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Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads
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JIM FARROW
It's Jim Farrow and John Farrow and little Simon, too,Have plenty of cattle where I have but few.Marking and branding both night and day,—It's "Keep still, boys, my boys, and you'll all get your pay."It's up to the courthouse, the first thing they know,Before the Grand Jury they'll have to go.They'll ask you about ear-marks, they'll ask you about brand,But tell them you were absent when the work was on hand.Jim Farrow brands J.F. on the side;The next comes Johnnie who takes the whole hide;Little Simon, too has H. on the loin;—All stand for Farrow but it's not good for Sime.You ask for the mark, I don't think it's fair,You'll find the cow's head but the ear isn't thereIt's a crop and a split and a sort of a twine,—All stand for F. but it's not good for Sime."Get up, my boys," Jim Farrow will say,"And out to horse hunting before it is day."So we get up and are out on the wayBut it's damn few horses we find before day."Now saddle your horses and out on the peaksTo see if the heifers are out on the creeks."We'll round 'em to-day and we'll round 'em to-morrow,And this ends my song concerning the Farrows.YOUNG CHARLOTTIE
Young Charlottie lived by a mountain side in a wild and lonely spot,There was no village for miles around except her father's cot;And yet on many a wintry night young boys would gather there,—Her father kept a social board, and she was very fair.One New Year's Eve as the sun went down, she cast a wistful eyeOut from the window pane as a merry sleigh went by.At a village fifteen miles away was to be a ball that night;Although the air was piercing cold, her heart was merry and light.At last her laughing eye lit up as a well-known voice she heard,And dashing in front of the door her lover's sleigh appeared."O daughter, dear," her mother said, "this blanket round you fold,'Tis such a dreadful night abroad and you will catch your death of cold.""Oh no, oh no!" young Charlottie cried, as she laughed like a gipsy queen,"To ride in blankets muffled up, I never would be seen.My silken coat is quite enough, you know it is lined throughout,And there is my silken scarf to wrap my head and neck about."Her bonnet and her gloves were on, she jumped into the sleigh,And swiftly slid down the mountain side and over the hills away.All muffled up so silent, five miles at last were pastWhen Charlie with few but shivering words, the silence broke at last."Such a dreadful night I never saw, my reins I can scarcely hold."Young Charlottie then feebly said, "I am exceedingly cold."He cracked his whip and urged his speed much faster than before,While at least five other miles in silence had passed o'er.Spoke Charles, "How fast the freezing ice is gathering on my brow!"Young Charlottie then feebly said, "I'm growing warmer now."So on they sped through the frosty air and the glittering cold starlightUntil at last the village lights and the ball-room came in sight.They reached the door and Charles sprang out and reached his hands to her."Why sit you there like a monument that has no power to stir?"He called her once, he called her twice, she answered not a word,And then he called her once again but still she never stirred.He took her hand in his; 'twas cold and hard as any stone.He tore the mantle from her face while cold stars on it shone.Then quickly to the lighted hall her lifeless form he bore;—Young Charlottie's eyes were closed forever, her voice was heard no more.And there he sat down by her side while bitter tears did flow,And cried, "My own, my charming bride, you nevermore shall know."He twined his arms around her neck and kissed her marble brow,And his thoughts flew back to where she said, "I'm growing warmer now."He took her back into the sleigh and quickly hurried home;When he arrived at her father's door, oh, how her friends did mourn;They mourned the loss of a daughter dear, while Charles wept over the gloom,Till at last he died with the bitter grief,—now they both lie in one tomb.THE SKEW-BALL BLACK
It was down to Red River I came,Prepared to play a damned tough game,—Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!I crossed the river to the ranch where I intended to work,With a big six-shooter and a derned good dirk,—Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!They roped me out a skew-ball blackWith a double set-fast on his back,—Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!And when I was mounted on his back,The boys all yelled, "Just give him slack,"—Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!They rolled and tumbled and yelled, by God,For he threw me a-whirling all over the sod,—Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!I went to the boss and I told him I'd resign,The fool tumbled over, and I thought he was dyin',—Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!And it's to Arkansaw I'll go back,To hell with Texas and the skew-ball black,—Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!THE RAMBLING COWBOY
