Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads

THE COWBOY'S DREAM2

Last night as I lay on the prairie,And looked at the stars in the sky,I wondered if ever a cowboyWould drift to that sweet by and by.Roll on, roll on;Roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on,Roll on, roll on;Roll on, little dogies, roll on.The road to that bright, happy regionIs a dim, narrow trail, so they say;But the broad one that leads to perditionIs posted and blazed all the way.They say there will be a great round-up,And cowboys, like dogies, will stand,To be marked by the Riders of JudgmentWho are posted and know every brand.I know there's many a stray cowboyWho'll be lost at the great, final sale,When he might have gone in the green pasturesHad he known of the dim, narrow trail.I wonder if ever a cowboyStood ready for that Judgment Day,And could say to the Boss of the Riders,"I'm ready, come drive me away."For they, like the cows that are locoed,Stampede at the sight of a hand,Are dragged with a rope to the round-up,Or get marked with some crooked man's brand.And I'm scared that I'll be a stray yearling,—A maverick, unbranded on high,—And get cut in the bunch with the "rusties"When the Boss of the Riders goes by.For they tell of another big ownerWhose ne'er overstocked, so they say,But who always makes room for the sinnerWho drifts from the straight, narrow way.They say he will never forget you,That he knows every action and look;So, for safety, you'd better get branded,Have your name in the great Tally Book.

THE COWBOY'S LIFE3

The bawl of a steer,To a cowboy's ear,Is music of sweetest strain;And the yelping notesOf the gray cayotesTo him are a glad refrain.And his jolly songsSpeed him along,As he thinks of the little galWith golden hairWho is waiting thereAt the bars of the home corral.For a kingly crownIn the noisy townHis saddle he wouldn't change;No life so freeAs the life we seeWay out on the Yaso range.His eyes are brightAnd his heart as lightAs the smoke of his cigarette;There's never a careFor his soul to bear,No trouble to make him fret.The rapid beatOf his broncho's feetOn the sod as he speeds along,Keeps living timeTo the ringing rhymeOf his rollicking cowboy song.Hike it, cowboys,For the range awayOn the back of a bronc of steel,With a careless flirtOf the raw-hide quirtAnd a dig of a roweled heel!The winds may blowAnd the thunder growlOr the breezes may safely moan;—A cowboy's lifeIs a royal life,His saddle his kingly throne.Saddle up, boys,For the work is playWhen love's in the cowboy's eyes,—When his heart is lightAs the clouds of whiteThat swim in the summer skies.

THE KANSAS LINE

Come all you jolly cowmen, don't you want to goWay up on the Kansas line?Where you whoop up the cattle from morning till nightAll out in the midnight rain.The cowboy's life is a dreadful life,He's driven through heat and cold;I'm almost froze with the water on my clothes,A-ridin' through heat and cold.I've been where the lightnin', the lightnin' tangled in my eyes,The cattle I could scarcely hold;Think I heard my boss man say:"I want all brave-hearted men who ain't afraid to dieTo whoop up the cattle from morning till night,Way up on the Kansas line."Speaking of your farms and your shanty charms,Speaking of your silver and gold,—Take a cowman's advice, go and marry you a true and lovely little wife,Never to roam, always stay at home;That's a cowman's, a cowman's advice,Way up on the Kansas line.Think I heard the noisy cook say,"Wake up, boys, it's near the break of day,"—Way up on the Kansas line,And slowly we will rise with the sleepy feeling eyes,Way up on the Kansas line.The cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life,All out in the midnight rain;I'm almost froze with the water on my clothes,Way up on the Kansas line.

THE COWMAN'S PRAYER

Now, O Lord, please lend me thine ear,The prayer of a cattleman to hear,No doubt the prayers may seem strange,But I want you to bless our cattle range.Bless the round-ups year by year,And don't forget the growing steer;Water the lands with brooks and rillsFor my cattle that roam on a thousand hills.Prairie fires, won't you please stop?Let thunder roll and water drop.It frightens me to see the smoke;Unless it's stopped, I'll go dead broke.As you, O Lord, my herd behold,It represents a sack of gold;I think at least five cents a poundWill be the price of beef the year around.One thing more and then I'm through,—Instead of one calf, give my cows two.I may pray different from other menBut I've had my say, and now, Amen.

