Cowboy Songs Part 13

THE OLD SCOUT'S LAMENT

Come all of you, my brother scouts, And join me in my song; Come, let us sing together Though the shadows fall so long.

Of all the old frontiersmen That used to scour the plain, There are but very few of them That with us yet remain.

Day after day they're dropping off, They're going one by one; Our clan is fast decreasing, Our race is almost run.

There were many of our number That never wore the blue, But, faithfully, they did their part, As brave men, tried and true.

They never joined the army, But had other work to do In piloting the coming folks, To help them safely through.

But, brothers, we are falling, Our race is almost run; The days of elk and buffalo And beaver traps are gone.

Oh, the days of elk and buffalo!

It fills my heart with pain To know these days are past and gone To never come again.

We fought the red-skin rascals Over valley, hill, and plain; We fought him in the mountain top, And fought him down again.

These fighting days are over; The Indian yell resounds No more along the border; Peace sends far sweeter sounds.

But we found great joy, old comrades, To hear, and make it die; We won bright homes for gentle ones, And now, our West, good-bye.

THE LONE BUFFALO HUNTER

It's of those Texas cowboys, a story I'll tell; No name I will mention though in Texas they do dwell.

Go find them where you will, they are all so very brave, And when in good society they seldom misbehave.

When the fall work is all over in the line-camp they'll be found, For they have to ride those lonesome lines the long winter round; They prove loyal to a comrade, no matter what's to do; And when in love with a fair one they seldom prove untrue.

But springtime comes at last and finds them glad and gay; They ride out to the round-up about the first of May; About the first of August they start up the trail, They have to stay with the cattle, no matter rain or hail.

But when they get to the s.h.i.+pping point, then they receive their tens, Straightway to the bar-room and gently blow them in; It's the height of their ambition, so I've been truly told, To ride good horses and saddles and spend the silver and gold.

Those last two things I've mentioned, it is their heart's desire, And when they leave the s.h.i.+pping point, their eyes are like b.a.l.l.s of fire.

It's of those fighting cattle, they seem to have no fear, A-riding bucking broncos oft is their heart's desire.

They will ride into the branding pen, a rope within their hands, They will catch them by each forefoot and bring them to the sands; It's altogether in practice with a little bit of sleight, A-roping Texas cattle, it is their heart's delight.

But now comes the rising generation to take the cowboy's place, Likewise the corn-fed granger, with his bold and cheeky face; It's on those plains of Texas a lone buffalo hunter does stand To tell the fate of the cowboy that rode at his right hand.

THE CROOKED TRAIL TO HOLBROOK

Come all you jolly cowboys that follow the bronco steer, I'll sing to you a verse or two your spirits for to cheer; It's all about a trip, a trip that I did undergo On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.

It's on the seventeenth of February, our herd it started out, It would have made your hearts shudder to hear them bawl and shout, As wild as any buffalo that ever rode the Platte, Those dogies we were driving, and every one was fat.

We crossed the Mescal Mountains on the way to Gilson Flats, And when we got to Gilson Flats, Lord, how the wind did blow; It blew so hard, it blew so fierce, we knew not where to go, But our spirits never failed us as onward we did go,-- On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.

That night we had a stampede; Christ, how the cattle run!

We made it to our horses; I tell you, we had no fun; Over the p.r.i.c.kly pear and catclaw brush we quickly made our way; We thought of our long journey and the girls we'd left one day.

It's long by Sombserva we slowly punched along, While each and every puncher would sing a hearty song To cheer up his comrade as onward we did go, On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.

We crossed the Mongollen Mountains where the tall pines do grow, Gra.s.s grows in abundance, and rippling streams do flow; Our packs were always turning, of course our gait was slow, On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.

At last we got to Holbrook, a little gale did blow; It blew up sand and pebble stones and it didn't blow them slow.

We had to drink the water from that muddy little stream And swallowed a peck of dirt when we tried to eat a bean.

But the cattle now are s.h.i.+pped and homeward we are bound With a lot of as tired horses as ever could be found; Across the reservation no danger did we fear, But thought of wives and sweethearts and the ones we love so dear.

Now we are back in Globe City, our friends.h.i.+p there to share; Here's luck to every puncher that follows the bronco steer.

ONLY A COWBOY

Away out in old Texas, that great lone star state, Where the mocking bird whistles both early and late; It was in Western Texas on the old N A range The boy fell a victim on the old staked plains.

He was only a cowboy gone on before, He was only a cowboy, we will never see more; He was doing his duty on the old N A range But now he is sleeping on the old staked plains.

His crew they were numbered twenty-seven or eight, The boys were like brothers, their friends.h.i.+p was great, When "O G.o.d, have mercy" was heard from behind,-- The cattle were left to drift on the line.

He leaves a dear wife and little ones, too, To earn them a living, as fathers oft do; For while he was working for the loved ones so dear He was took without warning or one word of cheer.

And while he is sleeping where the sun always s.h.i.+nes, The boys they go das.h.i.+ng along on the line; The look on their faces it speaks to us all Of one who departed to the home of the soul.

He was only a cowboy gone on before, He was only a cowboy, we will never see more; He was doing his duty on the old N A range But now he is sleeping on the old staked plains.

FULLER AND WARREN

Ye sons of Columbia, your attention I do crave, While a sorrowful story I do tell, Which happened of late, in the Indiana state, And a hero not many could excel; Like Samson he courted, made choice of the fair, And intended to make her his wife; But she, like Delilah, his heart did ensnare, Which cost him his honor and his life.