Part 12
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.
[Footnote 5: A song current in Arizona, probably written by Berton Braley. Cowboys and miners often take verses that please them and fit them to music.]
OLD PAINT[6]
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.
[Footnote 6: These verses are used in many parts of the West as a dance song. Sung to waltz music the song takes the place of "Home, Sweet Home" at the conclusion of a cowboy ball. The "fiddle" is silenced and the entire company sing as they dance.]
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.
SILVER JACK[7]
I was on the drive in eighty Working under Silver Jack, Which the same is now in Jackson And ain't soon expected back, And there was a fellow 'mongst us By the name of Robert Waite; Kind of cute and smart and tonguey Guess he was a graduate.
He could talk on any subject From the Bible down to Hoyle, And his words flowed out so easy, Just as smooth and slick as oil, He was what they call a skeptic, And he loved to sit and weave Hifalutin' words together Tellin' what he didn't believe.
One day we all were sittin' round Smokin' nigger head tobacco And hearing Bob expound; Hell, he said, was all a humbug, And he made it plain as day That the Bible was a fable; And we lowed it looked that way. Miracles and such like Were too rank for him to stand, And as for him they called the Savior He was just a common man.
"You're a liar," someone shouted, "And you've got to take it back." Then everybody started,-- 'Twas the words of Silver Jack. And he cracked his fists together And he stacked his duds and cried, "'Twas in that thar religion That my mother lived and died; And though I haven't always Used the Lord exactly right, Yet when I hear a chump abuse him He's got to eat his words or fight."
Now, this Bob he weren't no coward And he answered bold and free: "Stack your duds and cut your capers, For there ain't no flies on me." And they fit for forty minutes And the crowd would whoop and cheer When Jack spit up a tooth or two, Or when Bobby lost an ear.
But at last Jack got him under And he slugged him onct or twict, And straightway Bob admitted The divinity of Christ. But Jack kept reasoning with him Till the poor cuss gave a yell And lowed he'd been mistaken In his views concerning hell.
Then the fierce encounter ended And they riz up from the ground And someone brought a bottle out And kindly passed it round. And we drank to Bob's religion In a cheerful sort o' way, But the spread of infidelity Was checked in camp that day.
[Footnote 7: A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.]
THE COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS BALL[8]
Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow, Where the cattle are a-browzin' and the Spanish ponies grow; Where the Northers come a-whistlin' from beyond the Neutral Strip; And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as though they had the grip; Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark, And the mockin' birds are singin' to the lovely medder lark; Where the 'possum and the badger and the rattlesnakes abound, And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound; Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call,-- It was there I attended the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
The town was Anson City, old Jones' county seat, Where they raised Polled Angus cattle and waving whiskered wheat; Where the air is soft and bammy and dry and full of health, Where the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth; Where they print the _Texas Western_, that Hec McCann supplies With news and yarns and stories, of most amazing size; Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger" on knowing tenderfeet, And Democracy's triumphant and mighty hard to beat; Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap, from Lamar, Who used to be the sheriff "back east in Paris, sah"! 'Twas there, I say, at Anson with the lovely Widder Wall, That I went to that reception, the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles; The ladies, kinder scatterin', had gathered in for miles. And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well, 'Twas gave on this occasion at the Morning Star Hotel. The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, And a viol came imported, by the stage from Abilene. The room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls, And the candles flickered festious, around the airy walls. The wimmen folks looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed, Till the leader commenced yelling, "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede," And the music started sighing and a-wailing through the hall As a kind of introduction to the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
The leader was a feller that came from Swenson's ranch,-- They called him Windy Billy from Little Deadman's Branch. His rig was kinder keerless,--big spurs and high heeled boots; He had the reputation that comes when fellers shoots. His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain height; His feet were animated, and a mighty movin' sight, When he commenced to holler, "Now fellers, shake your pen! Lock horns ter all them heifers and rustle them like men; Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing and let 'em go; Climb the grapevine round 'em; neow all hands do-ce-do! You maverick, jine the round-up,--jes skip the waterfall," Huh! hit was getting active, the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
The boys was tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat, That old bass viol's music just got there with both feet! That wailin', frisky fiddle, I never shall forget; And Windy kept a-singin'--I think I hear him yet-- "Oh, X's, chase yer squirrels, and cut 'em to our side; Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride, Doc Hollis down the center, and twine the ladies' chain, Van Andrews, pen the fillies in big T Diamond's train. All pull your freight together, neow swallow fork and change; Big Boston, lead the trail herd through little Pitchfork's range. Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope and balance all!" Huh! Hit were gettin' active--the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
The dust riz fast and furious; we all jes galloped round, Till the scenery got so giddy that T Bar Dick was downed. We buckled to our partners and told 'em to hold on, Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn. Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir-ee! That whirl at Anson City jes takes the cake with me. I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill, Give me a frontier break-down backed up by Windy Bill. McAllister ain't nowhere, when Windy leads the show; I've seen 'em both in harness and so I ought ter know. Oh, Bill, I shan't forget yer, and I oftentimes recall That lively gaited sworray--the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.
