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Various
Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads
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 down
His 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 pleasant
Instead of flip and rude.
His people live in Texas,
That is his native home,
But like many other Western lads
He drifted off from home.
He came out to New Mexico
A fortune for to make,
He punched the bottom out of the earth
And never made a stake.
So he came to Arizona
And again set up his drill
To punch a hole for water,
And he's punching at it still.
He says he is determined
To make the business stick
Or spend that derned old well machine
And all he can get on tick.
I hope he is successful
And I'll help him if I can,
For I admire pluck and ambition
In an honest working man.
So keep on going down,
Punch the bottom out, or try,
There is nothing in a hole in the ground
That 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 spied
And 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 friend
But 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 down
O'er the hills of the west,
And the last beams had faded
O'er the mossy hill's crest,
O'er the beauties of nature
And the charms of the fair,
And Amanda was bound
With her white bosom bare.
At the foot of the mountain
Amanda did sigh
At the hoot of an owl
Or the catamount's cry;
Or the howl of some wolf
In its low, granite cell,
Or the crash of some large
Forest tree as it fell.
Amanda was there
All friendless and forlorn
With her face bathed in blood
And her garments all torn.
The sunlight had faded
O'er the hills of the green,
And fierce was the look
Of the wild, savage scene.
For it was out in the forest
Where the wild game springs,
Where low in the branches
The rude hammock swings;
The campfire was kindled,
Well fanned by the breeze,
And the light of the campfire
Shone round on the trees.
The campfire was kindled,
Well fanned by the breeze,
And the light of the fire
Shone round on the trees;
And grim stood the circle
Of the warrior throng,
Impatient to join
In the war-dance and song.
The campfire was kindled,
Each warrior was there,
And Amanda was bound
With her white bosom bare.
She counted the vengeance
In the face of her foes
And sighed for the moment
When her sufferings might close.
Young Albon, he gazed
On the face of the fair
While her dark hazel eyes
Were uplifted in prayer;
And her dark waving tresses
In ringlets did flow
Which hid from the gazer
A bosom of snow.
Then young Albon, the chief
Of the warriors, drew near,
With an eye like an eagle
And 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 freedom
That I do crave;
Give a sigh for her suffering
Or a tear for her grave.
If there is a victim
To be burned at that tree,
Young Albon, your leader,
That victim shall be."
Then quick to the arms
Of Amanda he rushed;
The rebel was dead,
And the tumult was hushed;
And grim stood the circle
Of warriors around
While the cords of Amanda
Young Albon unbound.
So it was early next morning
The red, white, and blue
Went gliding o'er the waters
In a small birch canoe;
Just like the white swan
That glides o'er the tide,
Young Albon and Amanda
O'er the waters did ride.
O'er the blue, bubbling water,
Neath the evergreen trees,
Young Albon and Amanda
Did ride at their ease;
And great was the joy
When she stepped on the shore
To embrace her dear father
And mother once more.
Young Albon, he stood
And enjoyed their embrace,
With a sigh in his heart
And a tear on his face;
And all that he asked
Was kindness and food
From the parents of Amanda
To the chief of the woods.
Young Amanda is home now,
As you all know,
Enjoying the friends
Of her own native shore;
Nevermore will she roam
O'er the hills or the plains;
She praises the chief
That loosened her chains.
JUAN MURRAY
My name is Juan Murray, and hard for my fate,
I was born and raised in Texas, that good old lone star state.
I have been to many a round-up, boys, have worked on the trail,
Have stood many a long old guard through the rain, yes, sleet, and hail;
I have rode the Texas broncos that pitched from morning till noon,
And have seen many a storm, boys, between sunrise, yes, and noon.
I am a jolly cowboy and have roamed all over the West,
And among the bronco riders I rank among the best.
But when I left old Midland, with voice right then I spoke,—
"I never will see you again until the day I croak."
But since I left old Texas so many sights I have saw
A-traveling from my native state way out to Mexico,—
I am looking all around me and cannot help but smile
To see my nearest neighbors all in the Mexican style.
I left my home in Texas to dodge the ball and chain.
In the State of Sonora I will forever remain.
Farewell to my mother, my friends that are so dear,
I would like to see you all again, my lonesome heart to cheer.
I have a word to speak, boys, only another to say,—
Don't never be a cow-thief, don't never ride a stray;
Be careful of your line, boys, and keep it on your tree,—
Just suit yourself about it, for it is nothing to me.
But if you start to rustling you will come to some sad fate,
You will have to go to prison and work for the state.
Don't think that I am lying and trying to tell a joke,
For the writer has experienced just every word he's spoke.
It is better to be honest and let other's stock alone
Than to leave your native country and seek a Mexican home.
For if you start to rustling you will surely come to see
The State of Sonora,—be an outcast just like me.
GREER COUNTY
Tom Hight is my name, an old bachelor I am,
You'll find me out West in the country of fame,
You'll find me out West on an elegant plain,
And starving to death on my government claim.
Hurrah for Greer County!
The land of the free,
The land of the bed-bug,
Grass-hopper and flea;
I'll sing of its praises
And tell of its fame,
While starving to death
On my government claim.
