all take a share,"—And they're down, down, and they're down.There is some wears shoes and some wears boots,But there are very few that rides who don't shoot;More than this, I'll tell you what they'll do,They'll get them a watch and a ranger hat, too,—And they're down, down, and they're down.They'll go in the hall with spurs on their heel,They'll get them a partner to dance the next reel,Saying, "How do I look in my new brown suit,With my pants stuffed down in the top of my boot?"—And they're down, down, and they're down.Now I think it's quite time to leave off these ladsFor here are some girls that's fully as bad;They'll trim up their dresses and curl up their hair,And like an old owl before the glass they'll stare,—And they're down, down, and they're down.The girls in the country they grin like a cat,And with giggling and laughing they don't know what they're at,They think they're pretty and I tell you they're wise,But they couldn't get married to save their two eyes,—And they're down, down, and they're down.You can tell a good girl wherever she's found;No trimming, no lace, no nonsense around;With a long-eared bonnet tied under her chin,—And they're down, down, and they're down.They'll go to church with their snuff-box in hand,They'll give it a tap to make it look grand;Perhaps there is another one or twoAnd they'll pass it around and it's "Madam, won't you,"—And they're down, down, and they're down.Now, I think it's quite time for this ditty to end;If there's anyone here that it will offend,If there's anyone here that thinks it amissJust come around now and give the singer a kiss,—And they're down, down, and they're down.THE DYING RANGER
The sun was sinking in the westAnd fell with lingering rayThrough the branches of a forestWhere a wounded ranger lay;Beneath the shade of a palmettoAnd the sunset silvery sky,Far away from his home in TexasThey laid him down to die.A group had gathered round him,His comrades in the fight,A tear rolled down each manly cheekAs he bid a last good-night.One tried and true companionWas kneeling by his side,To stop his life-blood flowing,But alas, in vain he tried.When to stop the life-blood flowingHe found 'twas all in vain,The tears rolled down each man's cheekLike light showers of rain.Up spoke the noble ranger,"Boys, weep no more for me,I am crossing the deep watersTo a country that is free."Draw closer to me, comrades,And listen to what I say,I am going to tell a storyWhile my spirit hastens away.Way back in Northwest Texas,That good old Lone Star state,There is one that for my comingWith a weary heart will wait."A fair young girl, my sister,My only joy, my pride,She was my friend from boyhood,I had no one left beside.I have loved her as a brother,And with a father's careI have strove from grief and sorrovHer gentle heart to spare."My mother, she lies sleepingBeneath the church-yard sod,And many a day has passed awaySince her spirit fled to God.My father, he lies sleepingBeneath the deep blue sea,I have no other kindred,There are none but Nell and me."But our country was invadedAnd they called for volunteers;She threw her arms around me,Then burst into tears,Saying, 'Go, my darling brother,Drive those traitors from our shore,My heart may need your presence,But our country needs you more.'"It is true I love my country,For her I gave my all.If it hadn't been for my sister,I would be content to fall.I am dying, comrades, dying,She will never see me more,But in vain she'll wait my comingBy our little cabin door."Comrades, gather closerAnd listen to my dying prayer.Who will be to her as a brother,And shield her with a brother's care?"Up spake the noble rangers,They answered one and all,"We will be to her as brothersTill the last one does fall."One glad smile of pleasureO'er the ranger's face was spread;One dark, convulsive shadow,And the ranger boy was dead.Far from his darling sisterWe laid him down to restWith his saddle for a pillowAnd his gun across his breast.
