A Cowboy’s Worrying Love

I ust to read in the novel books ’bout fellers that got the prod
From an arrer shot from his hidin’ place by the hand o’ the Cupid god,
An’ I’d laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin’ their breath in sighs
An’ goin’ around with a locoed look a-campin’ inside their eyes.
I’ve read o’ the gals that broke ’em up a-sailin’ in airy flight
On angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o’ the same at night,
An’ a sort o’ disgusted frown’d bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow,
An’ I’d call ’em a lot o’ sissy boys⁠—but I’m seein’ it different now.

I got the jab in my rough ol’ heart, an’ I got it a-plenty, too,
A center shot from a pair o’ eyes of the winninest sort o’ blue,
An’ I ride the ranges a-sighin’ sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer⁠—
A durned heap worse than the novel blokes that the narrative gals’d queer.
Just hain’t no energy left no mo’, go ’round like a orphant calf
A-thinkin’ about that sagehen’s eyes that give me the Cupid gaff,
An’ I’m all skeered up when I hit the thought some other rider might
Cut in ahead on a faster hoss an’ rope her afore my sight.

There ain’t a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd
Could switch a tail on the whole durned range ’long-side o’ that little bird;
A figger plump as a prairy dog’s that’s feedin’ on new spring grass,
An’ as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin’ glass.
She’s got a smile that ’d raise the steam in the icyist sort o’ heart,
A couple o’ soul inspirin’ eyes, an’ the nose that keeps ’em apart
Is the cutest thing in the sassy line that ever occurred to act
As a ornament stuck on a purty face, an’ that’s a dead open fact.

I’m a-goin’ to brace her by an’ by to see if there’s any hope,
To see if she’s liable to shy when I’m ready to pitch the rope;
To see if she’s goin’ to make a stand, or fly like a skeered up dove
When I make a pass with the brandin’ iron that’s het in the fire o’ love.
I’ll open the little home corral an’ give her the level hunch
To make a run fur the open gate when I cut her out o’ the bunch,
Fur there ain’t no sense in a-jammin’ round with a heart that’s as soft as dough
An’ a-throwin’ the breath o’ life away bunched up into sighs. Heigh-ho!

The Cowboy and the Maid

Funny how it come about!
Me and Texas Tom was out
Takin’ of a moonlight walk,
Fillin’ in the time with talk.
Every star up in the sky
Seemed to wink the other eye
At each other, ’sif they
Smelt a mouse around our way!

Me and Tom had never grew
Spoony like some couples do;
Never billed and cooed and sighed;
He was bashful like and I’d
Notions of my own that it
Wasn’t policy to git
Too abundant till I’d got
Of my feller good and caught.

As we walked along that night
He got talkin’ of the bright
Prospects that he had, and I
Somehow felt, I dunno why,
That afore we cake-walked back
To the ranch he’d make a crack
Fer my hand, and I was plum
Achin’ fer the shock to come.

By and by he says, “I’ve got
Fifty head o’ cows, and not
One of ’em but, on the dead,
Is a crackin’ thoroughbred.
Got a daisy claim staked out,
And I’m thinkin’ it’s about
Time fer me to make a shy
At a home.” “O Tom!” says I.

“Bin a-lookin’ round,” says he,
“Quite a little while to see
’F I could git a purty face
Fer to ornament the place.
Plenty of ’em in the land;
But the one ’at wears my brand
Must be sproutin’ wings to fly!”
“You deserve her, Tom,” says I.

“Only one so fur,” says he,
“Fills the bill, and mebbe she
Might shy off and bust my hope
If I should pitch the poppin’ rope.
Mebbe she’d git hot an’ say
That it was a silly play
Askin’ her to make a tie.”
“She would be a fool,” says I.

’Tain’t nobody’s business what
Happened then, but I jist thought
I could see the moon-man smile
Cutely down upon us, while
Me and him was walkin’ back⁠—
Stoppin’ now and then to smack
Lips rejoicin’ that at last
The dread crisis had been past.

A Cowboy’s Love Song

Oh, the last steer has been branded
And the last beef has been shipped,
And I’m free to roam the prairies
That the round-up crew has stripped;
I’m free to think of Susie⁠—
Fairer than the stars above⁠—
She’s the waitress at the station
And she is my turtle dove.

Biscuit-shootin’ Susie⁠—
She’s got us roped and tied;
Sober men or woozy
Look on her with pride.
Susie’s strong and able,
And not a one gits rash
When she waits on the table
And superintends the hash.

Oh, I sometimes think I’m locoed
An’ jes fit fer herdin’ sheep,
’Cause I only think of Susie
When I’m wakin’ or I’m sleep.
I’m wearin’ Cupid’s hobbles,
An’ I’m tied to Love’s stake-pin,
And when my heart was branded
The irons sunk deep in.

Chorus:⁠—

I take my saddle, Sundays⁠—
The one with inlaid flaps⁠—
And don my new sombrero
And my white angora chaps;
Then I take a bronc for Susie
And she leaves her pots and pans
And we figure out our future
And talk o’er our homestead plans.

