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Various
Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads

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BILLY VENERO

 
Billy Venero heard them say,
In an Arizona town one day.
That a band of Apache Indians were upon the trail of death;
Heard them tell of murder done,
Three men killed at Rocky Run,
"They're in danger at the cow-ranch," said Venero, under breath.
 
 
Cow-Ranch, forty miles away,
Was a little place that lay
In a deep and shady valley of the mighty wilderness;
Half a score of homes were there,
And in one a maiden fair
Held the heart of Billy Venero, Billy Venero's little Bess.
 
 
So no wonder he grew pale
When he heard the cowboy's tale
Of the men that he'd seen murdered the day before at Rocky Run.
"Sure as there's a God above,
I will save the girl I love;
By my love for little Bessie I will see that something's done."
 
 
Not a moment he delayed
When his brave resolve was made.
"Why man," his comrades told him when they heard of his daring plan,
"You are riding straight to death."
But he answered, "Save your breath;
I may never reach the cow-ranch but I'll do the best I can."
 
 
As he crossed the alkali
All his thoughts flew on ahead
To the little band at cow-ranch thinking not of danger near;
With his quirt's unceasing whirl
And the jingle of his spurs
Little brown Chapo bore the cowboy o'er the far away frontier.
 
 
Lower and lower sank the sun;
He drew rein at Rocky Run;
"Here those men met death, my Chapo," and he stroked his glossy mane;
"So shall those we go to warn
Ere the coming of the morn
If we fail,—God help my Bessie," and he started on again.
 
 
Sharp and clear a rifle shot
Woke the echoes of the spot.
"I am wounded," cried Venero, as he swayed from side to side;
"While there's life there's always hope;
Slowly onward I will lope,—
If I fail to reach the cow-ranch, Bessie Lee shall know I tried.
 
 
"I will save her yet," he cried,
"Bessie Lee shall know I tried,"
And for her sake then he halted in the shadow of a hill;
From his chapareras he took
With weak hands a little book;
Tore a blank leaf from its pages saying, "This shall be my will."
 
 
From a limb a pen he broke,
And he dipped his pen of oak
In the warm blood that was spurting from a wound above his heart.
"Rouse," he wrote before too late;
"Apache warriors lie in wait.
Good-bye, Bess, God bless you darling," and he felt the cold tears start.
 
 
Then he made his message fast,
Love's first message and its last,
To the saddle horn he tied it and his lips were white with pain,
"Take this message, if not me,
Straight to little Bessie Lee;"
Then he tied himself to the saddle, and he gave his horse the rein.
 
 
Just at dusk a horse of brown
Wet with sweat came panting down
The little lane at the cow-ranch, stopped in front of Bessie's door;
But the cowboy was asleep,
And his slumbers were so deep,
Little Bess could never wake him though she tried for evermore.
 
 
You have heard the story told
By the young and by the old,
Away down yonder at the cow-ranch the night the Apaches came;
Of that sharp and bloody fight,
How the chief fell in the fight
And the panic-stricken warriors when they heard Venero's name.
 
 
And the heavens and earth between
Keep a little flower so green
That little Bess had planted ere they laid her by his side.
 

DOGIE SONG

 
The cow-bosses are good-hearted chunks,
Some short, some heavy, more long;
But don't matter what he looks like,
They all sing the same old song.
On the plains, in the mountains, in the valleys,
In the south where the days are long,
The bosses are different fellows;
Still they sing the same old song.
 
 
"Sift along, boys, don't ride so slow;
Haven't got much time but a long round to go.
Quirt him in the shoulders and rake him down the hip;
I've cut you toppy mounts, boys, now pair off and rip.
Bunch the herd at the old meet,
Then beat 'em on the tail;
Whip 'em up and down the sides
And hit the shortest trail."
 

THE BOOZER

 
I'm a howler from the prairies of the West.
If you want to die with terror, look at me.
I'm chain-lightning—if I ain't, may I be blessed.
I'm the snorter of the boundless prairie.
 