There was a rich old rancher who lived in the country by,He had a lovely daughter on whom I cast my eye;She was pretty, tall, and handsome, both neat and very fair,There's no other girl in the country with her I could compare.I asked her if she would be willing for me to cross the plains;She said she would be truthful until I returned again;She said she would be faithful until death did prove unkind,So we kissed, shook hands, and parted, and I left my girl behind.I left the State of Texas, for Arizona I was bound;I landed in Tombstone City, I viewed the place all round.Money and work were plentiful and the cowboys they were kindBut the only thought of my heart was the girl I left behind.One day as I was riding across the public squareThe mail-coach came in and I met the driver there;He handed me a letter which gave me to understandThat the girl I left in Texas had married another man.I turned myself all round and about not knowing what to do,But I read on down some further and it proved the words were true.Hard work I have laid over, it's gambling I have designed.I'll ramble this wide world over for the girl I left behind.Come all you reckless and rambling boys who have listened to this song,If it hasn't done you any good, it hasn't done you any wrong;But when you court a pretty girl, just marry her while you can,For if you go across the plains she'll marry another man.THE COWBOY AT CHURCH
Some time ago,—two weeks or moreIf I remember well,—I found myself in town and thoughtI'd knock around a spell,When all at once I heard the bell,—I didn't know 'twas Sunday,—For on the plains we scarcely knowA Sunday from a Monday,—A-calling all the peopleFrom the highways and the hedgesAnd all the reckless throngThat tread ruin's ragged edges,To come and hear the pastor tellSalvation's touching story,And how the new road misses hellAnd leads you straight to glory.I started by the chapel door,But something urged me in,And told me not to spend God's dayIn revelry and sin.I don't go much on sentiment,But tears came in my eyes.It seemed just like my mother's voiceWas speaking from the skies.I thought how often she had goneWith little Sis and meTo church, when I was but a ladWay back in Tennessee.It never once occurred to meAbout not being dressedIn Sunday rig, but carelesslyI went in with the rest.You should have seen the smiles and shrugsAs I went walking in,As though they thought my legginsWorse than any kind of sin;Although the honest parson,In his vestry garb arrayedWas dressed the same as I was,—In the trappings of his trade.The good man prayed for all the worldAnd all its motley crew,For pagan, Hindoo, sinners, Turk,And unbelieving Jew,—Though the congregation doubtless thoughtThat the cowboys as a raceWere a kind of moral outlawWith no good claim to grace.Is it very strange that cowboys areA rough and reckless crewWhen their garb forbids their doing rightAs Christian people do?That they frequent scenes of revelryWhere death is bought and sold,Where at least they get a welcomeThough it's prompted by their gold?Stranger, did it ever strike you,When the winter days are goneAnd the mortal grass is springing upTo meet the judgment sun,And we 'tend mighty round-upsWhere, according to the Word,The angel cowboy of the LordWill cut the human herd,—That a heap of stock that's lowing nowAround the Master's penAnd feeding at his fodder stackWill have the brand picked then?And brands that when the hair was longLooked like the letter C,Will prove to be the devil's,And the brand the letter D;While many a long-horned coaster,—I mean, just so to speak,—That hasn't had the advantageOf the range and gospel creekWill get to crop the grassesIn the pasture of the LordIf the letter C showed upBeneath the devil's checker board.THE U. S. A. RECRUIT
Now list to my song, it will not take me long,And in some things with me you'll agree;A young man so green came in from Moline,And enlisted a soldier to be.He had lots of pluck, on himself he was stuck,In his Government straights he looked "boss,"And he chewed enough beans for a hoss.He was a rookey, so flukey,He was a jim dandy you all will agree,He said without fear, "Before I'm a yearIn the Army, great changes you'll see."He was a stone thrower, a foam blower,He was a Loo Loo you bet,He stood on his head and these words gently said,"I'll be second George Washington yet."At his post he did land, they took him in hand,The old bucks they all gathered 'round,Saying "Give us your fist; where did you enlist?You'll take on again I'll be bound;I've a blanket to sell, it will fit you quite well,I'll sell you the whole or a piece.I've a dress coat to trade, or a helmet unmade,It will do you for kitchen police."Then the top said, "My Son, here is a gun,Just heel ball that musket up bright.In a few days or more you'll be rolling in gore,A-chasing wild Goo Goos to flight.There'll be fighting, you see, and blood flowing free,We'll send you right on to the front;And never you fear, if you're wounded, my dear,You'll be pensioned eight dollars per month."He was worried so bad, he blew in all he had;He went on a drunk with goodwill.And the top did report, "One private short."When he showed up he went to the mill.The proceedings we find were a ten dollar blind,Ten dollars less to blow foam.This was long years ago, and this rookey you knowIs now in the old soldiers' home.THE COWGIRL