Chorus:⁠—

A Border Affair

Spanish is the lovin’ tongue,
Soft as music, light as spray;
’Twas a girl I learnt it from
Livin’ down Sonora way.
I don’t look much like a lover,
Yet I say her love-words over
Often, when I’m all alone⁠—
“Mi amor, mi corazón.”

Nights when she knew where I’d ride
She would listen for my spurs,
Throw the big door open wide,
Raise them laughin’ eyes of hers,
And my heart would nigh stop beatin’
When I’d hear her tender greetin’
Whispered soft for me alone⁠—
“Mi amor! mi corazón!”

Moonlight in the patio,
Old Señora noddin’ near,
Me and Juana talkin’ low
So the “madre” couldn’t hear⁠—
How those hours would go a-flyin’,
And too soon I’d hear her sighin’,
In her little sorry-tone⁠—
“Adiós, mi corazón.”

But one time I had to fly
For a foolish gamblin’ fight,
And we said a swift goodbye
On that black, unlucky night.
When I’d loosed her arms from clingin’,
With her words the hoofs kept ringin’,
As I galloped north alone⁠—
“Adiós, mi corazón.”

Never seen her since that night;
I kaint cross the Line, you know.
She was Mex. and I was white;
Like as not it’s better so.
Yet I’ve always sort of missed her
Since that last, wild night I kissed her,
Left her heart and lost my own⁠—
“Adiós, mi corazón.”

Snagtooth Sal

I was young and happy and my heart was light and gay,
Singin’, always singin’ through the sunny summer day;
Happy as a lizard in the wavin’ chaparral,
Walkin’ down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.

Sal, Sal,
My heart is broke today⁠—
Broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay;
I would give creation to be walkin’ with my gal⁠—
Walkin’ down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.

Bury me tomorrow where the lily blossoms spring
Underneath the willows where the little robins sing.
You will yearn to see me⁠—but ah, nevermore you shall⁠—
Walkin’ down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.

Refrain:⁠—

Plant a little stone above the little mound of sod;
Write: “Here lies a lovin’ an’ a busted heart, begod!
Nevermore you’ll see him walkin’ proudly with his gal⁠—
Walkin’ down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.”

Sal, Sal,
My heart is broke today⁠—
Broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay;
I would give creation to be walkin’ with my gal⁠—
Walkin’ down through Laramie with Snagtooth Sal.

Love Lyrics of a Cowboy

It hain’t no use fer me to say
There’s others with a style an’ way
That beats hers to a fare-you-well,
Fer, on the square, I’m here to tell
I jes can’t even start to see
But what she’s perfect as kin be.
Fer any fault I finds excuse⁠—
I’ll tell you, pard, it hain’t no use
Fer me to try to raise a hand,
When on my heart she’s run her brand.

The bunk-house ain’t the same to me;
The bunch jes makes me weary⁠—Gee!
I never knew they was so coarse⁠—
I warps my face to try to force
A smile at each old gag they spring;
Fer I’d heap ruther hear her sing
“Sweet Adeline,” or softly play
The “Dream o’ Heaven” that-a-way.
Besides this place, most anywhere
I’d ruther be⁠—so she was there.

She called me “dear,” an’ do you know,
My heart jes skipped a beat, an’ though
I’m hard to feaze, I’m free to yip
My reason nearly lost its grip.
She called me “dear,” jes sweet an’ slow,
An’ lookin’ down an’ speakin’ low;
An’ if I had ten lives to live,
With everything the world could give,
I’d shake ’em all without one fear
If ’fore I’d go she’d call me “dear.”

You wonders why I slicks up so
On Sundays, when I gits to go
To see her⁠—well, I’m free to say
She’s like religion that-a-way.
Jes sort o’ like some holy thing,
As clean as young grass in the spring;
An’ so before I rides to her
I looks my best from hat to spur⁠—
But even then I hain’t no right
To think I look good in her sight.

If she should pass me up⁠—say, boy,
You jes put hobbles on your joy;
First thing you know, you gits so gay
Your luck stampedes and gits away.
An’ don’t you even start a guess
That you’ve a cinch on happiness;
Fer few e’er reach the Promised Land
If they starts headed by a band.
Ride slow an’ quiet, humble, too,
Or Fate will slap its brand on you.

The old range sleeps, there hain’t a stir.
Less it’s a night-hawk’s sudden whir,
Or cottonwoods a-whisperin while
The red moon smiles a lovin’ smile.
An’ there I set an’ hold her hand
So glad I jes can’t understand
The reason of it all, or see
Why all the world looks good to me;
Or why I sees in it heap more
Of beauty than I seen before.

Fool talk, perhaps, but it jes seems
We’re ridin’ through a range o’ dreams;
Where medder larks the year round sing,
An’ it’s jes one eternal spring.
An’ time⁠—why time is gone⁠—by gee!
There’s no such thing as time to me
Until she says, “Here, boy, you know
You simply jes have got to go;
It’s nearly twelve.” I rides away,
“Dog-gone a clock!” is what I say.

The Bull Fight

The couriers from Chihuahua go
To distant Cusi and Santavo,
Announce the feast of all the year the crown⁠—
Se corren los toros!
And Juan brings his Pepita into town.

The rancherias on the mountain side,
The haciendas of the Llano wide,
Are quickened by the matador’s renown.
Se corren los toros!
And Juan brings his Pepita into town.