THE MINER'S SONG4

In a rusty, worn-out cabin sat a broken-hearted leaser,His singlejack was resting on his knee.His old "buggy" in the corner told the same old plaintive tale,His ore had left in all his poverty.He lifted his old singlejack, gazed on its battered face,And said: "Old boy, I know we're not to blame;Our gold has us forsaken, some other path it's taken,But I still believe we'll strike it just the same."We'll strike it, yes, we'll strike it just the same,Although it's gone into some other's claim.My dear old boy don't mind it, we won't starve if we don't find it,And we'll drill and shoot and find it just the same."For forty years I've hammered steel and tried to make a strike,I've burned twice the powder Custer ever saw.I've made just coin enough to keep poorer than a snake.My jack's ate all my books on mining law.I've worn gunny-sacks for overalls, and 'California socks,'I've burned candles that would reach from here to Maine,I've lived on powder, smoke, and bacon, that's no lie, boy, I'm not fakin',But I still believe we'll strike it just the same."Last night as I lay sleeping in the midst of all my dreamMy assay ran six ounces clear in gold,And the silver it ran clean sixteen ounces to the seam,And the poor old miner's joy could scarce be told.I lay there, boy, I could not sleep, I had a feverish brow,Got up, went back, and put in six holes more.And then, boy, I was chokin' just to see the ground I'd broken;But alas! alas! the miner's dream was o'er."We'll strike it, yes, we'll strike it just the same,Although it's gone into some other's claim.My dear old boy, don't mind it, we won't starve if we don't find it,And I still believe I'll strike it just the same."

JESSE JAMES

Jesse James was a lad that killed a-many a man;He robbed the Danville train.But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. HowardHas laid poor Jesse in his grave.Poor Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,Three children, they were brave.But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. HowardHas laid poor Jesse in his grave.It was Robert Ford, that dirty little coward,I wonder how he does feel,For he ate of Jesse's bread and he slept in Jesse's bed,Then laid poor Jesse in his grave.Jesse was a man, a friend to the poor,He never would see a man suffer pain;And with his brother Frank he robbed the Chicago bank,And stopped the Glendale train.It was his brother Frank that robbed the Gallatin bank,And carried the money from the town;It was in this very place that they had a little race,For they shot Captain Sheets to the ground.They went to the crossing not very far from there,And there they did the same;With the agent on his knees, he delivered up the keysTo the outlaws, Frank and Jesse James.It was on Wednesday night, the moon was shining bright,They robbed the Glendale train;The people they did say, for many miles away,It was robbed by Frank and Jesse James.It was on Saturday night, Jesse was at homeTalking with his family brave,Robert Ford came along like a thief in the nightAnd laid poor Jesse in his grave.The people held their breath when they heard of Jesse's death,And wondered how he ever came to die.It was one of the gang called little Robert Ford,He shot poor Jesse on the sly.Jesse went to his rest with his hand on his breast;The devil will be upon his knee.He was born one day in the county of ClayAnd came from a solitary race.This song was made by Billy Gashade,As soon as the news did arrive;He said there was no man with the law in his handWho could take Jesse James when alive.

POOR LONESOME COWBOY

I ain't got no father,I ain't got no father,I ain't got no father,To buy the clothes I wear.I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy,I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy,I'm a poor, lonesome cowboyAnd a long ways from home.I ain't got no mother,I ain't got no mother,I ain't got no motherTo mend the clothes I wear.I ain't got no sister,I ain't got no sister,I ain't got no sisterTo go and play with me.I ain't got no brother,I ain't got no brother,I ain't got no brotherTo drive the steers with me.I ain't got no sweetheart,I ain't got no sweetheart,I ain't got no sweetheartTo sit and talk with me.I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy,I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy,I'm a poor, lonesome cowboyAnd a long ways from home.

BUENA VISTA BATTLEFIELD

On Buena Vista battlefieldA dying soldier lay,His thoughts were on his mountain homeSome thousand miles away.He called his comrade to his side,For much he had to say,In briefest words to those who wereSome thousand miles away."My father, comrade, you will tellAbout this bloody fray;My country's flag, you'll say to him,Was safe with me to-day.I make a pillow of it nowOn which to lay my head,A winding sheet you'll make of itWhen I am with the dead."I know 'twill grieve his inmost soulTo think I never moreWill sit with him beneath the oakThat shades the cottage door;But tell that time-worn patriot,That, mindful of his fame,Upon this bloody battlefieldI sullied not his name."My mother's form is with me now,Her will is in my ear,And drop by drop as flows my bloodSo flows from her the tear.And oh, when you shall tell to herThe tidings of this day,Speak softly, comrade, softly speakWhat you may have to say."Speak not to her in blighting wordsThe blighting news you bear,The cords of life might snap too soon,So, comrade, have a care.I am her only, cherished child,But tell her that I diedRejoicing that she taught me youngTo take my country's side."But, comrade, there's one more,She's gentle as a fawn;She lives upon the sloping hillThat overlooks the lawn,The lawn where I shall never moreGo forth with her in merry moodTo gather wild-wood flowers."Tell her when death was on my browAnd life receding fast,Her looks, her form was with me then,Were with me to the last.On Buena Vista's bloody fieldTell her I dying lay,And that I knew she thought of meSome thousand miles away."