THE FAIR FANNIE MOORE
Yonder stands a cottage,All deserted and alone,Its paths are neglected,With grass overgrown;Go in and you will seeSome dark stains on the floor,—Alas! it is the bloodOf fair Fannie Moore.To Fannie, so blooming,Two lovers they came;One offered young FannieHis wealth and his name;But neither his moneyNor pride could secureA place in the heartOf fair Fannie Moore.The first was young Randell,So bold and so proud,Who to the fair FannieHis haughty head bowed;But his wealth and his houseBoth failed to allureThe heart from the bosomOf fair Fannie Moore.The next was young Henry,Of lowest degree.He won her fond loveAnd enraptured was he;And then at the altarHe quick did secureThe hand with the heartOf the fair Fannie Moore.As she was aloneIn her cottage one day,When business had calledHer fond husband away,Young Randell, the haughty,Came in at the doorAnd clasped in his armsThe fair Fannie Moore."O Fannie, O Fannie,Reflect on your fateAnd accept of my offerBefore it's too late;For one thing to-nightI am bound to secure,—'Tis the love or the lifeOf the fair Fannie Moore.""Spare me, Oh, spare me!"The young Fannie cries,While the tears swiftly flowFrom her beautiful eyes;"Oh, no!" cries young Randell,"Go home to your rest,"And he buried his knifeIn her snowy white breast.So Fannie, so blooming,In her bright beauty died;Young Randell, the haughty,Was taken and tried;At length he was hungOn a tree at the door,For shedding the bloodOf the fair Fannie Moore.Young Henry, the shepherd,Distracted and wild,Did wander awayFrom his own native isle.Till at length, claimed by death,He was brought to this shoreAnd laid by the sideOf the fair Fannie Moore.HELL IN TEXAS
The devil, we're told, in hell was chained,And a thousand years he there remained;He never complained nor did he groan,But determined to start a hell of his own,Where he could torment the souls of menWithout being chained in a prison pen.So he asked the Lord if he had on handAnything left when he made the land.The Lord said, "Yes, I had plenty on hand,But I left it down on the Rio Grande;The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poorI don't think you could use it in hell anymore."But the devil went down to look at the truck,And said if it came as a gift he was stuck;For after examining it carefully and wellHe concluded the place was too dry for hell.So, in order to get it off his hands,The Lord promised the devil to water the lands;For he had some water, or rather some dregs,A regular cathartic that smelled like bad eggs.Hence the deal was closed and the deed was givenAnd the Lord went back to his home in heaven.And the devil then said, "I have all that is neededTo make a good hell," and hence he succeeded.He began to put thorns in all of the trees,And mixed up the sand with millions of fleas;And scattered tarantulas along all the roads;Put thorns on the cactus and horns on the toads.He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers,And put an addition on the rabbit's ears;He put a little devil in the broncho steed,And poisoned the feet of the centipede.The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings,The mosquito delights you with buzzing wings;The sand-burrs prevail and so do the ants,And those who sit down need half-soles on their pants.The devil then said that throughout the landHe'd managed to keep up the devil's own brand,And all would be mavericks unless they boreThe marks of scratches and bites and thorns by the score.The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten,Too hot for the devil and too hot for men.The wild boar roams through the black chaparral,—It's a hell of a place he has for a hell.The red pepper grows on the banks of the brook;The Mexicans use it in all that they cook.Just dine with a Greaser and then you will shout,"I've hell on the inside as well as the out!"BY MARKENTURA'S FLOWERY MARGE
By Markentura's flowery marge the Red Chief's wigwam stood,Before the white man's rifle rang, loud echoing through the wood;The tommy-hawk and scalping knife together lay at rest,And peace was in the forest shade and in the red man's breast.Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn,The life and light of the forest shade,—The Red Chief's child is gone!By Markentura's flowery marge the Spotted Fawn had birthAnd grew as fair an Indian maid as ever graced the earth.She was the Red Chief's only child and sought by many a brave,But to the gallant young White Cloud her plighted troth she gave.By Markentura's flowery marge the bridal song arose,Nor dreamed they in that festive night of near approaching woes;But through the forest stealthily the white man came in wrath.And fiery darts before them spread, and death was in their path.By Markentura's flowery marge next morn no strife was seen,But a wail went up, for the young Fawn's blood and White Cloud's dyed the green.A burial in their own rude way the Indians gave them there,And a low sweet requiem the brook sang and the air.Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn,The life and light of the forest shade,—The Red Chief's child is gone!THE STATE OF ARKANSAW
