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Various
Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads
OLD TIME COWBOY
Come all you melancholy folks wherever you may be,
I'll sing you about the cowboy whose life is light and free.
He roams about the prairie, and, at night when he lies down,
His heart is as gay as the flowers in May in his bed upon the ground.
They're a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them, at least;
But if you do not hunt a quarrel you can live with them in peace;
For if you do, you're sure to rue the day you joined their band.
They will follow you up and shoot it out with you just man to man.
Did you ever go to a cowboy whenever hungry and dry,
Asking for a dollar, and have him you deny?
He'll just pull out his pocket book and hand you a note,—
They are the fellows to help you whenever you are broke.
Go to their ranches and stay a while, they never ask a cent;
And when they go to town, their money is freely spent.
They walk straight up and take a drink, paying for every one,
And they never ask your pardon for anything they've done.
When they go to their dances, some dance while others pat
They ride their bucking bronchos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats;
With their California saddles, and their pants stuck in their boots,
You can hear their spurs a-jingling, and perhaps some of them shoots.
Come all soft-hearted tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun;
Go live among the cowboys, they'll show you how it's done.
They'll treat you like a prince, my boys, about them there's nothing mean;
But don't try to give them too much advice, for all of them ain't green.
BUCKING BRONCHO
My love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks,
Though he's promised to quit it, just for my sake.
He ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,
With a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.
The first time I met him, 'twas early one spring,
Riding a broncho, a high-headed thing.
He tipped me a wink as he gaily did go;
For he wished me to look at his bucking broncho.
The next time I saw him 'twas late in the fall,
Swinging the girls at Tomlinson's ball.
He laughed and he talked as we danced to and fro,
Promised never to ride on another broncho.
He made me some presents, among them a ring;
The return that I made him was a far better thing;
'Twas a young maiden's heart, I'd have you all know;
He's won it by riding his bucking broncho.
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 broncho.
Now all you young maidens, where'er you reside,
Beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide;
He'll court you and pet you and leave you and go
In the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho.
THE PECOS QUEEN
Where the Pecos River winds and turns in its journey to the sea,
From its white walls of sand and rock striving ever to be free,
Near the highest railroad bridge that all these modern times have seen,
Dwells fair young Patty Morehead, the Pecos River queen.
She is known by every cowboy on the Pecos River wide,
They know full well that she can shoot, that she can rope and ride.
She goes to every round-up, every cow work without fail,
Looking out for her cattle, branded "walking hog on rail."
She made her start in cattle, yes, made it with her rope;
Can tie down every maverick before it can strike a lope.
She can rope and tie and brand it as quick as any man;
She's voted by all cowboys an A-1 top cow hand.
Across the Comstock railroad bridge, the highest in the West,
Patty rode her horse one day, a lover's heart to test;
For he told her he would gladly risk all dangers for her sake—
But the puncher wouldn't follow, so she's still without a mate.
CHOPO
Through rocky arroyas so dark and so deep,
Down the sides of the mountains so slippery and steep,—
You've good judgment, sure-footed, wherever you go,
You're a safety conveyance, my little Chopo.
Refrain:—
Chopo, my pony, Chopo, my pride,
Chopo, my amigo, Chopo I will ride.
From Mexico's borders 'cross Texas' Llano
To the salt Pecos River, I ride you, Chopo.
Whether single or double or in the lead of the team,
Over highways or byways or crossing a stream,—
You're always in fix and willing to go,
Whenever you're called on, my chico Chopo.
You're a good roping horse, you were never jerked down,
When tied to a steer, you will circle him round;
Let him once cross the string and over he'll go,—
You sabe the business, my cow-horse, Chopo.
One day on the Llano a hailstorm began,
The herds were stampeded, the horses all ran,
The lightning it glittered, a cyclone did blow,
But you faced the sweet music, my little Chopo.
TOP HAND
While you're all so frisky I'll sing a little song,—
Think a little horn of whiskey will help the thing along?
It's all about the Top Hand, when he busted flat
Bummin' round the town, in his Mexican hat.
He's laid up all winter, and his pocket book is flat,
His clothes are all tatters, but he don't mind that.
See him in town with a crowd that he knows,
Rollin' cigarettes and smokin' through his nose.
First thing he tells you, he owns a certain brand,—
Leads you to think he is a daisy hand;
Next thing he tells you 'bout his trip up the trail,
All the way to Kansas, to finish out his tale.
Put him on a hoss, he's a handy hand to work;
Put him in the brandin'-pen, he's dead sure to shirk.
With his natural leaf tobacco in the pockets of his vest
He'll tell you his California pants are the best.
He's handled lots of cattle, hasn't any fears,
Can draw his sixty dollars for the balance of his years.
Put him on herd, he's a-cussin' all day;
Anything he tries, it's sure to get away.