 
He's a killer and a hater!
He's the great annihilator!
He's a terror of the boundless prairie.
 
 
I'm the snoozer from the upper trail!
I'm the reveler in murder and in gore!
I can bust more Pullman coaches on the rail
Than anyone who's worked the job before.
 
 
He's a snorter and a snoozer.
He's the great trunk line abuser.
He's the man who puts the sleeper on the rail.
 
 
I'm the double-jawed hyena from the East.
I'm the blazing, bloody blizzard of the States.
I'm the celebrated slugger; I'm the Beast.
I can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits.
 
 
He's a double-jawed hyena!
He's the villain of the scena!
He can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits.
 

DRINKING SONG

 
Drink that rot gut, drink that rot gut,
Drink that red eye, boys;
It don't make a damn wherever we land,
We hit her up for joy.
 
 
We've lived in the saddle and ridden trail,
Drink old Jordan, boys,
We'll go whooping and yelling, we'll all go a-helling;
Drink her to our joy.
 
 
Whoop-ee! drink that rot gut, drink that red nose,
Whenever you get to town;
Drink it straight and swig it mighty,
Till the world goes round and round!
 

A FRAGMENT

 
I'd rather hear a rattler rattle,
I'd rather buck stampeding cattle,
I'd rather go to a greaser battle,
Than—
Than to—
Than to fight—
Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
 
 
I'd rather eat a pan of dope,
I'd rather ride without a rope,
I'd rather from this country lope,
Than—
Than to—
Than to fight—
Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
 

A MAN NAMED HODS

 
Come, all you old cowpunchers, a story I will tell,
And if you'll all be quiet, I sure will sing it well;
And if you boys don't like it, you sure can go to hell.
 
 
Back in the day when I was young, I knew a man named Hods;
He wasn't fit fer nothin' 'cep turnin' up the clods.
 
 
But he came west in fifty-three, behind a pair of mules,
And 'twas hard to tell between the three which was the biggest fools.
 
 
Up on the plains old Hods he got and there his trouble began.
Oh, he sure did get in trouble,—and old Hodsie wasn't no man.
 
 
He met a bunch of Indian bucks led by Geronimo,
And what them Indians did to him, well, shorely I don't know.
 
 
But they lifted off old Hodsie's skelp and left him out to die,
And if it hadn't been for me, he'd been in the sweet by and by.
 
 
But I packed him back to Santa Fé and there I found his mules,
For them dad-blamed two critters had got the Indians fooled.
 
 
I don't know how they done it, but they shore did get away,
And them two mules is livin' up to this very day.
 
 
Old Hodsie's feet got toughened up, he got to be a sport,
He opened up a gamblin' house and a place of low resort;
 
 
He got the prettiest dancing girls that ever could be found,—
Them girls' feet was like rubber balls and they never staid on the ground.
 
 
And then thar came Billy the Kid, he envied Hodsie's wealth,
He told old Hods to leave the town, 'twould be better for his health;
Old Hodsie took the hint and got, but he carried all his wealth.
 
 
And he went back to Noo York State with lots of dinero,
And now they say he's senator, but of that I shore don't know.
 

A FRAGMENT

 
I am fur from my sweetheart
And she is fur from me,
And when I'll see my sweetheart
I can't tell when 'twill be.
 
 
But I love her just the same,
No matter where I roam;
And that there girl will wait fur me
Whenever I come home.
 
 
I've roamed the Texas prairies,
I've followed the cattle trail,
I've rid a pitching pony
Till the hair came off his tail.
 
 
I've been to cowboy dances,
I've kissed the Texas girls,
But they ain't none what can compare
With my own sweetheart's curls.
 

THE LONE STAR TRAIL

 
I'm a rowdy cowboy just off the stormy plains,
My trade is girting saddles and pulling bridle reins.
Oh, I can tip the lasso, it is with graceful ease;
I rope a streak of lightning, and ride it where I please.
My bosses they all like me, they say I am hard to beat;
I give them the bold standoff, you bet I have got the cheek.
I always work for wages, my pay I get in gold;
I am bound to follow the longhorn steer until I am too old.
 