My name is Stamford Barnes, I come from Nobleville town;I've traveled this wide world over, I've traveled this wide world round.I've met with ups and downs in life but better days I've saw,But I've never knew what misery were till I came to Arkansaw.I landed in St. Louis with ten dollars and no more;I read the daily papers till both my eyes were sore;I read them evening papers until at last I sawTen thousand men were wanted in the state of Arkansaw.I wiped my eyes with great surprise when I read this grateful news,And straightway off I started to see the agent, Billy Hughes.He says, "Pay me five dollars and a ticket to you I'll draw,It'll land you safe upon the railroad in the State of Arkansaw."I started off one morning a quarter after five;I started from St. Louis, half dead and half alive;I bought me a quart of whiskey my misery to thaw,I got as drunk as a biled owl when I left for old Arkansaw.I landed in Ft. Smith one sultry Sunday afternoon,It was in the month of May, the early month of June,Up stepped a walking skeleton with a long and lantern jaw,Invited me to his hotel, "The best in Arkansaw."I followed my conductor into his dwelling place;Poverty were depictured in his melancholy face.His bread it was corn dodger, his beef I could not chaw;This was the kind of hash they fed me in the State of Arkansaw.I started off next morning to catch the morning train,He says to me, "You'd better work, for I have some land to drain.I'll pay you fifty cents a day, your board, washing, and all,—You'll find yourself a different man when you leave old Arkansaw."I worked six weeks for the son of a gun, Jesse Herring was his name,He was six foot seven in his stocking feet and taller than any crane;His hair hung down in strings over his long and lantern jaw,—He was a photograph of all the gents who lived in Arkansaw.He fed me on corn dodgers as hard as any rock,Until my teeth began to loosen and my knees began to knock;I got so thin on sassafras tea I could hide behind a straw,And indeed I was a different man when I left old Arkansaw.Farewell to swamp angels, cane brakes, and chills;Farewell to sage and sassafras and corn dodger pills.If ever I see this land again, I'll give to you my paw;It will be through a telescope from here to Arkansaw.THE TEXAS COWBOY
Oh, I am a Texas cowboy,Far away from home,If ever I get back to TexasI never more will roam.Montana is too cold for meAnd the winters are too long;Before the round-ups do beginOur money is all gone.Take this old hen-skin bedding,Too thin to keep me warm,—I nearly freeze to death, my boys.Whenever there's a storm.And take this old "tarpoleon,"Too thin to shield my frame,—I got it down in NebraskaA-dealin' a Monte game.Now to win these fancy legginsI'll have enough to do;They cost me twenty dollarsThe day that they were new.I have an outfit on the Mussel Shell,But that I'll never see,Unless I get sent to representThe Circle or D.T.I've worked down in NebraskaWhere the grass grows ten feet high,And the cattle are such rustlersThat they seldom ever die;I've worked up in the sand hillsAnd down upon the Platte,Where the cowboys are good fellowsAnd the cattle always fat;I've traveled lots of country,—Nebraska's hills of sand,Down through the Indian Nation,And up the Rio Grande;—But the Bad Lands of MontanaAre the worst I ever seen,The cowboys are all tenderfeetAnd the dogies are too lean.If you want to see some bad lands,Go over on the Dry;You will bog down in the couleesWhere the mountains reach the sky.A tenderfoot to lead youWho never knows the way,You are playing in the best of luckIf you eat more than once a day.Your grub is bread and baconAnd coffee black as ink;The water is so full of alkaliIt is hardly fit to drink.They will wake you in the morningBefore the break of day,And send you on a circleA hundred miles away.All along the Yellowstone'Tis cold the year around;You will surely get consumptionBy sleeping on the ground.Work in MontanaIs six months in the year;When all your bills are settledThere is nothing left for beer.Work down in TexasIs all the year around;You will never get consumptionBy sleeping on the ground.Come all you Texas cowboysAnd warning take from me,And do not go to MontanaTo spend your money free.But stay at home in TexasWhere work lasts the year around,And you will never catch consumptionBy sleeping on the ground.THE DREARY, DREARY LIFE
A cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life,Some say it's free from care;Rounding up the cattle from morning till nightIn the middle of the prairie so bare.Half-past four, the noisy cook will roar,"Whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!"Slowly you will rise with sleepy-feeling eyes,The sweet, dreamy night passed away.The greener lad he thinks it's play,He'll soon peter out on a cold rainy day,With his big bell spurs and his Spanish hoss,He'll swear to you he was once a boss.The cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life,He's driven through the heat and cold;While the rich man's a-sleeping on his velvet couch,Dreaming of his silver and gold.Spring-time sets in, double trouble will begin,The weather is so fierce and cold;Clothes are wet and frozen to our necks,The cattle we can scarcely hold.The cowboy's life is a dreary one,He works all day to the setting of the sun;And then his day's work is not done,For there's his night herd to go on.The wolves and owls with their terrifying howlsWill disturb us in our midnight dream,As we lie on our slickers on a cold, rainy nightWay over on the Pecos stream.You are speaking of your farms, you are speaking of your charms,You are speaking of your silver and gold;But a cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life,He's driven through the heat and cold.Some folks say that we are free from care,Free from all other harm;But we round up the cattle from morning till nightWay over on the prairie so dry.I used to run about, now I stay at home,Take care of my wife and child;Nevermore to roam, always stay at home,Take care of my wife and child.Half-past four the noisy cook will roar,"Hurrah, boys! she's breaking day!"Slowly we will rise and wipe our sleepy eyes,The sweet, dreamy night passed away.