WESTWARD HO

I love not ColoradoWhere the faro table grows,And down the desperadoThe rippling Bourbon flows;Nor seek I fair MontanaOf bowie-lunging fame;The pistol ring of fair WyomingI leave to nobler game.Sweet poker-haunted KansasIn vain allures the eye;The Nevada rough has charms enoughYet its blandishments I fly.Shall Arizona woo meWhere the meek Apache bides?Or New Mexico where natives growWith arrow-proof insides?Nay, 'tis where the grizzlies wanderAnd the lonely diggers roam,And the grim Chinese from the squatter fleesThat I'll make my humble home.I'll chase the wild tarantulaAnd the fierce cayote I'll dare,And the locust grim, I'll battle himIn his native wildwood lair.Or I'll seek the gulch desertedAnd dream of the wild Red man,And I'll build a cot on a corner lotAnd get rich as soon as I can.

A HOME ON THE RANGE

Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam,Where the deer and the antelope play,Where seldom is heard a discouraging wordAnd the skies are not cloudy all day.Home, home on the range,Where the deer and the antelope play;Where seldom is heard a discouraging wordAnd the skies are not cloudy all day.Where the air is so pure, the zephyrs so free,The breezes so balmy and light,That I would not exchange my home on the rangeFor all of the cities so bright.The red man was pressed from this part of the West,He's likely no more to returnTo the banks of Red River where seldom if everTheir flickering camp-fires burn.How often at night when the heavens are brightWith the light from the glittering stars,Have I stood here amazed and asked as I gazedIf their glory exceeds that of ours.Oh, I love these wild flowers in this dear land of ours,The curlew I love to hear scream,And I love the white rocks and the antelope flocksThat graze on the mountain-tops green.Oh, give me a land where the bright diamond sandFlows leisurely down the stream;Where the graceful white swan goes gliding alongLike a maid in a heavenly dream.Then I would not exchange my home on the range,Where the deer and the antelope play;Where seldom is heard a discouraging wordAnd the skies are not cloudy all day.Home, home on the range,Where the deer and the antelope play;Where seldom is heard a discouraging wordAnd the skies are not cloudy all day.

TEXAS RANGERS

Come, all you Texas rangers, wherever you may be,I'll tell you of some troubles that happened unto me.My name is nothing extra, so it I will not tell,—And here's to all you rangers, I am sure I wish you well.It was at the age of sixteen that I joined the jolly band,We marched from San Antonio down to the Rio Grande.Our captain he informed us, perhaps he thought it right,"Before we reach the station, boys, you'll surely have to fight."And when the bugle sounded our captain gave command,"To arms, to arms," he shouted, "and by your horses stand."I saw the smoke ascending, it seemed to reach the sky;The first thought that struck me, my time had come to die.I saw the Indians coming, I heard them give the yell;My feelings at that moment, no tongue can ever tell.I saw the glittering lances, their arrows round me flew,And all my strength it left me and all my courage too.We fought full nine hours before the strife was o'er,The like of dead and wounded I never saw before.And when the sun was rising and the Indians they had fled,We loaded up our rifles and counted up our dead.And all of us were wounded, our noble captain slain,And the sun was shining sadly across the bloody plain.Sixteen as brave rangers as ever roamed the WestWere buried by their comrades with arrows in their breast.'Twas then I thought of mother, who to me in tears did say,"To you they are all strangers, with me you had better stay."I thought that she was childish, the best she did not know;My mind was fixed on ranging and I was bound to go.Perhaps you have a mother, likewise a sister too,And maybe you have a sweetheart to weep and mourn for you;If that be your situation, although you'd like to roam,I'd advise you by experience, you had better stay at home.I have seen the fruits of rambling, I know its hardships well;I have crossed the Rocky Mountains, rode down the streets of hell;I have been in the great Southwest where the wild Apaches roam,And I tell you from experience you had better stay at home.And now my song is ended; I guess I have sung enough;The life of a ranger I am sure is very tough.And here's to all you ladies, I am sure I wish you well,I am bound to go a-ranging, so ladies, fare you well.