[Footnote 8: This poem, one of the best in Larry Chittenden's _Ranch Verses_, published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. I have heard it in New Mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,--always as a song. None of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.]
PINTO
I am a vaquero by trade; To handle my rope I'm not afraid. I lass' an _otero_ by the two horns Throw down the biggest that ever was born. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
My name to you I will not tell; For what's the use, you know me so well. The girls all love me, and cry When I leave them to join the rodero. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
I am a vaquero, and here I reside; Show me the broncho I cannot ride. They say old Pinto with one split ear Is the hardest jumping broncho on the rodero. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
There strayed to our camp an iron gray colt; The boys were all fraid him so on him I bolt. You bet I stayed with him till cheer after cheer,-- "He's the broncho twister that's on the rodero." Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
My story is ended, old Pinto is dead; I'm going down Laredo and paint the town red. I'm going up to Laredo and set up the beer To all the cowboys that's on the rodero. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!
THE GAL I LEFT BEHIND ME
I struck the trail in seventy-nine, The herd strung out behind me; As I jogged along my mind ran back For the gal I left behind me. That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!
If ever I get off the trail And the Indians they don't find me, I'll make my way straight back again To the gal I left behind me. That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!
The wind did blow, the rain did flow, The hail did fall and blind me; I thought of that gal, that sweet little gal, That gal I'd left behind me! That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!
She wrote ahead to the place I said, I was always glad to find it. She says, "I am true, when you get through Right back here you will find me." That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!
When we sold out I took the train, I knew where I would find her; When I got back we had a smack And that was no gol-darned liar. That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!
BILLY THE KID
Billy was a bad man And carried a big gun, He was always after Greasers And kept 'em on the run.
He shot one every morning, For to make his morning meal. And let a white man sass him, He was shore to feel his steel.
He kept folks in hot water, And he stole from many a stage; And when he was full of liquor He was always in a rage.
But one day he met a man Who was a whole lot badder. And now he's dead, And we ain't none the sadder.
THE HELL-BOUND TRAIN
A Texas cowboy lay down on a bar-room floor. Having drunk so much he could drink no more; So he fell asleep with a troubled brain To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.
The engine with murderous blood was damp And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp; An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones, While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.
The boiler was filled with lager beer And the devil himself was the engineer; The passengers were a most motley crew,-- Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew,
Rich men in broadcloth, beggars in rags, Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags, Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white. All chained together,--O God, what a sight!
While the train rushed on at an awful pace, The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face; Wider and wider the country grew, As faster and faster the engine flew.
Louder and louder the thunder crashed And brighter and brighter the lightning flashed; Hotter and hotter the air became Till the clothes were burnt from each quivering frame.
And out of the distance there arose a yell, "Ha, ha," said the devil, "we're nearing hell!" Then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with pain And begged the devil to stop the train.
But he capered about and danced for glee And laughed and joked at their misery. "My faithful friends, you have done the work And the devil never can a payday shirk.
"You've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor; The starving brother you've turned from the door, You've laid up gold where the canker rust, And have given free vent to your beastly lust.
"You've justice scorned, and corruption sown, And trampled the laws of nature down. You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied, And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.
"You have paid full fare so I'll carry you through; For it's only right you should have your due. Why, the laborer always expects his hire, So I'll land you safe in the lake of fire.
"Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar, And my imps torment you forever more." Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry, His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high.
Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour To be saved from his sin and the demon's power. And his prayers and his vows were not in vain; For he never rode the hell-bound train.
THE OLD SCOUT'S LAMENT
Come all of you, my brother scouts, And listen to 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 are 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 failing, 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, We 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 DESERTED ADOBE
Round the 'dobe rank sands are thickly blowin', Its ridges fill the deserted field; Yet on this claim young lives once hope were sowing For all the years might yield; And in strong hands the echoing hoof pursuin' A wooden share turned up the sod, The toiler brave drank deep the fresh air's brewin' And sang content to God. The toiler brave drank deep the fresh air's brewin' And sang content to God.
A woman fair and sweet has smilin' striven Through long and lonesome hours; A blue-eyed babe, a bit of earthly heaven, Laughed at the sun's hot towers; A bow of promise made this desert splendid, This 'dobe was their pride. But what began so well, alas, has ended--, The promise died. But what began so well alas soon ended--, The promise died.
Their plans and dreams, their cheerful labor wasted In dry and mis-spent years; The spring was sweet, the summer bitter tasted, The autumn salt with tears. Now "gyp" and sand do hide their one-time yearnin'; 'Twas theirs; 'tis past. God's ways are strange, we take so long in learnin', To fail at last. God's ways are strange, we take so long in learnin', To fail at last.