My house is built of natural sod,
Its walls are erected according to hod;
Its roof has no pitch but is level and plain,
I always get wet if it happens to rain.
How happy am I on my government claim,
I've nothing to lose, and nothing to gain;
I've nothing to eat, I've nothing to wear,—
From nothing to nothing is the hardest fare.
How happy am I when I crawl into bed,—
A rattlesnake hisses a tune at my head,
A gay little centipede, all without fear,
Crawls over my pillow and into my ear.
Now all you claim holders, I hope you will stay
And chew your hard tack till you're toothless and gray;
But for myself, I'll no longer remain
To starve like a dog on my government claim.
My clothes are all ragged as my language is rough,
My bread is corn dodgers, both solid and tough;
But yet I am happy, and live at my ease
On sorghum molasses, bacon, and cheese.
Good-bye to Greer County where blizzards arise,
Where the sun never sinks and a flea never dies,
And the wind never ceases but always remains
Till it starves us all out on our government claims.
Farewell to Greer County, farewell to the West,
I'll travel back East to the girl I love best,
I'll travel back to Texas and marry me a wife,
And quit corn bread for the rest of my life.
ROSIN THE BOW
I live for the good of my nation
And my sons are all growing low,
But I hope that my next generation
Will resemble Old Rosin the Bow.
I have traveled this wide world all over,
And now to another I'll go,
For I know that good quarters are waiting
To welcome Old Rosin the Bow.
The gay round of delights I have traveled,
Nor will I behind leave a woe,
For while my companions are jovial
They'll drink to Old Rosin the Bow.
This life now is drawn to a closing,
All will at last be so,
Then we'll take a full bumper at parting
To the name of Old Rosin the Bow.
When I am laid out on the counter,
And the people all anxious to know,
Just raise up the lid of the coffin
And look at Old Rosin the Bow.
And when through the streets my friends bear me,
And the ladies are filled with deep woe,
They'll come to the doors and the windows
And sigh for Old Rosin the Bow.
Then get some fine, jovial fellows,
And let them all staggering go;
Then dig a deep hole in the meadow
And in it toss Rosin the Bow.
Then get a couple of dornicks,
Place one at my head and my toe,
And do not forget to scratch on them,
"Here lies Old Rosin the Bow."
Then let those same jovial fellows
Surround my lone grave in a row,
While they drink from my favorite bottle
The health of Old Rosin the Bow.
THE GREAT ROUND-UP
When I think of the last great round-up
On the eve of eternity's dawn,
I think of the past of the cowboys
Who have been with us here and are gone.
And I wonder if any will greet me
On the sands of the evergreen shore
With a hearty, "God bless you, old fellow,"
That I've met with so often before.
I think of the big-hearted fellows
Who will divide with you blanket and bread,
With a piece of stray beef well roasted,
And charge for it never a red.
I often look upward and wonder
If the green fields will seem half so fair,
If any the wrong trail have taken
And fail to "be in" over there.
For the trail that leads down to perdition
Is paved all the way with good deeds,
But in the great round-up of ages,
Dear boys, this won't answer your needs.
But the way to the green pastures, though narrow,
Leads straight to the home in the sky,
And Jesus will give you the passports
To the land of the sweet by and by.
For the Savior has taken the contract
To deliver all those who believe,
At the headquarters ranch of his Father,
In the great range where none can deceive.
The Inspector will stand at the gateway
And the herd, one by one, will go by,—
The round-up by the angels in judgment
Must pass 'neath his all-seeing eye.
No maverick or slick will be tallied
In the great book of life in his home,
For he knows all the brands and the earmarks
That down through the ages have come.
But, along with the tailings and sleepers,
The strays must turn from the gate;
No road brand to gain them admission,
But the awful sad cry "too late."
Yet I trust in the last great round-up
When the rider shall cut the big herd,
That the cowboys shall be represented
In the earmark and brand of the Lord,
To be shipped to the bright, mystic regions
Over there in green pastures to lie,
And led by the crystal still waters
In that home of the sweet by and by.
THE JOLLY COWBOY
My lover, he is a cowboy, he's brave and kind and true,
He rides a Spanish pony, he throws a lasso, too;
And when he comes to see me our vows we do redeem,
He throws his arms around me and thus begins to sing:
"Ho, I'm a jolly cowboy, from Texas now I hail,
Give me my quirt and pony, I'm ready for the trail;
I love the rolling prairies, they're free from care and strife,
Behind a herd of longhorns I'll journey all my life.
"When early dawn is breaking and we are far away,
We fall into our saddles, we round-up all the day;
We rope, we brand, we ear-mark, I tell you we are smart,
And when the herd is ready, for Kansas then we start.
"Oh, I am a Texas cowboy, lighthearted, brave, and free,
To roam the wide, wide prairie, 'tis always joy to me.
My trusty little pony is my companion true,
O'er creeks and hills and rivers he's sure to pull me through.
"When threatening clouds do gather and herded lightnings flash,
And heavy rain drops splatter, and rolling thunders crash;
What keeps the herd from running, stampeding far and wide?