My love is a rider and broncos he breaks,But he's given up riding and all for my sake;For he found him a horse and it suited him soHe vowed he'd ne'er ride any other bronco.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 bronco.The cook is an unfortunate son of a gun;He has to be up e'er the rise of the sun;His language is awful, his curses are deep,—He is like cascarets, for he works while you sleep.THE SHANTY BOY
I am a jolly shanty boy,As you will soon discover.To all the dodges I am fly,A hustling pine woods rover.A peavy hook it is my pride,An ax I well can handle;To fell a tree or punch a bullGet rattling Danny Randall.Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.I love a girl in Saginaw;She lives with her mother;I defy all MichiganTo find such another.She's tall and fat, her hair is red,Her face is plump and pretty,She's my daisy, Sunday-best-day girl,—And her front name stands for Kitty.Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.I took her to a dance one night,A mossback gave the bidding;Silver Jack bossed the shebangAnd Big Dan played the fiddle.We danced and drank, the livelong night.With fights between the dancing—Till Silver Jack cleaned out the ranchAnd sent the mossbacks prancing.Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.ROOT HOG OR DIE
When I was a young man I lived on the square,I never had any pocket change and I hardly thought it fair;So out on the crosses I went to rob and to steal,And when I met a peddler oh, how happy I did feel.One morning, one morning, one morning in MayI seen a man a-coming, a little bit far away;I seen a man a-coming, come riding up to me"Come here, come here, young fellow, I'm after you to-day."He taken me to the new jail, he taken me to the new jail,And I had to walk right in.There all my friends went back on meAnd also my kin.I had an old rich uncle, who lived in the West,He heard of my misfortune, it wouldn't let him rest;He came to see me, he paid my bills and score,—I have been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.There's Minnie and Alice and Lucy likewise,They heard of my misfortune brought tears to their eyes.I've told 'em my condition, I've told it o'er and o'er;So I've been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.I will go to East Texas to marry me a wife,And try to maintain her the balance of my life;I'll try to maintain; I'll lay it up in storeI've been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.Young man, you robber, you had better take it fair,Leave off your marshal killing and live on the square;Should you meet the marshal, just pass him by;And travel on the muscular, for it's root hog or die.When I drew my money I drew it all in cashAnd off to see my Susan, you bet I cut a dash;I spent my money freely and went it on a bum,And I love the pretty women and am bound to have my fun.I used to sport a white hat, a horse and buggy fine,Courted a pretty girl and always called her mine;But all my courtships proved to be in vain,For they sent me down to Huntsville to wear the ball and chain.Along came my true love, about twelve o'clock,Saying, "Henry, O Henry, what sentence have you got?"The jury found me guilty, the judge would allow no stay,So they sent me down to Huntsville to wear my life away.
SWEET BETSY FROM PIKE
"A California Immigrant Song of the Fifties"Oh, don't you remember sweet Betsy from PikeWho crossed the big mountains with her lover Ike,And two yoke of cattle, a large yellow dog,A tall, shanghai rooster, and one spotted dog?Saying, good-bye, Pike County,Farewell for a while;We'll come back againWhen we've panned out our pile.One evening quite early they camped on the Platte,'Twas near by the road on a green shady flat;Where Betsy, quite tired, lay down to repose,While with wonder Ike gazed on his Pike County rose.They soon reached the desert, where Betsy gave out,And down in the sand she lay rolling about;While Ike in great terror looked on in surprise,Saying "Betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes."Saying, good-bye, Pike County,Farewell for a while;I'd go back to-nightIf it was but a mile.Sweet Betsy got up in a great deal of painAnd declared she'd go back to Pike County again;Then Ike heaved a sigh and they fondly embraced,And she traveled along with his arm around her waist.The wagon tipped over with a terrible crash,And out on the prairie rolled all sorts of trash;A few little baby clothes done up with careLooked rather suspicious,—though 'twas all on the square.The shanghai ran off and the cattle all died,The last piece of bacon that morning was fried;Poor Ike got discouraged, and Betsy got mad,The dog wagged his tail and looked wonderfully sad.One morning they climbed up a very high hill,And with wonder looked down into old Placerville;Ike shouted and said, as he cast his eyes down,"Sweet Betsy, my darling, we've got to Hangtown."Long Ike and sweet Betsy attended a dance,Where Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants;Sweet Betsy was covered with ribbons and rings.Quoth Ike, "You're an angel, but where are your wings?"A miner said, "Betsy, will you dance with me?""I will that, old hoss, if you don't make too free;But don't dance me hard. Do you want to know why?Dog on ye, I'm chock full of strong alkali."Long Ike and sweet Betsy got married of course,But Ike getting jealous obtained a divorce;And Betsy, well satisfied, said with a shout,"Good-bye, you big lummax, I'm glad you backed out."Saying, good-bye, dear Isaac,Farewell for a while,But come back in timeTo replenish my pile.THE DISHEARTENED RANGER