THE COWBOY AT WORK
You may call the cowboy horned and think him hard to tame, You may heap vile epithets upon his head; But to know him is to like him, notwithstanding his hard name, For he will divide with you his beef and bread.
If you see him on his pony as he scampers o'er the plain, You would think him wild and woolly, to be sure; But his heart is warm and tender when he sees a friend in need, Though his education is but to endure.
When the storm breaks in its fury and the lightning's vivid flash Makes you thank the Lord for shelter and for bed, Then it is he mounts his pony and away you see him dash, No protection but the hat upon his head.
Such is life upon a cow ranch, and the half was never told; But you never find a kinder-hearted set Than the cattleman at home, be he either young or old, He's a "daisy from away back," don't forget.
When you fail to find a pony or a cow that's gone a-stray, Be that cow or pony wild or be it tame, The cowboy, like the drummer,--and the bed-bug, too, they say,-- Brings him to you, for he gets there just the same.
HERE'S TO THE RANGER!
He leaves unplowed his furrow, He leaves his books unread For a life of tented freedom By lure of danger led. He's first in the hour of peril, He's gayest in the dance, Like the guardsman of old England Or the beau sabreur of France.
He stands our faithful bulwark Against our savage foe; Through lonely woodland places Our children come and go; Our flocks and herds untended O'er hill and valley roam, The Ranger in the saddle Means peace for us at home.
Behold our smiling farmsteads Where waves the golden grain! Beneath yon tree, earth's bosom Was dark with crimson stain. That bluff the death-shot echoed Of husband, father, slain! God grant such sight of horror We never see again!
The gay and hardy Ranger, His blanket on the ground, Lies by the blazing camp-fire While song and tale goes round; And if one voice is silent, One fails to hear the jest, They know his thoughts are absent With her who loves him best.
Our state, her sons confess it, That queenly, star-crowned brow, Has darkened with the shadow Of lawlessness ere now; And men of evil passions On her reproach have laid, But that the ready Ranger Rode promptly to her aid.
He may not win the laurel Nor trumpet tongue of fame; But beauty smiles upon him, And ranchmen bless his name. Then here's to the Texas Ranger, Past, present and to come! Our safety from the savage, The guardian of our home.
MUSTER OUT THE RANGER
Yes, muster them out, the valiant band That guards our western home. What matter to you in your eastern land If the raiders here should come? No danger that you shall awake at night To the howls of a savage band; So muster them out, though the morning light Find havoc on every hand.
Some dear one is sick and the horses all gone, So we can't for a doctor send; The outlaws were in in the light of the morn And no Rangers here to defend. For they've mustered them out, the brave true band, Untiring by night and day. The fearless scouts of this border land Made the taxes high, they say.
Have fewer men in the capitol walls, Fewer tongues in the war of words, But add to the Rangers, the living wall That keeps back the bandit hordes. Have fewer dinners, less turtle soup, If the taxes are too high. There are many other and better ways To lower them if they try.
Don't waste so much of your money Printing speeches people don't read. If you'd only take off what's used for that 'Twould lower the tax indeed. Don't use so much sugar and lemons; Cold water is just as good For a constant drink in the summer time And better for the blood.
But leave us the Rangers to guard us still, Nor think that they cost too dear; For their faithful watch over vale and hill Gives our loved ones naught to fear.
A COW CAMP ON THE RANGE
Oh, the prairie dogs are screaming, And the birds are on the wing, See the heel fly chase the heifer, boys! 'Tis the first class sign of spring. The elm wood is budding, The earth is turning green. See the pretty things of nature That make life a pleasant dream!
I'm just living through the winter To enjoy the coming change, For there is no place so homelike As a cow camp on the range. The boss is smiling radiant, Radiant as the setting sun; For he knows he's stealing glories, For he ain't a-cussin' none.
The cook is at the chuck-box Whistling "Heifers in the Green," Making baking powder biscuits, boys, While the pot is biling beans. The boys untie their bedding And unroll it on the run, For they are in a monstrous hurry For the supper's almost done.
"Here's your bloody wolf bait," Cried the cook's familiar voice As he climbed the wagon wheel To watch the cowboys all rejoice. Then all thoughts were turned from reverence To a plate of beef and beans, As we graze on beef and biscuits Like yearlings on the range.
To the dickens with your city Where they herd the brainless brats, On a range so badly crowded There ain't room to cuss the cat. This life is not so sumptuous, I'm not longing for a change, For there is no place so homelike As a cow camp on the range.
FRECKLES. A FRAGMENT
He was little an' peaked an' thin, an' narry a no account horse,-- Least that's the way you'd describe him in case that the beast had been lost; But, for single and double cussedness an' for double fired sin, The horse never came out o' Texas that was half-way knee-high to him!