When you have a round-up, he tells it all about
He's goin' to do the cuttin' an' you can't keep him out.
If anything goes wrong, he lays it on the screws,
Says the lazy devils were tryin' to take a snooze.
When he meets a greener he ain't afraid to rig,
Stands him on a chuck box and makes him dance a jig,—
Waves a loaded cutter, makes him sing and shout,—
He's a regular Ben Thompson when the boss ain't about.
When the boss ain't about he leaves his leggins in camp,
He swears a man who wears them is worse than a tramp.
Says he's not carin' for the wages he earns,
For Dad's rich in Texas,—got wagon loads to burn;
But when he goes to town, he's sure to take it in,
He's always been dreaded wherever he's been.
He rides a fancy horse, he's a favorite man,
Can get more credit than a common waddie can.
When you ship the cattle he's bound to go along
To keep the boss from drinking and see that nothing's wrong.
Wherever he goes, catch on to his name,
He likes to be called with a handle to his name.
He's always primping with a pocket looking-glass,
From the top to the bottom he's a bold Jackass.
CALIFORNIA TRAIL
List all you California boys
And open wide your ears,
For now we start across the plains
With a herd of mules and steers.
Now, bear in mind before you start,
That you'll eat jerked beef, not ham,
And antelope steak, Oh cuss the stuff!
It often proves a sham.
You cannot find a stick of wood
On all this prairie wide;
Whene'er you eat you've got to stand
Or sit on some old bull hide.
It's fun to cook with buffalo chips
Or mesquite, green as corn,—
If I'd once known what I know now
I'd have gone around Cape Horn.
The women have the hardest time
Who emigrate by land;
For when they cook out in the wind
They're sure to burn their hand.
Then they scold their husbands round,
Get mad and spill the tea,—
I'd have thanked my stars if they'd not come out
Upon this bleak prairie.
Most every night we put out guards
To keep the Indians off.
When night comes round some heads will ache,
And some begin to cough.
To be deprived of help at night,
You know is mighty hard,
But every night there's someone sick
To keep from standing guard.
Then they're always talking of what they've got,
And what they're going to do;
Some will say they're content,
For I've got as much as you.
Others will say, "I'll buy or sell,
I'm damned if I care which."
Others will say, "Boys, buy him out,
For he doesn't own a stitch."
Old raw-hide shoes are hell on corns
While tramping through the sands,
And driving jackass by the tail,—
Damn the overland!
I would as leaf be on a raft at sea
And there at once be lost.
John, let's leave the poor old mule,
We'll never get him across!
BRONC PEELER'S SONG
I've been upon the prairie,
I've been upon the plain,
I've never rid a steam-boat,
Nor a double-cinched-up train.
But I've driv my eight-up to wagon
That were locked three in a row,
And that through blindin' sand storms,
And all kinds of wind and snow.
Cho:—
Goodbye, Liza, poor gal,
Goodbye, Liza Jane,
Goodbye, Liza, poor gal,
She died on the plain.
There never was a place I've been
Had any kind of wood.
We burn the roots of bar-grass
And think it's very good.
I've never tasted home bread,
Nor cakes, nor muss like that;
But I know fried dough and beef
Pulled from red-hot tallow fat.
I hate to see the wire fence
A-closin' up the range;
And all this fillin' in the trail
With people that is strange.
We fellers don't know how to plow,
Nor reap the golden grain;
But to round up steers and brand the cows
To us was allus plain.
So when this blasted country
Is all closed in with wire,
And all the top, as trot grass,
Is burnin' in Sol's fire,
I hope the settlers will be glad
When rain hits the land.
And all us cowdogs are in hell
With a "set"9 joined hand in hand.
A DEER HUNT
One pleasant summer day it came a storm of snow;
I picked my old gun and a-hunting I did go.
I came across a herd of deer and I trailed them through the snow,
I trailed them to the mountains where straight up they did go.
I trailed them o'er the mountains, I trailed them to the brim,
And I trailed them to the waters where they jumped in to swim.
I cocked both my pistols and under water went,—
To kill the fattest of them deer, that was my whole intent.
While I was under water five hundred feet or more
I fired both my pistols; like cannons did they roar.
I picked up my venison and out of water came,—
To kill the balance of them deer, I thought it would be fun.
So I bent my gun in circles and fired round a hill.
And, out of three or four deer, ten thousand I did kill.
Then I picked up my venison and on my back I tied
And as the sun came passing by I hopped up there to ride.
The sun she carried me o'er the globe, so merrily I did roam
That in four and twenty hours I landed safe at home.
And the money I received for my venison and skin,
I taken it all to the barn door and it would not all go in.
And if you doubt the truth of this I tell you how to know:
Just take my trail and go my rounds, as I did, long ago.
