Cowboy Songs Part 10

Some boys goes up the trail for pleasure, But that's where you get it most awfully wrong; For you haven't any idea the trouble they give us While we go driving them all along.

When the night comes on and we hold them on the bedground, These little dogies that roll on so slow; Roll up the herd and cut out the strays, And roll the little dogies that never rolled before.

Your mother she was raised way down in Texas, Where the jimson weed and sand-burrs grow; Now we'll fill you up on p.r.i.c.kly pear and cholla Till you are ready for the trail to Idaho.

Oh, you'll be soup for Uncle Sam's Injuns; "It's beef, heap beef," I hear them cry.

Git along, git along, git along little dogies You're going to be beef steers by and by.

Whoopee Ti Yi Yo, Git Along Little Dogies (Mus. Not.)

As I was a-walk-ing one morn-ing for pleasure, I spied a cow-punch-er all rid-ing a-lone; His hat was throw'd back and his spurs was a-jing-lin', As he ap-proach'd me a-sing-in' this song:

REFRAIN.

Whoopee ti yi yo, git a-long little dog-ies, Its your mis-for-tune and none of my own.

Whoop-ee ti yi yo, git a-long lit-tie dog-ies, For you know Wy-o-ming will be your new home.

THE U-S-U RANGE

O come cowboys and listen to my song, I'm in hopes I'll please you and not keep you long; I'll sing you of things you may think strange About West Texas and the U-S-U range.

You may go to Stamford and there see a man Who wears a white s.h.i.+rt and is asking for hands; You may ask him for work and he'll answer you short, He will hurry you up, for he wants you to start.

He will put you in a wagon and be off in the rain, You will go up on Tongue River on the U-S-U range.

You will drive up to the ranch and there you will stop.

It's a little sod house with dirt all on top.

You will ask what it is and they will tell you out plain That it's the ranch house on the U-S-U range.

You will go in the house and he will begin to explain; You will see some blankets rolled up on the floor; You may ask what it is and they will tell you out plain That it is the bedding on the U-S-U range.

You are up in the morning at the daybreak To eat cold beef and U-S-U steak, And out to your work no matter if it's rain,-- And that is the life on the U-S-U range.

You work hard all day and come in at night, And turn your horse loose, for they say it's all right, And set down to supper and begin to complain Of the chuck that you eat on the U-S-U range.

The grub that you get is beans and cold rice And U-S-U steak cooked up very nice; And if you don't like that you needn't complain, For that's what you get on the U-S-U range.

Now, kind friends, I must leave you, I no longer can remain, I hope I have pleased you and given you no pain.

But when I am gone, don't think me strange, For I have been a cow-puncher on the U-S-U range.

I'M A GOOD OLD REBEL

Oh, I'm a good old rebel, that's what I am; And for this land of freedom, I don't care a d.a.m.n, I'm glad I fought agin her, I only wish we'd won, And I don't axe any pardon for anything I've done.

I served with old Bob Lee, three years about, Got wounded in four places and starved at Point Lookout; I caught the rheumatism a-campin' in the snow, But I killed a _chance_ of Yankees and wish I'd killed some mo'.

For I'm a good old rebel, etc.

I hate the const.i.toos.h.i.+n, this great republic too; I hate the mouty eagle, an' the uniform so blue; I hate their glorious banner, an' all their flags an' fuss, Those lyin', thievin' Yankees, I hate 'em wuss an' wuss.

For I'm a good old rebel, etc.

I won't be re-constructed! I'm better now than them; And for a carpet-bagger, I don't give a d.a.m.n; So I'm off for the frontier, soon as I can go, I'll prepare me a weapon and start for Mexico.

For I'm a good old rebel, etc.

THE COWBOY

All day long on the prairies I ride, Not even a dog to trot by my side; My fire I kindle with chips gathered round, My coffee I boil without being ground.

I wash in a pool and wipe on a sack; I carry my wardrobe all on my back; For want of an oven I cook bread in a pot, And sleep on the ground for want of a cot.

My ceiling is the sky, my floor is the gra.s.s, My music is the lowing of the herds as they pa.s.s; My books are the brooks, my sermons the stones, My parson is a wolf on his pulpit of bones.

And then if my cooking is not very complete You can't blame me for wanting to eat.

But show me a man that sleeps more profound Than the big puncher-boy who stretches himself on the ground.

My books teach me ever consistence to prize, My sermons, that small things I should not despise; My parson remarks from his pulpit of bones That fortune favors those who look out for their own.

And then between me and love lies a gulf very wide.

Some lucky fellow may call her his bride.

My friends gently hint I am coming to grief, But men must make money and women have beef.

But Cupid is always a friend to the bold, And the best of his arrows are pointed with gold.

Society bans me so savage and dodge That the Masons would ball me out of their lodge.

If I had hair on my chin, I might pa.s.s for the goat That bore all the sins in the ages remote; But why it is I can never understand, For each of the patriarchs owned a big brand.

Abraham emigrated in search of a range, And when water was scarce he wanted a change; Old Isaac owned cattle in charge of Esau, And Jacob punched cows for his father-in-law.

He started in business way down at bed rock, And made quite a streak at handling stock; Then David went from night-herding to using a sling; And, winning the battle, he became a great king.

Then the shepherds, while herding the sheep on a hill, Got a message from heaven of peace and goodwill.