The women that on ambling burros ride,
The men that trudge behind or close beside
Make groups of dazzling red and white and brown.
Se corren los toros!
And Juan brings his Pepita into town.

Or else the lumbering carts are brought in play,
That jolt and scream and groan along the way,
But to their happy tenants cause no frown.
Se corren los toros!
And Juan brings his Pepita into town.

The Plaza De Los Toros offers seats,
Some deep in shade, on some the fierce sun beats;
These for the don, those for the rustic clown.
Se corren los toros!
And Juan brings his Pepita into town.

Pepita sits, so young and sweet and fresh,
The sun shines on her hair’s dusky mesh.
Her day of days, how soon it will be flown!
Se corren los toros!
And Juan’s brought his Pepita into town.

The bull is harried till the governor’s word
Bids the Diestro give the agile sword;
Then shower the bravos and the roses down!
’Sta muerto el toro!
And Juan takes his Pepita back from the town.

The Cowboy’s Valentine

Say, Moll, now don’t you ’llow to quit
A-playin’ maverick?
Sech stock should be corralled a bit
An’ hev a mark ’t ’ll stick.

Old Val’s a-roundin’-up today
Upon the Sweetheart Range,
’N me a-helpin’, so to say,
Though this yere herd is strange

To me⁠—’n yit, ef I c’d rope
Jes one to wear my brand
I’d strike f’r Home Ranch on a lope,
The happiest in the land.

Yo’ savvy who I’m runnin’ so,
Yo’ savvy who I be;
Now, can’t yo’ take that brand⁠—yo’ know⁠—
The M-I-N-E.

A Cowboy’s Hopeless Love

I’ve heard that story ofttimes about that little chap
A-cryin’ for the shiney moon to fall into his lap,
An’ jes a-raisin’ merry hell because he couldn’t git
The same to swing down low so’s he could nab a-holt of it,
An’ I’m a-feelin’ that-a-way, locoed I reckon, wuss
Than that same kid, though maybe not a-makin’ sich a fuss⁠—
A-goin’ round with achin’ eyes a-hankerin’ fer a peach
That’s hangin’ on the beauty tree, too high fer me to reach.

I’m jes a rider of the range, plumb rough an’ on-refined,
An’ wild an’ keerless in my ways, like others of my kind;
A reckless cuss in leather chaps, an’ tanned an’ blackened so
You’d think I wuz a Greaser from the plains of Mexico.
I never learnt to say a prayer, an’ guess my style o’ talk,
If fired off in a Sunday School would give ’em all a shock;
An’ yet I got a-mopin’ round as crazy as a loon
An’ actin’ like the story kid that bellered fer the moon.

I wish to God she’d never come with them bright laughin’ eyes⁠—
Had never flashed that smile that seems a sunburst from the skies⁠—
Had stayed there in her city home instead o’ comin’ here
To visit at the ranch an’ knock my heart plumb out o’ gear.
I wish to God she’d talk to me in a way to fit the case⁠—
In words t’d have a tendency to hold me in my place⁠—
Instead o’ bein’ sociable an’ actin’ like she thought
Us cowboys good as city gents in clothes that’s tailor bought.

If I would hint to her o’ love, she’d hit that love a jar
An’ laugh at sich a tough as me a-tryin’ to rope a star;
She’d give them fluffy skirts a flirt, an’ skate out o’ my sight,
An’ leave me paralyzed⁠—an’ it’d serve me cussed right.
I wish she’d pack her pile o’ trunks an’ hit the city track,
An’ maybe I’d recover from this violent attack;
An’ in the future know enough to watch my feedin’ ground
An’ shun the loco weed o’ love when there’s an angel round.

The Chase

Here’s a moccasin track in the drifts,
It’s no more than the length of my hand;
An’ her instep⁠—just see how it lifts!
If that ain’t the best in the land!
For the maid ran as free as the wind
And her foot was as light as the snow.
Why, as sure as I follow, I’ll find
Me a kiss where her red blushes grow.

Here’s two small little feet and a skirt;
Here’s a soft little heart all aglow.
See me trail down the dear little flirt
By the sign that she left in the snow!
Did she run? ’Twas a sign to make haste.
An’ why bless her! I’m sure she won’t mind.
If she’s got any kisses to waste,
Why, she knew that a man was behind.

Did she run ’cause she’s only afraid?
No! For sure ’twas to set me the pace!
An’ I’ll follow in love with a maid
When I ain’t had a sight of her face.
There she is! An’ I knew she was near.
Will she pay me a kiss to be free?
Will she hate? Will she love? Will she fear?
Why, the darling! She’s waiting to see!

Riding Song

Let us ride together⁠—
Blowing mane and hair,
Careless of the weather,
Miles ahead of care,
Ring of hoof and snaffle,
Swing of waist and hip,
Trotting down the twisted road
With the world let slip.

Let us laugh together⁠—
Merry as of old
To the creak of leather
And the morning cold.
Break into a canter;
Shout to bank and tree;
Rocking down the waking trail,
Steady hand and knee.

Take the life of cities⁠—
Here’s the life for me.
’Twere a thousand pities
Not to gallop free.
So we’ll ride together,
Comrade, you and I,
Careless of the weather,
Letting care go by.