 
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
 
 
I am a Texas cowboy and I do ride the range;
My trade is cinches and saddles and ropes and bridle reins;
With Stetson hat and jingling spurs and leather up to the knees,
Gray backs as big as chili beans and fighting like hell with fleas.
And if I had a little stake, I soon would married be,
But another week and I must go, the boss said so to-day.
My girl must cheer up courage and choose some other one,
For I am bound to follow the Lone Star Trail until my race is run.
 
 
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
 
 
It almost breaks my heart for to have to go away,
And leave my own little darling, my sweetheart so far away.
But when I'm out on the Lone Star Trail often I'll think of thee,
Of my own dear girl, the darling one, the one I would like to see.
And when I get to a shipping point, I'll get on a little spree
To drive away the sorrow for the girl that once loved me.
And though red licker stirs us up we're bound to have our fun,
And I intend to follow the Lone Star Trail until my race is run.
 
 
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
 
 
I went up the Lone Star Trail in eighteen eighty-three;
I fell in love with a pretty miss and she in love with me.
"When you get to Kansas write and let me know;
And if you get in trouble, your bail I'll come and go."
When I got up in Kansas, I had a pleasant dream;
I dreamed I was down on Trinity, down on that pleasant stream;
I dreampt my true love right beside me, she come to go my bail;
I woke up broken hearted with a yearling by the tail.
 
 
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
 
 
In came my jailer about nine o'clock,
A bunch of keys was in his hand, my cell door to unlock,
Saying, "Cheer up, my prisoner, I heard some voice say
You're bound to hear your sentence some time to-day."
In came my mother about ten o'clock,
Saying, "O my loving Johnny, what sentence have you got?"
"The jury found me guilty and the judge a-standin' by
Has sent me down to Huntsville to lock me up and die."
 
 
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
 
 
Down come the jailer, just about eleven o'clock,
With a bunch of keys all in his hand the cell doors to unlock,
Saying, "Cheer up, my prisoner, I heard the jury say
Just ten long years in Huntsville you're bound to go and stay."
Down come my sweetheart, ten dollars in her hand,
Saying, "Give this to my cowboy, 'tis all that I command;
O give this to my cowboy and think of olden times,
Think of the darling that he has left behind."
 
 
Ci yi yip yip yip pe ya.
 

WAY DOWN IN MEXICO

 
O boys, we're goin' far to-night,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
We'll take the greasers now in hand
And drive 'em in the Rio Grande,
Way down in Mexico.
 
 
We'll hang old Santa Anna soon,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
And all the greaser soldiers, too,
To the chune of Yankee Doodle Doo,
Way down in Mexico.
 
 
We'll scatter 'em like flocks of sheep,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
We'll mow 'em down with rifle ball
And plant our flag right on their wall,
Way down in Mexico.
 
 
Old Rough and Ready, he's a trump,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
He'll wipe old Santa Anna out
And put the greasers all to rout,
Way down in Mexico.
 
 
Then we'll march back by and by,
Yeo-ho, yeo-ho!
And kiss the gals we left to home
And never more we'll go and roam,
Way down in Mexico.
 

RATTLESNAKE—A RANCH HAYING SONG

 
A nice young ma-wa-wan
Lived on a hi-wi-will;
A nice young ma-wa-wan,
For I knew him we-we-well.
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
This nice young ma-wa-wan
Went out to mo-wo-wow
To see if he-we-we
Could make a sho-wo-wow.
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
He scarcely mo-wo-wowed
Half round the fie-we-wield
Till up jumped—come a rattle, come a sna-wa-wake,
And bit him on the he-we-weel.
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
He laid right dow-we-wown
Upon the gro-wo-wound
And shut his ey-wy-wyes
And looked all aro-wo-wound.
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
"O pappy da-wa-wad,
Go tell my ga-wa-wal
That I'm a-goin' ter di-wi-wie,
For I know I sha-wa-wall."
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
"O pappy da-wa-wad,
Go spread the ne-wu-wus;
And here come Sa-wa-wall
Without her sho-woo-woos."
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
"O John, O Joh-wa-wahn,
Why did you go-wo-wo
Way down in the mea-we-we-dow
So far to mo-wo-wow?"
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
"O Sal, O Sa-wa-wall,
Why don't you kno-wo-wow
When the grass gits ri-wi-wipe,
It must be mo-wo-woed?"
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
Come all young gir-wi-wirls
And shed a tea-we-wear
For this young ma-wa-wan
That died right he-we-were.
 
