Part 7

The sheriff cut the slender cord, His soul went up to meet its Lord; The doctor said, "The wretch is dead, His spirit from his body's fled."

His weeping mother cried aloud, "O God, do save this gazing crowd, That none may ever have to pay For gambling on the Sabbath day."

LITTLE JOE, THE WRANGLER

It's little Joe, the wrangler, he'll wrangle never more, His days with the _remuda_ they are o'er; 'Twas a year ago last April when he rode into our camp,-- Just a little Texas stray and all alone,-- On a little Texas pony he called "Chaw." With his brogan shoes and overalls, a tougher kid You never in your life before had saw.

His saddle was a Texas "kak," built many years ago, With an O.K. spur on one foot lightly swung; His "hot roll" in a cotton sack so loosely tied behind, And his canteen from his saddle-horn was swung. He said that he had to leave his home, his pa had married twice; And his new ma whipped him every day or two; So he saddled up old Chaw one night and lit a shuck this way, And he's now trying to paddle his own canoe.

He said if we would give him work, he'd do the best he could, Though he didn't know straight up about a cow; So the boss he cut him out a mount and kindly put him on, For he sorta liked this little kid somehow. Learned him to wrangle horses and to try to know them all, And get them in at daylight if he could; To follow the chuck-wagon and always hitch the team, And to help the _cocinero_ rustle wood.

We had driven to the Pecos, the weather being fine; We had camped on the south side in a bend; When a norther commenced blowin', we had doubled up our guard, For it taken all of us to hold them in. Little Joe, the wrangler, was called out with the rest; Though the kid had scarcely reached the herd, When the cattle they stampeded, like a hailstorm long they fled, Then we were all a-ridin' for the lead.

'Midst the streaks of lightin' a horse we could see in the lead, 'Twas Little Joe, the wrangler, in the lead; He was riding Old Blue Rocket with a slicker o'er his head, A tryin' to check the cattle in their speed. At last we got them milling and kinda quieted down, And the extra guard back to the wagon went; But there was one a-missin' and we knew it at a glance, 'Twas our little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe.

The next morning just at day break, we found where Rocket fell, Down in a washout twenty feet below; And beneath the horse, mashed to a pulp,--his spur had rung the knell,-- Was our little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe.

Little Joe, The Wrangler (Mus. Not.)

Lit-tle Joe, the wran-gler, He'll wran-gle nev-er-more, rode up to our herd His days with the re--mu--da they are o'er; On a lit-tle Tex-as Po-ny he call'd Chaw; 'Twas a year a-go last A-pril he rode in-to our herd; With his bro-gan shoes and o-veralls, a tough-er look-in' kid Just a lit-tle Tex-as stray, and all a-lone. You nev-er in your life be-fore had saw. It was late in the eve-ning he

HARRY BALE

Come all kind friends and kindred dear and Christians young and old, A story I'll relate to you, 'twill make your blood run cold; 'Tis all about an unfortunate boy who lived not far from here, In the township of Arcade in the County of Lapeer. It seems his occupation was a sawyer in a mill, He followed it successfully two years, one month, until, Until this fatal accident that caused many to weep and wail; 'Twas where this young man lost his life,--his name was Harry Bale.

On the 29th of April in the year of seventy-nine, He went to work as usual, no fear did he design; In lowering of the feed bar throwing the carriage into gear It brought him down upon the saw and cut him quite severe; It cut him through the collar-bone and half way down the back, It threw him down upon the saw, the carriage coming back. He started for the shanty, his strength was failing fast; He said, "Oh, boys, I'm wounded: I fear it is my last."

His brothers they were sent for, likewise his sisters too, The doctors came and dressed his wound, but kind words proved untrue. Poor Harry had no father to weep beside his bed, No kind and loving mother to sooth his aching head. He was just as gallant a young man as ever you wished to know, But he withered like a flower, it was his time to go.

They placed him in his coffin and laid him in his grave; His brothers and sisters mourned the loss of a brother so true and brave. They took him to the graveyard and laid him away to rest, His body lies mouldering, his soul is among the blest.

FOREMAN MONROE

Come all you brave young shanty boys, and list while I relate Concerning a young shanty boy and his untimely fate; Concerning a young river man, so manly, true and brave; 'Twas on a jam at Gerry's Rock he met his watery grave;

'Twas on a Sunday morning as you will quickly hear, Our logs were piled up mountain high, we could not keep them clear. Our foreman said, "Come on, brave boys, with hearts devoid of fear, We'll break the jam on Gerry's Rock and for Agonstown we'll steer."

Now, some of them were willing, while others they were not, All for to work on Sunday they did not think they ought; But six of our brave shanty boys had volunteered to go And break the jam on Gerry's Rock with their foreman, young Monroe.

They had not rolled off many logs 'till they heard his clear voice say, "I'd have you boys be on your guard, for the jam will soon give way." These words he'd scarcely spoken when the jam did break and go, Taking with it six of those brave boys and their foreman, young Monroe.

Now when those other shanty boys this sad news came to hear, In search of their dead comrades to the river they did steer; Six of their mangled bodies a-floating down did go, While crushed and bleeding near the banks lay the foreman, young Monroe.

They took him from his watery grave, brushed back his raven hair; There was a fair form among them whose cries did rend the air; There was a fair form among them, a girl from Saginaw town. Whose cries rose to the skies for her lover who'd gone down.

Fair Clara was a noble girl, the river-man's true friend; She and her widowed mother lived at the river's bend; And the wages of her own true love the boss to her did pay, But the shanty boys for her made up a generous sum next day.

They buried him quite decently; 'twas on the first of May; Come all you brave young shanty boys and for your comrade pray. Engraved upon the hemlock tree that by the grave does grow Is the aged date and the sad fate of the foreman, young Monroe.

Fair Clara did not long survive, her heart broke with her grief; And less than three months afterwards Death came to her relief; And when the time had come and she was called to go, Her last request was granted, to be laid by young Monroe.

Come all you brave young shanty boys, I'd have you call and see Two green graves by the river side where grows a hemlock tree; The shanty boys cut off the wood where lay those lovers low,-- 'Tis the handsome Clara Vernon and her true love, Jack Monroe.

THE DREARY BLACK HILLS

Kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale, I am an object of pity, I am looking quite stale, I gave up my trade selling Right's Patent Pills To go hunting gold in the dreary Black Hills.

Don't go away, stay at home if you can, Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne, For big Walipe or Comanche Bills They will lift up your hair on the dreary Black Hills.

The round-house in Cheyenne is filled every night With loafers and bummers of most every plight; On their backs is no clothes, in their pockets no bills, Each day they keep starting for the dreary Black Hills.

I got to Cheyenne, no gold could I find, I thought of the lunch route I'd left far behind; Through rain, hail, and snow, frozen plumb to the gills,-- They call me the orphan of the dreary Black Hills.

Kind friend, to conclude, my advice I'll unfold, Don't go to the Black Hills a-hunting for gold; Railroad speculators their pockets you'll fill By taking a trip to those dreary Black Hills.

Don't go away, stay at home if you can, Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne, For old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bills They will take off your scalp on the dreary Black Hills.

The Dreary Black Hills (Mus. Not.)

Kind friends, you must pit-y my hor-ri-ble tale, I'm an ob-ject of pit-y, I'm look-ing quite stale; I gave up my trade, Selling Right's Pat-ent Pills, To go hunt-ing gold In the drear-y Black Hills.

REFRAIN

Don't go a-way, stay at home if you can; Stay a-way from that cit-y they call it Chey-enne; For big Wal-i-pee or Co-man-che Bills, They will lift up your hair On the drear-y Black Hills.

A MORMON SONG

I used to live on Cottonwood and owned a little farm, I was called upon a mission that gave me much alarm; The reason that they called me, I'm sure I do not know. But to hoe the cane and cotton, straightway I must go.

I yoked up Jim and Baldy, all ready for the start; To leave my farm and garden, it almost broke my heart; But at last we got started, I cast a look behind, For the sand and rocks of Dixie were running through my mind.

Now, when we got to Black Ridge, my wagon it broke down, And I, being no carpenter and forty miles from town,-- I cut a clumsy cedar and rigged an awkward slide, But the wagon ran so heavy poor Betsy couldn't ride.

While Betsy was out walking I told her to take care, When all of a sudden she struck a prickly pear, Then she began to hollow as loud as she could bawl,-- If I were back in Cottonwood, I wouldn't go at all.

Now, when we got to Sand Ridge, we couldn't go at all, Old Jim and old Baldy began to puff and loll, I cussed and swore a little, for I couldn't make the route, For the team and I and Betsy were all of us played out.

At length we got to Washington; I thought we'd stay a while To see if the flowers would make their virgin smile, But I was much mistaken, for when we went away The red hills of September were just the same in May.

It is so very dreary, there's nothing here to cheer, But old pathetic sermons we very often hear; They preach them by the dozens and prove them by the book, But I'd sooner have a roasting-ear and stay at home and cook.

I am so awful weary I'm sure I'm almost dead; 'Tis six long weeks last Sunday since I have tasted bread; Of turnip-tops and lucerne greens I've had enough to eat, But I'd like to change my diet to buckwheat cakes and meat.

I had to sell my wagon for sorghum seed and bread; Old Jim and old Baldy have long since been dead. There's no one left but me and Bet to hoe the cotton tree,-- God pity any Mormon that attempts to follow me!

THE BUFFALO HUNTERS

Come all you pretty girls, to you these lines I'll write, We are going to the range in which we take delight; We are going on the range as we poor hunters do, And the tender-footed fellows can stay at home with you.

It's all of the day long as we go tramping round In search of the buffalo that we may shoot him down; Our guns upon our shoulders, our belts of forty rounds, We send them up Salt River to some happy hunting grounds.

Our game, it is the antelope, the buffalo, wolf, and deer, Who roam the wide prairies without a single fear; We rob him of his robe and think it is no harm, To buy us food and clothing to keep our bodies warm.

The buffalo, he is the noblest of the band, He sometimes rejects in throwing up his hand. His shaggy main thrown forward, his head raised to the sky, He seems to say, "We're coming, boys; so hunter, mind your eye."

Our fires are made of mesquite roots, our beds are on the ground; Our houses made of buffalo hides, we make them tall and round; Our furniture is the camp kettle, the coffee pot, and pan, Our chuck it is both bread and meat, mingled well with sand.

Our neighbors are the Cheyennes, the 'Rapahoes, and Sioux, Their mode of navigation is a buffalo-hide canoe. And when they come upon you they take you unaware, And such a peculiar way they have of raising hunter's hair.

THE LITTLE OLD SOD SHANTY

I am looking rather seedy now while holding down my claim, And my victuals are not always served the best; And the mice play shyly round me as I nestle down to rest In my little old sod shanty on my claim.

The hinges are of leather and the windows have no glass, While the board roof lets the howling blizzards in, And I hear the hungry cayote as he slinks up through the grass Round the little old sod shanty on my claim.

Yet, I rather like the novelty of living in this way, Though my bill of fare is always rather tame, But I'm happy as a clam on the land of Uncle Sam In the little old sod shanty on my claim.

But when I left my Eastern home, a bachelor so gay, To try and win my way to wealth and fame, I little thought I'd come down to burning twisted hay In the little old sod shanty on my claim.

My clothes are plastered o'er with dough, I'm looking like a fright, And everything is scattered round the room, But I wouldn't give the freedom that I have out in the West For the table of the Eastern man's old home.

Still, I wish that some kind-hearted girl would pity on me take And relieve me from the mess that I am in; The angel, how I'd bless her if this her home she'd make In the little old sod shanty on my claim.

And we would make our fortunes on the prairies of the West, Just as happy as two lovers we'd remain; We'd forget the trials and troubles we endured at the first In the little old sod shanty on my claim.

And if fate should bless us with now and then an heir To cheer our hearts with honest pride of fame, Oh, then we'd be contented for the toil that we had spent In the little old sod shanty on our claim.

When time enough had lapsed and all those little brats To noble man and womanhood had grown, It wouldn't seem half so lonely as round us we should look And we'd see the old sod shanty on our claim.

THE GOL-DARNED WHEEL

I can take the wildest bronco in the tough old woolly West. I can ride him, I can break him, let him do his level best; I can handle any cattle ever wore a coat of hair, And I've had a lively tussle with a tarnel grizzly bear. I can rope and throw the longhorn of the wildest Texas brand, And in Indian disagreements I can play a leading hand, But at last I got my master and he surely made me squeal When the boys got me a-straddle of that gol-darned wheel.

It was at the Eagle Ranch, on the Brazos, When I first found that darned contrivance that upset me in the dust. A tenderfoot had brought it, he was wheeling all the way From the sun-rise end of freedom out to San Francisco Bay. He tied up at the ranch for to get outside a meal, Never thinking we would monkey with his gol-darned wheel.

Arizona Jim begun it when he said to Jack McGill There was fellows forced to limit bragging on their riding skill, And he'd venture the admission the same fellow that he meant Was a very handy cutter far as riding bronchos went; But he would find that he was bucking 'gainst a different kind of deal If he threw his leather leggins 'gainst a gol-darned wheel.

Such a slam against my talent made me hotter than a mink, And I swore that I would ride him for amusement or for chink. And it was nothing but a plaything for the kids and such about, And they'd have their ideas shattered if they'd lead the critter out. They held it while I mounted and gave the word to go; The shove they gave to start me warn't unreasonably slow. But I never spilled a cuss word and I never spilled a squeal-- I was building reputation on that gol-darned wheel.

Holy Moses and the Prophets, how we split the Texas air, And the wind it made whip-crackers of my same old canthy hair, And I sorta comprehended as down the hill we went There was bound to be a smash-up that I couldn't well prevent. Oh, how them punchers bawled, "Stay with her, Uncle Bill! Stick your spurs in her, you sucker! turn her muzzle up the hill!" But I never made an answer, I just let the cusses squeal, I was finding reputation on that gol-darned wheel.