WINDY BILL
Windy Bill was a Texas man,—
Well, he could rope, you bet.
He swore the steer he couldn't tie,—
Well, he hadn't found him yet.
But the boys they knew of an old black steer,
A sort of an old outlaw
That ran down in the malpais
At the foot of a rocky draw.
This old black steer had stood his ground
With punchers from everywhere;
So they bet old Bill at two to one
That he couldn't quite get there.
Then Bill brought out his old gray hoss,
His withers and back were raw,
And prepared to tackle the big black brute
That ran down in the draw.
With his brazen bit and his Sam Stack tree
His chaps and taps to boot,
And his old maguey tied hard and fast,
Bill swore he'd get the brute.
Now, first Bill sort of sauntered round
Old Blackie began to paw,
Then threw his tail straight in the air
And went driftin' down the draw.
The old gray plug flew after him,
For he'd been eatin' corn;
And Bill, he piled his old maguey
Right round old Blackie's horns.
The old gray hoss he stopped right still;
The cinches broke like straw,
And the old maguey and the Sam Stack tree
Went driftin' down the draw.
Bill, he lit in a flint rock pile,
His face and hands were scratched.
He said he thought he could rope a snake
But he guessed he'd met his match.
He paid his bets like a little man
Without a bit of jaw,
And lowed old Blackie was the boss
Of anything in the draw.
There's a moral to my story, boys,
And that you all must see.
Whenever you go to tie a snake,10
Don't tie it to your tree;
But take your dolly welters11
'Cordin' to California law,
And you'll never see your old rim-fire12
Go drifting down the draw.
WILD ROVERS
Come all you wild rovers
And listen to me
While I retail to you
My sad history.
I'm a man of experience
Your favors to gain,
Oh, love has been the ruin
Of many a poor man.
When you are single
And living at your ease
You can roam this world over
And do as you please;
You can roam this world over
And go where you will
And slyly kiss a pretty girl
And be your own still.
But when you are married
And living with your wife,
You've lost all the joys
And comforts of life.
Your wife she will scold you,
Your children will cry,
And that will make papa
Look withered and dry.
You can't step aside, boys,
To speak to a friend
Without your wife at your elbow
Saying, "What does this mean?"
Your wife, she will scold
And there is sad news.
Dear boys, take warning;
'Tis a life to refuse.
If you chance to be riding
Along the highway
And meet a fair maiden,
A lady so gay,
With red, rosy cheeks
And sparkling blue eyes,—
Oh, heavens! what a tumult
In your bosom will rise!
One more request, boys,
Before we must part:
Don't place your affections
On a charming sweetheart;
She'll dance before you
Your favors to gain.
Oh, turn your back on them
With scorn and disdain!
Come close to the bar, boys,
We'll drink all around.
We'll drink to the pure,
If any be found;
We'll drink to the single,
For I wish them success;
Likewise to the married,
For I wish them no less.
LIFE IN A HALF-BREED SHACK
'Tis life in a half-breed shack,
The rain comes pouring down;
"Drip" drops the mud through the roof,
And the wind comes through the wall.
A tenderfoot cursed his luck
And feebly cried out "yah!"
Refrain:
Yah! Yah! I want to go home to my ma!
Yah! Yah! this bloomin' country's a fraud!
Yah! Yah! I want to go home to my ma!
He tries to kindle a fire
When it's forty-five below;
He aims to chop at a log
And amputates his toe;
He hobbles back to the shack
And feebly cries out "yah"!
He gets on a bucking cayuse
And thinks to flourish around,
But the buzzard-head takes to bucking
And lays him flat out on the ground.
As he picks himself up with a curse,
He feebly cries out "yah"!
He buys all the town lots he can get
In the wrong end of Calgary,
And he waits and he waits for the boom
Until he's dead broke like me.
He couldn't get any tick
So he feebly cries out "yah"!
He couldn't do any work
And he wouldn't know how if he could;
So the police run him for a vag
And set him to bucking wood.
As he sits in the guard room cell,
He feebly cries out "yah"!
Come all ye tenderfeet
And listen to what I say,
If you can't get a government job
You had better remain where you be.
Then you won't curse your luck
And cry out feebly "yah"!
THE ROAD TO COOK'S PEAK
If you'll listen a while I'll sing you a song,
And as it is short it won't take me long.
There are some things of which I will speak
Concerning the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
Concerning the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.
It was in the morning at eight-forty-five,
I was hooking up all ready to drive
Out where the miners for minerals seek,
With two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak—
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
With two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.
With my two little mules I jog along
And try to cheer them with ditty and song;
O'er the wide prairie where coyotes sneak,
While driving the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
While driving the stage on the road to Cook's Peak.
Sometimes I have to haul heavy freight,
Then it is I get home very late.
In rain or shine, six days in the week,
'Tis the same little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
'Tis the same little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.