Come listen to a ranger, you kind-hearted stranger,This song, though a sad one, you're welcome to hear;We've kept the Comanches away from your ranches,And followed them far o'er the Texas frontier.We're weary of scouting, of traveling, and routingThe blood-thirsty villains o'er prairie and wood;No rest for the sinner, no breakfast or dinner,But he lies in a supperless bed in the mud.No corn nor potatoes, no bread nor tomatoes,But jerked beef as dry as the sole of your shoe;All day without drinking, all night without winking,I'll tell you, kind stranger, this never will do.Those great alligators, the State legislators,Are puffing and blowing two-thirds of their time,But windy orations about rangers and rationsNever put in our pockets one-tenth of a dime.They do not regard us, they will not reward us,Though hungry and haggard with holes in our coats;But the election is coming and they will be drummingAnd praising our valor to purchase our votes.For glory and payment, for vittles and raiment,No longer we'll fight on the Texas frontier.So guard your own ranches, and mind the ComanchesOr surely they'll scalp you in less than a year.Though sore it may grieve you, the rangers must leave youExposed to the arrows and knife of the foe;So herd your own cattle and fight your own battle,For home to the States I'm determined to go,—Where churches have steeples and laws are more equal,Where houses have people and ladies are kind;Where work is regarded and worth is rewarded;Where pumpkins are plenty and pockets are lined.Your wives and your daughters we have guarded from slaughter,Through conflicts and struggles I shudder to tell;No more well defend them, to God we'll commend them.To the frontier of Texas we bid a farewell.THE MELANCHOLY COWBOY
Come all you melancholy folks and listen unto me,I will sing you about the cowboy whose heart's so light and free;He roves all over the prairie and at night when he lays downHis heart's as gay as the flowers of May with his bed spread on the ground.They are a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them at least;But as long as you do not cross their trail, you can live with them in peace.But if you do, they're sure to rule, the day you come to their land,For they'll follow you up and shoot it out, they'll do it man to man.You can go to a cowboy hungry, go to him wet or dry,And ask him for a few dollars in change and he will not deny;He will pull out his pocket-book and hand you out a note,—Oh, they are the fellows to strike, boys, whenever you are broke.You can go to their ranches and often stay for weeks,And when you go to leave, boys, they'll never charge you a cent;But when they go to town, boys, you bet their money is spent.They walk right up, they take their drinks and they pay for every one.They never ask your pardon, boys, for a thing that they have done.They go to the ball-room, and swing the pretty girls around;They ride their bucking broncos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats;Their California saddles, their pants below their boots,You can hear their spurs go jing-a-ling, or perhaps somebody shoots.Come all you soft and tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun,Come go among the cowboys and they'll show you how it's done;But take the kind advice of me as I gave it to you before,For if you don't, they'll order you off with an old Colt's forty-four.BOB STANFORD
Bob Stanford, he's a Texas boy,He lives down on the flat;His trade is running a well-drill,But he's none the worse for that.He is neither rich nor handsome,But, unlike the city dude,His manners they are pleasantInstead of flip and rude.His people live in Texas,That is his native home,But like many other Western ladsHe drifted off from home.He came out to New MexicoA fortune for to make,He punched the bottom out of the earthAnd never made a stake.So he came to ArizonaAnd again set up his drillTo punch a hole for water,And he's punching at it still.He says he is determinedTo make the business stickOr spend that derned old well machineAnd all he can get on tick.I hope he is successfulAnd I'll help him if I can,For I admire pluck and ambitionIn an honest working man.So keep on going down,Punch the bottom out, or try,There is nothing in a hole in the groundThat continues being dry.CHARLIE RUTLAGE