Our Little Cowgirl

Thar she goes a-lopin’, stranger,
Khaki-gowned, with flyin’ hair,
Talk about your classy ridin’⁠—
Wal, you’re gettin’ it right thar.
Jest a kid, but lemme tell you
When she warms a saddle seat
On that outlaw bronc a-straddle
She is one that can’t be beat!

Every buckaroo that sees her
Tearin’ cross the range astride
Has some mighty jealous feelin’s
Wishin’ he knowed how to ride.
Why, she’ll take a deep barranca
Six-foot wide and never peep;
That ’ere cayuse she’s a-forkin’
Sure’s somethin’ on the leap.

Ride? Why, she can cut a critter
From the herd as neat as pie,
Read a brand out on the ranges
Just as well as you or I.
Ain’t much yet with the riata,
But you give her a few years
And no puncher with the outfit
Will beat her a-ropin’ steers.

Proud o’ her? Say, lemme tell you,
She’s the queen of all the range;
Got a grip upon our heart-strings
Mighty strong, but that ain’t strange;
’Cause she loves the lowin’ cattle,
Loves the hills and open air,
Dusty trails on blossomed canons
God has strung around out here.

Hoof-beats poundin’ down the mesa,
Chicken-time in lively tune,
Jest below the trail to Keeber’s⁠—
Wait, you’ll see her pretty soon.
You kin bet I know that ridin’⁠—
Now she’s toppin’ yonder swell.
Thar she is; that’s her a-smilin’
At the bars of the corral.

I Want My Time

I’m night guard all alone tonight,
Dead homesick, lonely, tired and blue;
And none but you can make it right;
My heart is hungry, Girl, for you.

I’ve longed all night to hug you, Dear;
To speak my love I’m at a loss.
But just as soon as daylight’s here
I’m goin’ straight to see the boss.

“How long’s the round-up goin’ to run?
Another week, or maybe three?
Give me my time, then, I am done.
No, I’m not sick. Three weeks? Oh gee!”

I know, though, when I’ve had enough.
I will not work⁠—darned if I will.
I’m goin’ to quit, and that’s no bluff.
Say, gimme some tobacco, Bill.

Who’s That Calling So Sweet?

The herds are gathered in from plain and hill,
Who’s that a-calling?
The boys are sleeping and the boys are still,
Who’s that a-calling?
’Twas the wind a-sighing in the prairie grass,
Who’s that a-calling?
Or wild birds singing overhead as they pass.

Who’s that a-calling?
Making heart and pulse to beat.

No, no, it wasn’t earthly sound I heard,
Who’s that a-calling?
It was no sigh of breeze or song of bird,
Who’s that a-calling?
For the tone I heard was softer far than these,
that a-calling?
’Twas loved ones’ voices from far off across the seas

Song of the Cattle Trail

The dust hangs thick upon the trail
And the horns and the hoofs are clashing,
While off at the side through the chaparral
The men and the strays go crashing;
But in right good cheer the cowboy sings,
For the work of the fall is ending,
And then it’s ride for the old home ranch
Where a maid love’s light is tending.

Then it’s crack! crack! crack!
On the beef steer’s back,
And it’s run, you slow-foot devil;
For I’m soon to turn back where through the black
Love’s lamp gleams along the level.

He’s trailed them far o’er the trackless range,
Has this knight of the saddle leather;
He has risked his life in the mad stampede,
And has breasted all kinds of weather.
But now is the end of the trail in sight,
And the hours on wings are sliding;
For it’s back to the home and the only girl
When the foreman OK’s the option.

Then it’s quirt! quirt! quirt!
And it’s run or git hurt,
You hang-back, bawling critter.
For a man who’s in love with a turtle dove
Ain’t got no time to fritter.

A Cowboy’s Son

Whar y’u from, little stranger, little boy?
Y’u was ridin’ a cloud on that star-strewn plain,
But y’u fell from the skies like a drop of rain
To this world of sorrow and long, long pain.
Will y’u care fo’ yo’ mothah, little boy?

When y’u grows, little varmint, little boy,
Y’u’ll be ridin’ a hoss by yo’ fathah’s side
With yo’ gun and yo’ spurs and yo’ howstrong pride.
Will y’u think of yo’ home when the world rolls wide?
Will y’u wish for yo’ mothah, little boy?

When y’u love in yo’ manhood, little boy⁠—
When y’u dream of a girl who is angel fair⁠—
When the stars are her eyes and the wind is her hair⁠—
When the sun is her smile and yo’ heaven’s there⁠—
Will y’u care for yo’ mothah, little boy?

A Cowboy Song

I could not be so well content,
So sure of thee,
Señorita,
But well I know you must relent
And come to me,
Lolita!

The Caballeros throng to see
Thy laughing face,
Señorita,
Lolita.
But well I know thy heart’s for me,
Thy charm, thy grace,
Lolita!

I ride the range for thy dear sake,
To earn thee gold,
Señorita,
Lolita;
And steal the gringo’s cows to make
A ranch to hold
Lolita!

A Nevada Cowpuncher to His Beloved

Lonesome? Well, I guess so!
This place is mighty blue;
The silence of the empty rooms
Jes’ palpitates with⁠—you.