THE MORMON BISHOP'S LAMENT

I am a Mormon bishop and I will tell you what I know.I joined the confraternity some forty years ago.I then had youth upon my brow and eloquence my tongue,But I had the sad misfortune then to meet with Brigham Young.He said, "Young man, come join our band and bid hard work farewell,You are too smart to waste your time in toil by hill and dell;There is a ripening harvest and our hooks shall find the foolAnd in the distant nations we shall train them in our school."I listened to his preaching and I learned all the role,And the truth of Mormon doctrines burned deep within my soul.I married sixteen women and I spread my new belief,I was sent to preach the gospel to the pauper and the thief.'Twas in the glorious days when Brigham was our only Lord and King,And his wild cry of defiance from the Wasatch tops did ring,'Twas when that bold Bill Hickman and that Porter Rockwell led,And in the blood atonements the pits received the dead.They took in Dr. Robertson and left him in his gore,And the Aiken brothers sleep in peace on Nephi's distant shore.We marched to Mountain Meadows and on that glorious fieldWith rifle and with hatchet we made man and woman yield.'Twas there we were victorious with our legions fierce and brave.We left the butchered victims on the ground without a grave.We slew the load of emigrants on Sublet's lonely roadAnd plundered many a trader of his then most precious load.Alas for all the powers that were in the by-gone time.What we did as deeds of glory are condemned as bloody crime.No more the blood atonements keep the doubting one in fear,While the faithful were rewarded with a wedding once a year.As the nation's chieftain president says our days of rule are o'erAnd his marshals with their warrants are on watch at every door,Old John he now goes skulking on the by-roads of our land,Or unknown he keeps in hiding with the faithful of our band.Old Brigham now is stretched beneath the cold and silent clay,And the chieftains now are fallen that were mighty in their day;Of the six and twenty women that I wedded long agoThere are two now left to cheer me in these awful hours of woe.The rest are scattered where the Gentile's flag's unfurledAnd two score of my daughters are now numbered with the world.Oh, my poor old bones are aching and my head is turning gray;Oh, the scenes were black and awful that I've witnessed in my day.Let my spirit seek the mansion where old Brigham's gone to dwell,For there's no place for Mormons but the lowest pits of hell.

DAN TAYLOR

Dan Taylor is a rollicking cuss,A frisky son of a gun,He loves to court the maidensAnd he savies how it's done.He used to be a cowboyAnd they say he wasn't slow,He could ride the bucking broncoAnd swing the long lasso.He could catch a maverick by the headOr heel him on the fly,He could pick up his front onesWhenever he chose to try.He used to ride most anything;Now he seldom will.He says they cut some caper in the airOf which he's got his fill.He is done and quit the business,Settled down to quiet life,And he's hunting for some maidenWho will be his little wife,—One who will wash and patch his britchesAnd feed the setting hen,Milk old Blue and Brindy,And tend to baby Ben.Then he'll build a cozy cottageAnd furnish it complete,He'll decorate the walls insideWith pictures new and sweet.He will leave off riding broncosAnd be a different man;He will do his best to please his wifeIn every way he can.Then together in double harnessThey will trot along down the line,Until death shall call them overTo a bright and sunny clime.May your joys be then completedAnd your sorrows have amend,Is the fondest wish of the writer,—Your true and faithful friend.

WHEN WORK IS DONE THIS FALL

A group of jolly cowboys, discussing plans at ease,Says one, "I'll tell you something, boys, if you will listen, please.I am an old cow-puncher and here I'm dressed in rags,And I used to be a tough one and take on great big jags."But I've got a home, boys, a good one, you all know,Although I have not seen it since long, long ago.I'm going back to Dixie once more to see them all;Yes, I'm going to see my mother when the work's all done this fall."After the round-ups are over and after the shipping is done,I am going right straight home, boys, ere all my money is gone.I have changed my ways, boys, no more will I fall;And I am going home, boys, when work is done this fall."When I left home, boys, my mother for me cried,Begged me not to go, boys, for me she would have died;My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me, that's all,And with God's help I'll see her when the work's all done this fall."That very night this cowboy went out to stand his guard;The night was dark and cloudy and storming very hard;The cattle they got frightened and rushed in wild stampede,The cowboy tried to head them, riding at full speed.While riding in the darkness so loudly did he shout,Trying his best to head them and turn the herd about,His saddle horse did stumble and on him did fall,The poor boy won't see his mother when the work's all done this fall.His body was so mangled the boys all thought him dead,They picked him up so gently and laid him on a bed;He opened wide his blue eyes and looking all aroundHe motioned to his comrades to sit near him on the ground."Boys, send mother my wages, the wages I have earned,For I'm afraid, boys, my last steer I have turned.I'm going to a new range, I hear my Master's call,And I'll not see my mother when the work's all done this fall."Fred, you take my saddle; George, you take my bed;Bill, you take my pistol after I am dead,And think of me kindly when you look upon them all,For I'll not see my mother when work is done this fall."Poor Charlie was buried at sunrise, no tombstone at his head,Nothing but a little board and this is what it said,"Charlie died at daybreak, he died from a fall,And he'll not see his mother when the work's all done this fall."