 
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 
 
Come all young me-we-wen
And warning ta-wa-wake,
And don't get bi-wi-wit
By a rattle sna-wa-wake.
To my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree!
 

THE RAILROAD CORRAL

 
Oh we're up in the morning ere breaking of day,
The chuck wagon's busy, the flapjacks in play;
The herd is astir o'er hillside and vale,
With the night riders rounding them into the trail.
Oh, come take up your cinches, come shake out your reins;
Come wake your old broncho and break for the plains;
Come roust out your steers from the long chaparral,
For the outfit is off to the railroad corral.
 
 
The sun circles upward; the steers as they plod
Are pounding to powder the hot prairie sod;
And it seems as the dust makes you dizzy and sick
That we'll never reach noon and the cool, shady creek.
But tie up your kerchief and ply up your nag;
Come dry up your grumbles and try not to lag;
Come with your steers from the long chaparral,
For we're far on the road to the railroad corral.
 
 
The afternoon shadows are starting to lean,
When the chuck wagon sticks in the marshy ravine;
The herd scatters farther than vision can look,
For you can bet all true punchers will help out the cook.
Come shake out your rawhide and snake it up fair;
Come break your old broncho to take in his share;
Come from your steers in the long chaparral,
For 'tis all in the drive to the railroad corral.
 
 
But the longest of days must reach evening at last,
The hills all climbed, the creeks all past;
The tired herd droops in the yellowing light;
Let them loaf if they will, for the railroad's in sight
So flap up your holster and snap up your belt,
And strap up your saddle whose lap you have felt;
Good-bye to the steers from the long chaparral,
For there's a town that's a trunk by the railroad corral.
 

THE SONG OF THE "METIS" TRAPPER

By Rolette

 
Hurrah for the great white way!
Hurrah for the dog and sledge!
As we snow-shoe along,
We give them a song,
With a snap of the whip and an urgent "mush on,"—
Hurrah for the great white way! Hurrah!
 
 
Hurrah for the snow and the ice!
As we follow the trail,
We call to the dogs with whistle and song,
And reply to their talk
With only "mush on, mush on"!
Hurrah for the snow and the ice! Hurrah!
 
 
Hurrah for the gun and the trap,—
As we follow the lines
By the rays of the mystic light
That flames in the north with banners so bright,
As we list to its swish, swish, swish, through the air all night,
Hurrah for the gun and the trap! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
 
 
Hurrah for the fire and cold!
As we lie in the robes all night.
And list to the howl of the wolf;
For we emptied the pot of the tea so hot,
And a king on his throne might envy our lot,—
Hurrah for the fire and cold! Hurrah!
 
 
Hurrah for our black-haired girls,
Who brave the storms of the mountain heights
And follow us on the great white way;
For their eyes so bright light the way all right
And guide us to shelter and warmth each night.
Hurrah for our black-haired girls! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
 

THE CAMP FIRE HAS GONE OUT

 
Through progress of the railroads our occupation's gone;
So we will put ideas into words, our words into a song.
First comes the cowboy, he is pointed for the west;
Of all the pioneers I claim the cowboys are the best;
You will miss him on the round-up, it's gone, his merry shout,—
The cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out.
 
 
There is the freighters, our companions, you've got to leave this land,
Can't drag your loads for nothing through the gumbo and the sand.
The railroads are bound to beat you when you do your level best;
So give it up to the grangers and strike out for the west.
Bid them all adieu and give the merry shout,—
The cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out.
 