Another good cow-puncher has gone to meet his fate,I hope he'll find a resting place within the golden gate.Another place is vacant on the ranch of the X I T,'Twill be hard to find another that's liked as well as he.The first that died was Kid White, a man both tough and brave,While Charlie Rutlage makes the third to be sent to his grave,Caused by a cow-horse falling while running after stock;'Twas on the spring round-up,—a place where death men mock.He went forward one morning on a circle through the hills,He was gay and full of glee, and free from earthly ills;But when it came to finish up the work on which he went,Nothing came back from him; for his time on earth was spent.'Twas as he rode the round-up, an X I T turned back to the herd;Poor Charlie shoved him in again, his cutting horse he spurred;Another turned; at that moment his horse the creature spiedAnd turned and fell with him, and beneath, poor Charlie died.His relations in Texas his face never more will see,But I hope he will meet his loved ones beyond in eternity.I hope he will meet his parents, will meet them face to face,And that they will grasp him by the right hand at the shining throne of grace.THE RANGE RIDERS
Come all you range riders and listen to me,I will relate you a story of the saddest degree,I will relate you a story of the deepest distress,—I love my poor Lulu, boys, of all girls the best.When you are out riding, boys, upon the highway,Meet a fair damsel, a lady so gay,With her red, rosy cheeks and her sparkling dark eyes,Just think of my Lulu, boys, and your bosoms will rise.While you live single, boys, you are just in your prime;You have no wife to scold, you have nothing to bother your minds;You can roam this world over and do just as you will,Hug and kiss the pretty girls and be your own still.But when you get married, boys, you are done with this life,You have sold your sweet comfort for to gain you a wife;Your wife she will scold you, and the children will cry,It will make those fair faces look withered and dry.You can scarcely step aside, boys, to speak to a friendBut your wife is at your elbow saying what do you mean.With her nose turned upon you it will look like sad news,—I advise you by experience that life to refuse.Come fill up your bottles, boys, drink Bourbon around;Here is luck to the single wherever they are found.Here is luck to the single and I wish them success,Likewise to the married ones, I wish them no less.I have one more request to make, boys, before we part.Never place your affection on a charming sweetheart.She is dancing before you your affections to gain;Just turn your back on them with scorn and disdain.HER WHITE BOSOM BARE
The sun had gone downO'er the hills of the west,And the last beams had fadedO'er the mossy hill's crest,O'er the beauties of natureAnd the charms of the fair,And Amanda was boundWith her white bosom bare.At the foot of the mountainAmanda did sighAt the hoot of an owlOr the catamount's cry;Or the howl of some wolfIn its low, granite cell,Or the crash of some largeForest tree as it fell.Amanda was thereAll friendless and forlornWith her face bathed in bloodAnd her garments all torn.The sunlight had fadedO'er the hills of the green,And fierce was the lookOf the wild, savage scene.For it was out in the forestWhere the wild game springs,Where low in the branchesThe rude hammock swings;The campfire was kindled,Well fanned by the breeze,And the light of the campfireShone round on the trees.The campfire was kindled,Well fanned by the breeze,And the light of the fireShone round on the trees;And grim stood the circleOf the warrior throng,Impatient to joinIn the war-dance and song.The campfire was kindled,Each warrior was there,And Amanda was boundWith her white bosom bare.She counted the vengeanceIn the face of her foesAnd sighed for the momentWhen her sufferings might close.Young Albon, he gazedOn the face of the fairWhile her dark hazel eyesWere uplifted in prayer;And her dark waving tressesIn ringlets did flowWhich hid from the gazerA bosom of snow.Then young Albon, the chiefOf the warriors, drew near,With an eye like an eagleAnd a step like a deer."Forbear," cried he,"Your torture forbear;This maiden shall live.By my wampum I swear."It is for this maiden's freedomThat I do crave;Give a sigh for her sufferingOr a tear for her grave.If there is a victimTo be burned at that tree,Young Albon, your leader,That victim shall be."Then quick to the armsOf Amanda he rushed;The rebel was dead,And the tumult was hushed;And grim stood the circleOf warriors aroundWhile the cords of AmandaYoung Albon unbound.So it was early next morningThe red, white, and blueWent gliding o'er the watersIn a small birch canoe;Just like the white swanThat glides o'er the tide,Young Albon and AmandaO'er the waters did ride.O'er the blue, bubbling water,Neath the evergreen trees,Young Albon and AmandaDid ride at their ease;And great was the joyWhen she stepped on the shoreTo embrace her dear fatherAnd mother once more.Young Albon, he stoodAnd enjoyed their embrace,With a sigh in his heartAnd a tear on his face;And all that he askedWas kindness and foodFrom the parents of AmandaTo the chief of the woods.Young Amanda is home now,As you all know,Enjoying the friendsOf her own native shore;Nevermore will she roamO'er the hills or the plains;She praises the chiefThat loosened her chains.