The day has lost its beauty,
The sun’s a-shinin’ pale;
I’ll round up my belongin’s
An’ I guess I’ll hit the trail.

Out there in the sagebrush
A-harkin’ to the “Coo‑oo”
Of the wild dove in his matin’
I can think alone of you.

Perhaps a gaunt coyote
Will go a-lopin’ by
An’ linger on the mountain ridge
An’ cock his wary eye.

An’ when the evenin’ settles,
A-waitin’ for the dawn
Perhaps I’ll hear the ground owl:
“She’s gone⁠—she’s gone⁠—she’s gone!”

The Cowboy to His Friend in Need

You’re very well polished, I’m free to confess,
Well balanced, well rounded, a power for right;
But cool and collected⁠—no steel could be less;
You’re primed for continual fight.

Your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will,
On hatred and choler you seem to have fed;
But when I control you, your temper is nil;
In fact, you’re most easily led.

Though lead is your diet and fight is your fun,
I simply can’t give you the jolt;
For I love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun⁠—
You forty-five caliber Colt!

When Bob Got Throwed

That time when Bob got throwed
I thought I sure would bust.
I like to died a-laffin’
To see him chewin’ dust.

He crawled on that Andy bronc
And hit him with a quirt.
The next thing that he knew
He was wallowin’ in the dirt.

Yes, it might a-killed him,
I heard the old ground pop;
But to see if he was injured
You bet I didn’t stop.

I just rolled on the ground
And began to kick and yell;
It like to tickled me to death
To see how hard he fell.

’Twarn’t more than a week ago
That I myself got throwed,
(But ’twas from a meaner horse
Than old Bob ever rode).

D’you reckon Bob looked sad and said,
“I hope that you ain’t hurt!”
Naw! He just laffed and laffed and laffed
To see me chewin’ dirt.

I’ve been prayin’ ever since
For his horse to turn his pack;
And when he done it, I’d a laffed
If it had broke his back.

So I was still a-howlin’
When Bob, he got up lame;
He seen his horse had run clean off
And so for me he came.

He first chucked sand into my eyes,
With a rock he rubbed my head,
Then he twisted both my arms⁠—
“Now go fetch that horse,” he said.

So I went and fetched him back,
But I was feelin’ good all day;
For I sure enough do love to see
A feller get throwed that way.

Cowboy Versus Broncho

Haven’t got no special likin’ fur the toney sorts o’ play,
Chasin’ foxes or that hossback polo game,
Jumpin’ critters over hurdles⁠—sort o’ things that any jay
Could accomplish an’ regard as rather tame.
None o’ them is worth a mention, to my thinkin’ p’int o’ view,
Which the same I hold correct without a doubt,
As a-toppin’ of a broncho that has got it in fur you
An’ concludes that’s just the time to have it out.

Don’t no sooner hit the saddle than the exercises start,
An’ they’re lackin’ in perliminary fuss;
You kin hear his j’ints a-crackin’ like he’s breakin’ ’em apart,
An’ the hide jes’ seems a-rippin’ off the cuss,
An’ you sometimes git a joltin’ that makes everything turn blue,
An’ you want to strictly mind what you’re about,
When you’re fightin’ with a broncho that has got it in fur you
An’ imagines that’s the time to have it out.

Bows his back when he is risin’, sticks his nose between his knees,
An’ he shakes hisself while a-hangin’ in the air;
Then he hits the earth so solid that it somewhat disagrees
With the usual peace an’ quiet of your hair.
You imagine that your innards are a-gittin’ all askew,
An’ your spine don’t feel so cussed firm an’ stout,
When you’re up agin a broncho that has got it in fur you
Doin’ of his level best to have it out.

He will rise to the occasion with a lightnin’ jump, an’ then
When he hits the face o’ these United States
Doesn’t linger half a second till he’s in the air agin⁠—
Occupies the earth an’ then evacuates.
Isn’t any sense o’ comfort like a-settin’ in a pew
Listenin’ to hear a sleepy parson spout
When you’re up on top a broncho that has got it in fur you
An’ is desputly a-tryin’ to have it out.

Always feel a touch o’ pity when he has to give it up
After makin’ sich a well intentioned buck
An’ is standin’ broken hearted an’ as gentle as a pup
A reflectin’ on the rottenness o’ luck.
Puts your sympathetic feelin’s, as you might say, in a stew,
Though you’re lame as if a-sufferin’ from the gout,
When you’re lightin’ off a broncho that has had it in fur you
An’ mistook the proper time to have it out.

When You’re Throwed

If a feller’s been a-straddle
Since he’s big enough to ride,
And has had to sling his saddle
On most any colored hide⁠—
Though it’s nothin’ they take pride in,
Still most fellers I have knowed,
If they ever done much ridin’,
Has at different times got throwed.

All the boys start out together
For the round-up some fine day
When you’re due to throw your leather
On a little wall-eyed bay,
An’ he swells to beat the nation
When you’re cinchin’ up the slack,
An’ he keeps an elevation
In your saddle at the back.