The cowboy's long, low whistle and singing by their side.
"When in Kansas City, our boss he pays us up,
We loaf around the city and take a parting cup;
We bid farewell to city life, from noisy crowds we come,
And back to dear old Texas, the cowboy's native home."
Oh, he is coming back to marry the only girl he loves,
He says I am his darling, I am his own true love;
Some day we two will marry and then no more he'll roam,
But settle down with Mary in a cozy little home.
"Ho, I'm a jolly cowboy, from Texas now I hail,
Give me my bond to Mary, I'll quit the Lone Star trail.
I love the rolling prairies, they're free from care and strife,
But I'll quit the herd of longhorns for the sake of my little wife."
THE CONVICT
When slumbering In my convict cell my childhood days I see,
When I was mother's little child and knelt at mother's knee.
There my life was peace, I know, I knew no sorrow or pain.
Mother dear never did think, I know, I would wear a felon's chain.
Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink,
Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?
Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink,
Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?
When I had grown to manhood and evil paths I trod,
I learned to scorn my fellow-man and even curse my God;
And in the evil course I ran for a great length of time
Till at last I ran too long and was condemned for a felon's crime.
My prison life will soon be o'er, my life will soon be gone,—
May the angels waft it heavenward to a bright and happy home.
I'll be at rest, sweet, sweet rest, there is rest in the heavenly home;
I'll be at rest, sweet, sweet rest, there is rest in the heavenly home.
Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink,
Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?
Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink,
Ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain?
JACK O' DIAMONDS
O Mollie, O Mollie, it is for your sake alone
That I leave my old parents, my house and my home,
That I leave my old parents, you caused me to roam,—
I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
Jack o' diamonds, Jack o' diamonds,
I know you of old,
You've robbed my poor pockets
Of silver and gold.
Whiskey, you villain,
You've been my downfall,
You've kicked me, you've cuffed me,
But I love you for all.
My foot's in my stirrup, my bridle's in my hand,
I'm going to leave sweet Mollie, the fairest in the land.
Her parents don't like me, they say I'm too poor,
They say I'm unworthy to enter her door.
They say I drink whiskey; my money is my own,
And them that don't like me can leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry,
And when I get thirsty I'll lay down and cry.
It's beefsteak when I'm hungry,
And whiskey when I'm dry,
Greenbacks when I'm hard up,
And heaven when I die.
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey,
Rye whiskey I cry,
If I don't get rye whiskey,
I surely will die.
O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before,
Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.
I will build me a big castle on yonder mountain high,
Where my true love can see me when she comes riding by,
Where my true love can see me and help me to mourn,—
I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
I'll get up in my saddle, my quirt I'll take in hand,
I'll think of you, Mollie, when in some far distant land,
I'll think of you, Mollie, you caused me to roam,—
I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
If the ocean was whiskey,
And I was a duck,
I'd dive to the bottom
To get one sweet sup;
But the ocean ain't whiskey,
And I ain't a duck,
So I'll play Jack o' diamonds
And then we'll get drunk.
O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before,
Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.
I've rambled and trambled this wide world around,
But it's for the rabble army, dear Mollie, I'm bound,
It is to the rabble army, dear Mollie, I roam,—
I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
I have rambled and gambled all my money away,
But it's with the rabble army, O Mollie, I must stay,
It is with the rabble army, O Mollie I must roam,—
I am a rabble soldier and Dixie is my home.
Jack o' diamonds, Jack o' diamonds,
I know you of old,
You've robbed my poor pockets
Of silver and gold.
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey,
Rye whiskey I cry,
If you don't give me rye whiskey
I'll lie down and die.
O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before,
Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.
THE COWBOY'S MEDITATION
At midnight when the cattle are sleeping
On my saddle I pillow my head,
And up at the heavens lie peeping
From out of my cold, grassy bed,—
Often and often I wondered
At night when lying alone
If every bright star up yonder
Is a big peopled world like our own.
Are they worlds with their ranges and ranches?
Do they ring with rough rider refrains?
Do the cowboys scrap there with Comanches
And other Red Men of the plains?
Are the hills covered over with cattle
In those mystic worlds far, far away?
Do the ranch-houses ring with the prattle
Of sweet little children at play?
At night in the bright stars up yonder
Do the cowboys lie down to their rest?
Do they gaze at this old world and wonder
If rough riders dash over its breast?
Do they list to the wolves in the canyons?
Do they watch the night owl in its flight,
With their horse their only companion
While guarding the herd through the night?
Sometimes when a bright star is twinkling
Like a diamond set in the sky,
I find myself lying and thinking,
It may be God's heaven is nigh.
I wonder if there I shall meet her,
My mother whom God took away;
If in the star-heavens I'll greet her
At the round-up that's on the last day.
In the east the great daylight is breaking
And into my saddle I spring;
The cattle from sleep are awakening,
The heaven-thoughts from me take wing,
The eyes of my bronco are flashing,
Impatient he pulls at the reins,
And off round the herd I go dashing,
A reckless cowboy of the plains.