 
When I think of those good old days, my eyes with tears do fill;
When I think of the tin can by the fire and the cayote on the hill.
I'll tell you, boys, in those days old-timers stood a show,—
Our pockets full of money, not a sorrow did we know.
But things have changed now, we are poorly clothed and fed.
Our wagons are all broken and our ponies most all dead.
Soon we will leave this country, you'll hear the angels shout,
"Oh, here they come to Heaven, the campfire has gone out."
 

NIGHT-HERDING SONG

By Harry Stephens

 
Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round,
You have wandered and tramped all over the ground;
Oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow,
And don't forever be on the go,—
Oh, move slow, dogies, move slow.
 
 
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
 
 
I have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, and cross-herded, too,
But to keep you together, that's what I can't do;
My horse is leg weary and I'm awful tired,
But if I let you get away I'm sure to get fired,—
Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up.
 
 
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
 
 
O say, little dogies, when you goin' to lay down
And quit this forever siftin' around?
My limbs are weary, my seat is sore;
Oh, lay down, dogies, like you've laid before,—
Lay down, little dogies, lay down.
 
 
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
 
 
Oh, lay still, dogies, since you have laid down,
Stretch away out on the big open ground;
Snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild sound
That will all go away when the day rolls round,—
Lay still, little dogies, lay still.
 
 
Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.
. . . . . .
 

TAIL PIECE

 
Oh, the cow-puncher loves the whistle of his rope,
As he races over the plains;
And the stage-driver loves the popper of his whip,
And the rattle of his concord chains;
And we'll all pray the Lord that we will be saved,
And we'll keep the golden rule;
But I'd rather be home with the girl I love
Than to monkey with this goddamn'd mule.
. . . . . . . . . . .
 

THE HABIT⁵

 
I've beat my way wherever any winds have blown,
I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone,
From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill;
For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
 
 
I settles down quite frequent and I says, says I,
"I'll never wander further till I comes to die."
But the wind it sorta chuckles, "Why, o' course you will,"
And shure enough I does it, cause I can't keep still.
 
 
I've seed a lot o' places where I'd like to stay,
But I gets a feelin' restless and I'm on my way.
I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill,
And once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
 
 
I've been in rich men's houses and I've been in jail,
But when it's time for leavin', I jes hits the trail;
I'm a human bird of passage, and the song I trill,
Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."
 
 
The sun is sorta coaxin' and the road is clear
And the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.
It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill;
For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
 

OLD PAINT⁶

 
REFRAIN:
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne,
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne,—
 
 
My foot in the stirrup, my pony won't stand;
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
 
 
I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, I'm off for Montan';
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
 
 
I'm a ridin' Old Paint, I'm a-leadin' old Fan;
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
 
 
With my feet in the stirrups, my bridle in my hand;
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
 
 
Old Paint's a good pony, he paces when he can;
Goodbye, little Annie, I'm off for Cheyenne.
 
 
Oh, hitch up your horses and feed 'em some hay,
And seat yourself by me so long as you stay.
 
 
My horses ain't hungry, they'll not eat your hay;
My wagon is loaded and rolling away.
 
 
My foot in my stirrup, my reins in my hand;
Good-morning, young lady, my horses won't stand.
 
 
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.
 

DOWN SOUTH ON THE RIO GRANDE

 
From way down south on the Rio Grande,
Roll on steers for the Post Oak Sand,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
 
 
You'd laugh fur to see that fellow a-straddle
Of a mustang mare on a raw-hide saddle,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
 
 
Rich as a king, and he wouldn't be bigger
Fur a pitchin' hoss and a lame old nigger,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
 
 
Ole Abe kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger,
'Til he bust hisself 'bout a lame old nigger,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
 
 
Old Jeff swears he'll sew him together
With powder and shot instead of leather,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
 
 
Kin cuss an' fight an' hold or free 'em,
But I know them mavericks when I see 'em,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.