He stands still with feet a-sprawlin’,
An’ his eye shows lots of white,
An’ he kinks his spinal column,
An’ his hide is puckered tight,
He starts risin’ an’ a-jumpin’,
An’ he strikes when you get near,
An’ you cuss him an’ you thump him
Till you get him by the ear⁠—

Then your right hand grabs the saddle
An’ you ketch your stirrup, too,
An’ you try to light a-straddle
Like a woolly buckaroo;
But he drops his head an’ switches,
Then he makes a backward jump,
Out of reach your stirrup twitches
But your right spur grabs his hump.

An’ “Stay with him!” shouts some feller;
Though you know it’s hope forlorn,
Yet you’ll show that you ain’t yeller
An’ you choke the saddle horn.
Then you feel one rein a-droppin’
An’ you know he’s got his head;
An’ your shirt tail’s out an’ floppin’;
An’ the saddle pulls like lead.

Then the boys all yell together
Fit to make a feller sick:
“Hey, you short horn, drop the leather!
Fan his fat an’ ride him slick!”
Seems you’re up-side-down an’ flyin’;
Then your spurs begin to slip.
There’s no further use in tryin’,
For the horn flies from your grip,

An’ you feel a vague sensation
As upon the ground you roll,
Like a violent separation
’Twixt your body an’ your soul.
Then you roll agin a hummock
Where you lay an’ gasp for breath,
An’ there’s somethin’ grips your stomach
Like the finger-grips o’ death.

They all offers you prescriptions
For the grip an’ for the croup,
An’ they give you plain descriptions
How you looped the spiral loop;
They all swear you beat a circus
Or a hoochy-koochy dance,
Moppin’ up the canon’s surface
With the bosom of your pants.

Then you’ll get up on your trotters,
But you have a job to stand;
For the landscape round you totters
An’ your collar’s full o’ sand.
Lots of fellers give prescriptions
How a broncho should be rode,
But there’s few that gives descriptions
Of the times when they got throwed.

Pardners

You bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun,
Ye’re a hard little beast to break,
But ye’re good for the fiercest kind of a run
An’ ye’re quick as a rattlesnake.
Ye jolted me good when we first met
In the dust of that bare corral,
An’ neither one of us will forget
The fight we fit, old pal.

But now⁠—well, say, old hoss, if John
D. Rockefeller shud come
With all the riches his paws are on
And want to buy you, you bum,
I’d laugh in his face an’ pat your neck
An’ say to him loud an’ strong:
“I wouldn’t sell you this derned old wreck
For all your wealth⁠—so long!”

For we have slept on the barren plains
An’ cuddled against the cold;
We’ve been through tempests of drivin’ rains
When the heaviest thunder rolled;
We’ve raced from fire on the lone prairee
An’ run from the mad stampede;
An’ there ain’t no money could buy from me
A pard of your style an’ breed.

So I reckon we’ll stick together, pard,
Till one of us cashes in;
Ye’re wirey an’ tough an’ mighty hard,
An’ homlier, too, than sin.
But yer head’s all there an’ yer heart’s all right,
An’ you’ve been a good pardner, too,
An’ if ye’ve a soul it’s clean an’ white,
You ugly ol’ scoundrel, you!

The Bronc That Wouldn’t Bust

I’ve busted bronchos off and on
Since first I struck their trail,
And you bet I savvy bronchos
From nostrils down to tail;
But I struck one on Powder River,
And say, hands, he was the first
And only living broncho
That your servant couldn’t burst.

He was a no-count buckskin,
Wasn’t worth two-bits to keep,
Had a black stripe down his backbone,
And was woolly like a sheep.
That hoss wasn’t built to tread the earth;
He took natural to the air;
And every time he went aloft
He tried to leave me there.

He went so high above the earth
Lights from Jerusalem shone.
Right thar we parted company
And he came down alone.
I hit terra firma,
The buckskin’s heels struck free,
And brought a bunch of stars along
To dance in front of me.

I’m not a-riding airships
Nor an electric flying beast;
Ain’t got no rich relation
A-waitin’ me back East;
So I’ll sell my chaps and saddle,
My spurs can lay and rust;
For there’s now and then a digger
That a buster cannot bust.

The Ol’ Cow Hawse

When it comes to saddle hawses, there’s a difference in steeds:
There is fancy-gaited critters that will suit some feller’s needs;
There is nags high-bred an’ tony, with a smooth an’ shiny skin,
That will capture all the races that you want to run ’em in.
But fer one that never tires; one that’s faithful, tried and true;
One that allus is a “stayer” when you want to slam him through,
There is but one breed o’ critters that I ever came across
That will allus stand the racket: ’tis the
Ol’
Cow
Hawse

No, he ain’t so much fer beauty, fer he’s scrubby an’ he’s rough,
An’ his temper’s sort o’ sassy, but you bet he’s good enough!
Fer he’ll take the trail o’ mornin’s, be it up or be it down,
On the range a-huntin’ cattle or a-lopin’ into town,
An’ he’ll leave the miles behind him, an’ he’ll never sweat a hair,
’Cuz he’s a willin’ critter when he’s goin’ anywhere.
Oh, your thoroughbred at runnin’ in a race may be the boss,
But fer all day ridin’ lemme have the
Ol’
Cow
Hawse

When my soul seeks peace and quiet on the home ranch of the blest,
Where no storms or stampedes bother, an’ the trails are trails o’ rest,
When my brand has been inspected an’ pronounced to be OK,
An’ the boss has looked me over an’ has told me I kin stay,
Oh, I’m hopin’ when I’m lopin’ off across that blessed range
That I won’t be in a saddle on a critter new an’ strange,
But I’m prayin’ every minnit that up there I’ll ride across
That big heaven range o’ glory on an
Ol’
Cow
Hawse

The Bunk-House Orchestra

Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,
Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,
For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,
But we’ll cut the chimney’s moanin’ with a livelier refrain.