The grade was mighty sloping from the ranch down to the creek And I went a-galliflutin' like a crazy lightning streak,-- Went whizzing and a-darting first this way and then that, The darned contrivance sort o' wobbling like the flying of a bat. I pulled upon the handles, but I couldn't check it up, And I yanked and sawed and hollowed but the darned thing wouldn't stop. Then a sort of a meachin' in my brain began to steal, That the devil held a mortgage on that gol-darned wheel.

I've a sort of dim and hazy remembrance of the stop, With the world a-goin' round and the stars all tangled up; Then there came an intermission that lasted till I found I was lying at the ranch with the boys all gathered round, And a doctor was a-sewing on the skin where it was ripped, And old Arizona whispered, "Well, old boy, I guess you're whipped," And I told him I was busted from sombrero down to heel, And he grinned and said, "You ought to see that gol-darned wheel."

BONNIE BLACK BESS

When fortune's blind goddess Had fled my abode, And friends proved unfaithful, I took to the road; To plunder the wealthy And relieve my distress, I bought you to aid me, My Bonnie Black Bess.

No vile whip nor spur Did your sides ever gall, For none did you need, You would bound at my call; And for each act of kindness You would me caress, Thou art never unfaithful, My Bonnie Black Bess.

When dark, sable midnight Her mantle had thrown O'er the bright face of nature, How oft we have gone To the famed Houndslow heath, Though an unwelcome guest To the minions of fortune, My Bonnie Black Bess.

How silent you stood When the carriage I stopped, The gold and the jewels Its inmates would drop. No poor man I plundered Nor e'er did oppress The widows or orphans, My Bonnie Black Bess.

When Argus-eyed justice Did me hot pursue, From Yorktown to London Like lightning we flew. No toll bars could stop you, The waters did breast, And in twelve hours we made it, My Bonnie Black Bess.

But hate darkens o'er me, Despair is my lot, And the law does pursue me For the many I've shot; To save me, poor brute, Thou hast done thy best, Thou art worn out and weary, My Bonnie Black Bess.

Hark! they never shall have A beast like thee; So noble and gentle And brave, thou must die, My dumb friend, Though it does me distress,-- There! There! I have shot thee, My Bonnie Black Bess.

In after years When I am dead and gone, This story will be handed From father to son; My fate some will pity, And some will confess 'Twas through kindness I killed thee, My Bonnie Black Bess.

No one can e'er say That ingratitude dwelt In the bosom of Turpin,-- 'Twas a vice never felt. I will die like a man And soon be at rest; Now, farewell forever, My Bonnie Black Bess.

THE LAST LONGHORN

An ancient long-horned bovine Lay dying by the river; There was lack of vegetation And the cold winds made him shiver; A cowboy sat beside him With sadness in his face. To see his final passing,-- This last of a noble race.

The ancient eunuch struggled And raised his shaking head, Saying, "I care not to linger When all my friends are dead. These Jerseys and these Holsteins, They are no friends of mine; They belong to the nobility Who live across the brine.

"Tell the Durhams and the Herefords When they come a-grazing round, And see me lying stark and stiff Upon the frozen ground, I don't want them to bellow When they see that I am dead, For I was born in Texas Near the river that is Red.

"Tell the cayotes, when they come at night A-hunting for their prey, They might as well go further, For they'll find it will not pay. If they attempt to eat me, They very soon will see That my bones and hide are petrified,-- They'll find no beef on me.

"I remember back in the seventies, Full many summers past, There was grass and water plenty, But it was too good to last. I little dreamed what would happen Some twenty summers hence, When the nester came with his wife, his kids, His dogs, and his barbed-wire fence."

His voice sank to a murmur, His breath was short and quick; The cowboy tried to skin him When he saw he couldn't kick; He rubbed his knife upon his boot Until he made it shine, But he never skinned old longhorn, Caze he couldn't cut his rine.

And the cowboy riz up sadly And mounted his cayuse, Saying, "The time has come when longhorns And their cowboys are no use!" And while gazing sadly backward Upon the dead bovine, His bronc stepped in a dog-hole And fell and broke his spine.

The cowboys and the longhorns Who partnered in eighty-four Have gone to their last round-up Over on the other shore; They answered well their purpose, But their glory must fade and go, Because men say there's better things In the modern cattle show.

A PRISONER FOR LIFE

Fare you well, green fields, Soft meadows, adieu! Rocks and mountains, I depart from you; Nevermore shall my eyes By your beauties be blest, Nevermore shall you soothe My sad bosom to rest.