And when with the driving of stage I am through
I will to my two little mules bid adieu.
And hope that those creatures, so gentle and meek,
Will have a good friend on the road to Cook's Peak.
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
Will have a good friend on the road to Cook's Peak.
Now all kind friends that travel about,
Come take a trip on the Wallis stage route.
With a plenty of grit, they never get weak,—
Those two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
On the road to Cook's Peak,—
Those two little mules on the road to Cook's Peak.
ARAPHOE, OR BUCKSKIN JOE
'Twas a calm and peaceful evening in a camp called Araphoe,
And the whiskey was a running with a soft and gentle flow,
The music was a-ringing in a dance hall cross the way,
And the dancers was a-swinging just as close as they could lay.
People gathered round the tables, a-betting with their wealth,
And near by stood a stranger who had come there for his health.
He was a peaceful little stranger though he seemed to be unstrung;
For just before he'd left his home he'd separated with one lung.
Nearby at a table sat a man named Hankey Dean,
A tougher man says Hankey, buckskin chaps had never seen.
But Hankey was a gambler and he was plum sure to lose;
For he had just departed with a sun-dried stack of blues.
He rose from the table, on the floor his last chip flung,
And cast his fiery glimmers on the man with just one lung.
"No wonder I've been losing every bet I made tonight
When a sucker and a tenderfoot was between me and the light.
Look here, little stranger, do you know who I am?"
"Yes, and I don't care a copper colored damn."
The dealers stopped their dealing and the players held their breath;
For words like those to Hankey were a sudden flirt with death.
"Listen, gentle stranger, I'll read my pedigree:
I'm known on handling tenderfeet and worser men than thee;
The lions on the mountains, I've drove them to their lairs;
The wild-cats are my playmates, and I've wrestled grizzly bears;
"Why, the centipedes can't mar my tough old hide,
And rattle snakes have bit me and crawled off and died.
I'm as wild as the horse that roams the range;
The moss grows on my teeth and wild blood flows through my veins.
"I'm wild and woolly and full of fleas
And never curried below the knees.
Now, little stranger, if you'll give me your address,—
How would you like to go, by fast mail or express?"
The little stranger who was leaning on the door
Picked up a hand of playing cards that were scattered on the floor.
Picking out the five of spades, he pinned it to the door
And then stepped back some twenty paces or more.
He pulled out his life-preserver, and with a "one, two, three, four,"
Blotted out a spot with every shot;
For he had traveled with a circus and was a fancy pistol shot.
"I have one more left, kind sir, if you wish to call the play."
Then Hanke stepped up to the stranger and made a neat apology,
"Why, the lions in the mountains,—that was nothing but a joke.
Never mind about the extra, you are a bad shooting man,
And I'm a meek little child and as harmless as a lamb."
ROUNDED UP IN GLORY
I have been thinking to-day,
As my thoughts began to stray,
Of your memory to me worth more than gold.
As you ride across the plain,
'Mid the sunshine and the rain,—
You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye.
Chorus:
You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye,
You will be rounded up in glory bye and bye,
When the milling time is o'er
And you will stampede no more,
When he rounds you up within the Master's fold.
As you ride across the plain
With the cowboys that have fame,
And the storms and the lightning flash by.
We shall meet to part no more
Upon the golden shore
When he rounds us up in glory bye and bye.
May we lift our voices high
To that sweet bye and bye,
And be known by the brand of the Lord;
For his property we are,
And he will know us from afar
When he rounds us up in glory bye and bye.
THE DRUNKARD'S HELL
It was on a cold and stormy night
I saw and heard an awful sight;
The lightning flashed and thunder rolled
Around my poor benighted soul.
I thought I heard a mournful sound
Among the groans still lower down,
That awful sight no tongue can tell
Is this,—the place called Drunkard's Hell.
I thought I saw the gulf below
Where all the dying drunkards go.
I raised my hand and sad to tell
It was the place called Drunkard's Hell.
I traveled on and got there at last
And started to take a social glass;
But every time I started,—well,
I thought about the Drunkard's Hell.
I dashed it down to leave that place
And started to seek redeeming grace.
I felt like Paul, at once I'd pray
Till all my sins were washed away.
I then went home to change my life
And see my long neglected wife.
I found her weeping o'er the bed
Because her infant babe was dead.
I told her not to mourn and weep
Because her babe had gone to sleep;
Its happy soul had fled away
To dwell with Christ till endless day.
I taken her by her pale white hand,
She was so weak she could not stand;
I laid her down and breathed a prayer
That God might bless and save her there.
I then went to the Temperance hall
And taken a pledge among them all.
They taken me in with a willing hand
And taken me in as a temperance man.
So seven long years have passed away
Since first I bowed my knees to pray;
So now I live a sober life
With a happy home and a loving wife.