Shinin’ dobe fire-place, shadows on the wall
(See old Shorty’s friv’lous toes a-twitchin’ at the call:)
It’s the best grand high that there is within the law
When seven jolly punchers tackle “Turkey in the Straw.”

Freezy was the day’s ride, lengthy was the trail,
Ev’ry steer was haughty with a high-arched tail,
But we held ’em and we shoved ’em for our longin’ hearts were tried
By a yearnin’ for tobaccer and our dear fireside.

Swing ’er into stop-time, don’t you let ’er droop
(You’re about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)
Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,
But we drifted on to comfort and to “Turkey in the Straw.”

Snarlin’ when the rain whipped, cussin’ at the ford⁠—
Ev’ry mile of twenty was a long discord,
But the night is brimmin’ music and its glory is complete
When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o’ Shorty’s feet!

Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots!
(Don’t he beat the devil’s wife for jiggin’ in his boots?)
Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,
But tonight he’s done forgot it prancin’ “Turkey in the Straw.”

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,
Livin’ is a luxury that don’t come high;
Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,
For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!

Lively on the last turn! Lope’er to the death!
(Reddy’s soul is willin’ but he’s gettin’ short o’ breath.)
Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw
When we have an hour of firelight set to “Turkey in the Straw.”

The Cowboy’s Dance Song

You can’t expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks
In etiquettish manner in aristocratic ranks
When he’s always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe
At the rattling rancher dances where much etiquet don’t go.
You can bet I set them laughing in quite an excited way,
A-giving of their squinters an astonished sort of play,
When I happened into Denver and was asked to take a prance
In the smooth and easy mazes of a high-toned dance.

When I got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white,
And the dudes togged out in wrappings that were simply out of sight,
Tell you what, I was embarrassed, and somehow I couldn’t keep
From feeling like a burro in a pretty flock of sheep.
Every step I made was awkward and I blushed a fiery red
Like the principal adornment of a turkey gobbler’s head.
The ladies said ’twas seldom that they had had the chance
To see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance.

I cut me out a heifer from a bunch of pretty girls
And yanked her to the center to dance the dreamy whirls.
She laid her head upon my bosom in a loving sort of way
And we drifted into heaven as the band began to play.
I could feel my neck a-burning from her nose’s breathing heat,
And she do‑ce‑doed around me, half the time upon my feet;
She peered up in my blinkers with a soul-dissolving glance
Quite conducive to the pleasures of a high-toned dance.

Every nerve just got a-dancing to the music of delight
As I hugged the little sagehen uncomfortably tight;
But she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes
Seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise.
She snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way,
And I hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play⁠—
Tell you what the joys of heaven ain’t a cussed circumstance
To the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance.

When they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare,
Every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear.
I fetched a cowboy whoop and started in to rag,
And cut her with my trotters till the floor began to sag;
Swung my pardner till she got sea-sick and rushed for a seat;
I balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat.⁠—
Tell you what, I shook the creases from my go-to-meeting pants
When I put the cowboy trimmings on that high-toned dance.

The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball

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 Norther “comes a-whistlin’ ” from beyond the Neutral strip
And the prairie dogs are sneezin’, as if they had “the Grip”;
Where the coyotes come a-howlin’ round the ranches after dark,
And the mocking-birds are singin’ to the lovely “medder lark”;
Where the possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes 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 that I attended “The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball.”

The town was Anson City, old Jones’s county seat,
Where they raise Polled Angus cattle, and waving whiskered wheat;
Where the air is soft and “bammy,” an’ dry an’ full of health,
And 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 amazin’ size;
Where Frank Smith “pulls the badger,” on knowin’ tender feet,
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 lively “Widder Wall,”
That I went to that reception, “The Cowboys’ 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 got for the occasion at “The Morning Star Hotel.”
The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine,
And a “viol come imported,” by stage from Abilene.
The room was togged out gorgeous⁠—with mistletoe and shawls,
And candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls.
The “wimmin folks” looked lovely⁠—the boys looked kinder treed,
Till their leader commenced yellin’: “Whoa, fellers, let’s stampede.”
The music started sighin’ and a-wailin’ through the hall,
As a kind of introduction to “The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball.”

The leader was a fellow that came from Swenson’s Ranch,
They called him “Windy Billy,” from “little Dead-man’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’s height;
His feet were animated, an’ a mighty movin’ sight,
When he commenced to holler, “Neow, fellers, stake yer pen!
Lock horns to all them heifers, an’ russle ’em like men.
Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an’ let ’em go,
Climb the grape vine round ’em⁠—all hands do‑ce‑do!
You Mavericks, jine the round-up⁠—Jest skip her waterfall,”
Huh! hit wuz gittin’ happy, “The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball!”

The boys were 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—
“O Xes, chase your squirrels, an’ cut ’em to one side,
Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P. Charley’s bride,
Doc. Hollis down the middle, an’ twine the ladies’ chain,
Varn Andrews pen the fillies in big T. Diamond’s train.
All pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an’ change,
’Big Boston’ lead the trail herd, through little Pitchfork’s range.
Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope ’em! Balance all!”
Huh! hit wuz gittin’ active⁠—“The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball!”

The dust riz fast an’ furious, we all just galloped round,
Till the scenery got so giddy, that Z Bar Dick was downed.
We buckled to our partners, an’ 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 just takes the cake with me.
I’m sick of lazy shufflin’s, of them I’ve had my fill,
Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill.
McAllister ain’t nowhere! when Windy leads the show,
I’ve seen ’em both in harness, an’ so I sorter know⁠—
Oh, Bill, I shan’t forget yer, and I’ll oftentimes recall,
That lively-gaited sworray⁠—“The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball.”

A Dance at the Ranch

From every point they gaily come, the broncho’s unshod feet
Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat;
The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind⁠—
Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind.
The dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones
And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones,
Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers,
And pour the usual fairy tales into their list’ning ears.
Within the “best room” of the ranch the jolly gathered throng
Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song;
The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein
In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration’s chain.
The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow,
Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low;
Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret
Until their ears are greeted with the warning words, “All set!
S’lute yer pardners! Let ’er go!
Balance all an’ do‑ce‑do!
Swing yer girls an’ run away!
Right an’ left an’ gents sashay!
Gents to right an’ swing or cheat!
On to next gal an’ repeat!
Balance next an’ don’t be shy!
Swing yer pard an’ swing ’er high!
Bunch the gals an’ circle round!
Whack yer feet until they bound!
Form a basket! Break away!
Swing an’ kiss an’ all git gay!
Al’man left an’ balance all!
Lift yer hoofs an’ let ’em fall!
Swing yer op’sites! Swing agin!
Kiss the sagehens if you kin!”
An’ thus the merry dance went on till morning’s struggling light
In lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night,
And broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies
By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes.
The cowboys to the ranges speed to “work” the lowing herds,
The girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds,
And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree
They had that night at Jackson’s ranch down on the Owyhee.

At a Cowboy Dance

Git yo’ little sagehens ready;
Trot ’em out upon the floor⁠—
Line up there, you critters! Steady!
Lively, now! One couple more.
Shorty, shed that ol’ sombrero;
Broncho, douse that cigaret;
Stop yer cussin’, Casimero,
’Fore the ladies. Now, all set:

S’lute yer ladies, all together;
Ladies opposite the same;
Hit the lumber with yer leather;
Balance all an’ swing yer dame;
Bunch the heifers in the middle;
Circle stags an’ do‑ce‑do;
Keep a-steppin’ to the fiddle;
Swing ’em ’round an’ off you go.

First four forward. Back to places.
Second foller. Shuffle back⁠—
Now you’ve got it down to cases⁠—
Swing ’em till their trotters crack.
Gents all right a-heel an’ toein’;
Swing ’em⁠—kiss ’em if yo’ kin⁠—
On to next an’ keep a-goin’
Till yo’ hit yer pards agin.

Gents to center. Ladies ’round ’em;
Form a basket; balance all;
Swing yer sweets to where yo’ found ’em;
All p’mnade around the hall.
Balance to yer pards an’ trot ’em
’Round the circle double quick;
Grab an’ squeeze ’em while you’ve got ’em⁠—
Hold ’em to it if they kick.

Ladies, left hand to yer sonnies;
Alaman; grand right an’ left;
Balance all an’ swing yer honies⁠—
Pick ’em up an’ feel their heft.
All p’mnade like skeery cattle;
Balance all an’ swing yer sweets;
Shake yer spurs an’ make ’em rattle⁠—
Keno! Promenade to seats.

The Cowboys’ Ball

Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin’ up the fiddle;
You an’ take yo’r pardner there, standin’ by the wall!
Say “How!” make a bow, and sashay down the middle;
Shake yo’r leg lively at the Cowboys’ Ball.

Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin’;
Everybody happy an’ the goose a-hangin’ high;
Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin’;
Keep a-stompin’ leather while you got one eye.

Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin’
Jumpin’ like a chicken that’s a-lookin’ for its head;
Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin’,
Just keep yo’r feet a-movin’ till we all drop dead!

High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers;
Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!
Uncle Ed’s gettin’ red⁠—had too many dippers;
Better get him hobbled or he’ll break his leg!

Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin’ up the fiddle;
Pass him up another for his arm is gettin’ slow.
Bow down! right in town⁠—and sashay down the middle;
Got to keep a-movin’ for to see the show!

Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute?
Like to get a breath of air lookin’ at the stars?
All right! Fine night⁠—Dance? There’s nothin’ in it!
That’s my pony there, peekin’ through the bars.

Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten!
Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see;
Night’s cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin’
Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.

Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin’ up the fiddle;
Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all!
Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle⁠ ⁠…
But this beats dancin’ at the Cowboys’ Ball.