SIOUX INDIANS

I'll sing you a song, though it may be a sad one,Of trials and troubles and where they first begun;I left my dear kindred, my friends, and my home,Across the wild deserts and mountains to roam.I crossed the Missouri and joined a large trainWhich bore us over mountain and valley and plain;And often of evenings out hunting we'd goTo shoot the fleet antelope and wild buffalo.We heard of Sioux Indians all out on the plainsA-killing poor drivers and burning their trains,—A-killing poor drivers with arrows and bow,When captured by Indians no mercy they show.We traveled three weeks till we came to the PlatteAnd pitched out our tents at the end of the flat,We spread down our blankets on the green grassy ground,While our horses and mules were grazing around.While taking refreshment we heard a low yell,The whoop of Sioux Indians coming up from the dell;We sprang to our rifles with a flash in each eye,"Boys," says our brave leader, "we'll fight till we die."They made a bold dash and came near to our trainAnd the arrows fell around us like hail and like rain,But with our long rifles we fed them cold leadTill many a brave warrior around us lay dead.We shot their bold chief at the head of his band.He died like a warrior with a gun in his hand.When they saw their bold chief lying dead in his gore,They whooped and they yelled and we saw them no more.With our small band,—there were just twenty-four,—And the Sioux Indians there were five hundred or more,—We fought them with courage; we spoke not a word,Till the end of the battle was all that was heard.We hitched up our horses and we started our train;Three more bloody battles this trip on the plain;And in our last battle three of our brave boys fell,And we left them to rest in a green, shady dell.

THE OLD CHISHOLM TRAIL

Come along, boys, and listen to my tale,I'll tell you of my troubles on the old Chisholm trail.Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya,Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya.I started up the trail October twenty-third,I started up the trail with the 2-U herd.Oh, a ten dollar hoss and a forty dollar saddle,—And I'm goin' to punchin' Texas cattle.I woke up one morning on the old Chisholm trail,Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail.I'm up in the mornin' afore daylightAnd afore I sleep the moon shines bright.Old Ben Bolt was a blamed good boss,But he'd go to see the girls on a sore-backed hoss.Old Ben Bolt was a fine old manAnd you'd know there was whiskey wherever he'd land.My hoss throwed me off at the creek called Mud,My hoss throwed me off round the 2-U herd.Last time I saw him he was going cross the levelA-kicking up his heels and a-running like the devil.It's cloudy in the West, a-looking like rain,And my damned old slicker's in the wagon again.Crippled my hoss, I don't know how,Ropin' at the horns of a 2-U cow.We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly,We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by.No chaps, no slicker, and it's pouring down rain,And I swear, by god, I'll never night-herd again.Feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle,I hung and rattled with them long-horn cattle.Last night I was on guard and the leader broke the ranks,I hit my horse down the shoulders and I spurred him in the flanks.The wind commenced to blow, and the rain began to fall,Hit looked, by grab, like we was goin' to loss 'em all.I jumped in the saddle and grabbed holt the horn,Best blamed cow-puncher ever was born.I popped my foot in the stirrup and gave a little yell,The tail cattle broke and the leaders went to hell.I don't give a damn if they never do stop;I'll ride as long as an eight-day clock.Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn,Best damned cowboy ever was born.I herded and I hollered and I done very well,Till the boss said, "Boys, just let 'em go to hell."Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.We rounded 'em up and put 'em on the cars,And that was the last of the old Two Bars.Oh it's bacon and beans most every day,—I'd as soon be a-eatin' prairie hay.I'm on my best horse and I'm goin' at a run,I'm the quickest shootin' cowboy that ever pulled a gun.I went to the wagon to get my roll,To come back to Texas, dad-burn my soul.I went to the boss to draw my roll,He had it figgered out I was nine dollars in the hole.I'll sell my outfit just as soon as I can,I won't punch cattle for no damned man.Goin' back to town to draw my money,Goin' back home to see my honey.With my knees in the saddle and my seat in the sky,I'll quit punching cows in the sweet by and by.Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya,Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya.