Chapter 4

Oh, I'm going home Bull-whacking for to spurn, I ain't got a nickel, And I don't give a dern. 'Tis when I meet a pretty girl, You bet I will or try, I'll make her my little wife,-- Root hog or die.

THE "METIS" SONG OF THE BUFFALO HUNTERS

BY ROBIDEAU

Hurrah for the buffalo hunters! Hurrah for the cart brigade! That creak along on its winding way, While we dance and sing and play. Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade!

Hurrah for the Pembinah hunters! Hurrah for its cart brigade! For with horse and gun we roll along O'er mountain and hill and plain. Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade!

We whipped the Sioux and scalped them too, While on the western plain, And rode away on our homeward way With none to say us nay,-- Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! Hurrah!

Mon ami, mon ami, hurrah for our black-haired girls! That braved the Sioux and fought them too, While on Montana's plains. We'll hold them true and love them too, While on the trail of the Pembinah, hurrah! Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade of Pembinah!

We have the skins and the meat so sweet. And we'll sit by the fire in the lodge so neat, While the wind blows cold and the snow is deep. Then roll in our robes and laugh as we sleep. Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

THE COWBOY'S LAMENT

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo, As I walked out in Laredo one day, I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen, Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay.

"Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly, Play the Dead March as you carry me along; Take me to the green valley, there lay the sod o'er me, For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy," These words he did say as I boldly stepped by. "Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story; I was shot in the breast and I know I must die.

"Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin, Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song, Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me, For I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"My friends and relations, they live in the Nation, They know not where their boy has gone. He first came to Texas and hired to a ranchman, Oh, I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"Go write a letter to my gray-haired mother, And carry the same to my sister so dear; But not a word of this shall you mention When a crowd gathers round you my story to hear.

"Then beat your drum lowly and play your fife slowly, Beat the Dead March as you carry me along; We all love our cowboys so young and so handsome, We all love our cowboys although they've done wrong.

"There is another more dear than a sister, She'll bitterly weep when she hears I am gone. There is another who will win her affections, For I'm a young cowboy and they say I've done wrong.

"Go gather around you a crowd of young cowboys, And tell them the story of this my sad fate; Tell one and the other before they go further To stop their wild roving before 'tis too late.

"Oh, muffle your drums, then play your fifes merrily; Play the Dead March as you go along. And fire your guns right over my coffin; There goes an unfortunate boy to his home.

"It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing, It was once in the saddle I used to go gay; First to the dram-house, then to the card-house, Got shot in the breast, I am dying to-day.

"Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin; Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall. Put bunches of roses all over my coffin, Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall.

"Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly, And give a wild whoop as you carry me along; And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me, For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water, To cool my parched lips," the cowboy said; Before I turned, the spirit had left him And gone to its Giver,--the cowboy was dead.

We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly, And bitterly wept as we bore him along; For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome, We all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong.

LOVE IN DISGUISE

As William and Mary stood by the seashore Their last farewell to take, Returning no more, little Mary she said, "Why surely my heart will break." "Oh, don't be dismayed, little Mary," he said, As he pressed the dear girl to his side, "In my absence don't mourn, for when I return I'll make little Mary my bride."

Three years passed on without any news. One day as she stood by the door A beggar passed by with a patch on his eye, "I'm home, oh, do pity, my love; Have compassion on me, your friend I will be. Your fortune I'll tell besides. The lad you mourn will never return To make little Mary his bride."

She startled and trembled and then she did say, "All the fortune I have I freely give If what I ask you will tell unto me,-- Say, does young William yet live?" "He lives and is true and poverty poor, And shipwreck has suffered beside; He'll return no more, because he is poor, To make little Mary his bride."

"No tongue can tell the joy I do feel Although his misfortune I mourn, And he's welcome to me though poverty poor, His jacket all tattered and torn. I love him so dear, so true and sincere, I'll have no other beside; Those with riches enrobed and covered with gold Can't make little Mary their bride."

The beggar then tore the patch from his eye, His crutches he laid by his side, Coat, jacket and bundle; cheeks red as a rose, 'Twas William that stood by her side. "Then excuse me, dear maid," to her he said, "It was only your love I tried." So he hastened away at the close of the day To make little Mary his bride.

MUSTANG GRAY

There once was a noble ranger, They called him Mustang Gray; He left his home when but a youth, Went ranging far away.

But he'll go no more a-ranging, The savage to affright; He has heard his last war-whoop, And fought his last fight.

He ne'er would sleep within a tent, No comforts would he know; But like a brave old Tex-i-an, A-ranging he would go.

When Texas was invaded By a mighty tyrant foe, He mounted his noble war-horse And a-ranging he did go.

Once he was taken prisoner, Bound in chains upon the way, He wore the yoke of bondage Through the streets of Monterey.

A senorita loved him, And followed by his side; She opened the gates and gave to him Her father's steed to ride.

God bless the senorita, The belle of Monterey, She opened wide the prison door And let him ride away.

And when this veteran's life was spent, It was his last command To bury him on Texas soil On the banks of the Rio Grande;

And there the lonely traveler, When passing by his grave, Will shed a farewell tear O'er the bravest of the brave.

And he'll go no more a-ranging, The savage to affright; He has heard his last war-whoop, And fought his last fight.

YOUNG COMPANIONS

Come all you young companions And listen unto me, I'll tell you a story Of some bad company.

I was born in Pennsylvania Among the beautiful hills And the memory of my childhood Is warm within me still.

I did not like my fireside, I did not like my home; I had in view far rambling, So far away did roam.

I had a feeble mother, She oft would plead with me; And the last word she gave me Was to pray to God in need.

I had two loving sisters, As fair as fair could be, And oft beside me kneeling They oft would plead with me.

I bid adieu to loved ones, To my home I bid farewell, And I landed in Chicago In the very depth of hell.

It was there I took to drinking, I sinned both night and day, And there within my bosom A feeble voice would say:

"Then fare you well, my loved one, May God protect my boy, And blessings ever with him Throughout his manhood joy."

I courted a fair young maiden, Her name I will not tell, For I should ever disgrace her Since I am doomed for hell.

It was on one beautiful evening, The stars were shining bright, And with a fatal dagger I bid her spirit flight.

So justice overtook me, You all can plainly see, My soul is doomed forever Throughout eternity.

It's now I'm on the scaffold, My moments are not long; You may forget the singer But don't forget the song.

LACKEY BILL

Come all you good old boys and listen to my rhymes, We are west of Eastern Texas and mostly men of crimes; Each with a hidden secret well smothered in his breast, Which brought us out to Mexico, way out here in the West.

My parents raised me tenderly, they had no child but me, Till I began to ramble and with them could never agree. My mind being bent on rambling did grieve their poor hearts sore, To leave my aged parents them to see no more.

I was borned and raised in Texas, though never come to fame, A cowboy by profession, C.W. King, by name. Oh, when the war was ended I did not like to work, My brothers were not happy, for I had learned to shirk.

In fact I was not able, my health was very bad, I had no constitution, I was nothing but a lad. I had no education, I would not go to school, And living off my parents I thought it rather cool.

So I set a resolution to travel to the West, My parents they objected, but still I thought it best. It was out on the Seven Rivers all out on the Pecos stream, It was there I saw a country I thought just suited me.

I thought I would be no stranger and lead a civil life, In order to be happy would choose myself a wife. On one Sabbath evening in the merry month of May To a little country singing I happened there to stray.

It was there I met a damsel I never shall forget, The impulse of that moment remains within me yet. We soon became acquainted, I thought she would fill the bill, She seemed to be good-natured, which helps to climb the hill.

She was a handsome figure though not so very tall; Her hair was red as blazes, I hate it worst of all. I saw her home one evening in the presence of her pap, I bid them both good evening with a note left in her lap.

And when I got an answer I read it with a rush, I found she had consented, my feelings was a hush. But now I have changed my mind, boys, I am sure I wish her well. Here's to that precious jewel, I'm sure I wish her well.

This girl was Miss Mollie Walker who fell in love with me, She was a lovely Western girl, as lovely as could be, She was so tall, so handsome, so charming and so fair, There is not a girl in this whole world with her I could compare.

She said my pockets would be lined with gold, hard work then I'd leave o'er If I'd consent to live with her and say I'd roam no more. My mind began to ramble and it grieved my poor heart sore, To leave my darling girl, her to see no more.

I asked if it made any difference if I crossed o'er the plains; She said it made no difference if I returned again. So we kissed, shook hands, and parted, I left that girl behind. She said she'd prove true to me till death proved her unkind.

I rode in the town of Vagus, all in the public square; The mail coach had arrived, the post boy met me there. He handed me a letter that gave me to understand That the girl I loved in Texas had married another man.

So I read a little farther and found those words were true. I turned myself all around, not knowing what to do. I'll sell my horse, saddle, and bridle, cow-driving I'll resign, I'll search this world from town to town for the girl I left behind.

Here the gold I find in plenty, the girls to me are kind, But my pillow is haunted with the girl I left behind. It's trouble and disappointment is all that I can see, For the dearest girl in all the world has gone square back on me.

WHOOPEE TI YI YO, GIT ALONG LITTLE DOGIES

As I walked out one morning for pleasure, I spied a cow-puncher all riding alone; His hat was throwed back and his spurs was a jingling, As he approached me a-singin' this song,

Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies, It's your misfortune, and none of my own. Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies, For you know Wyoming will be your new home.

Early in the spring we round up the dogies, Mark and brand and bob off their tails; Round up our horses, load up the chuck-wagon, Then throw the dogies upon the trail.

It's whooping and yelling and driving the dogies; Oh how I wish you would go on; It's whooping and punching and go on little dogies, For you know Wyoming will be your new home.

Some boys goes up the trail for pleasure, But that's where you get it most awfully wrong; For you haven't any idea the trouble they give us While we go driving them all along.

When the night comes on and we hold them on the bedground, These little dogies that roll on so slow; Roll up the herd and cut out the strays, And roll the little dogies that never rolled before.

Your mother she was raised way down in Texas, Where the jimson weed and sand-burrs grow; Now we'll fill you up on prickly pear and cholla Till you are ready for the trail to Idaho.

Oh, you'll be soup for Uncle Sam's Injuns; "It's beef, heap beef," I hear them cry. Git along, git along, git along little dogies You're going to be beef steers by and by.

Whoopee Ti Yi Yo, Git Along Little Dogies (Mus. Not.)

As I was a-walk-ing one morn-ing for pleasure, I spied a cow-punch-er all rid-ing a-lone; His hat was throw'd back and his spurs was a-jing-lin', As he ap-proach'd me a-sing-in' this song:

REFRAIN.

Whoopee ti yi yo, git a-long little dog-ies, Its your mis-for-tune and none of my own. Whoop-ee ti yi yo, git a-long lit-tie dog-ies, For you know Wy-o-ming will be your new home.

THE U-S-U RANGE

O come cowboys and listen to my song, I'm in hopes I'll please you and not keep you long; I'll sing you of things you may think strange About West Texas and the U-S-U range.

You may go to Stamford and there see a man Who wears a white shirt and is asking for hands; You may ask him for work and he'll answer you short, He will hurry you up, for he wants you to start. He will put you in a wagon and be off in the rain, You will go up on Tongue River on the U-S-U range.

You will drive up to the ranch and there you will stop. It's a little sod house with dirt all on top. You will ask what it is and they will tell you out plain That it's the ranch house on the U-S-U range.

You will go in the house and he will begin to explain; You will see some blankets rolled up on the floor; You may ask what it is and they will tell you out plain That it is the bedding on the U-S-U range.

You are up in the morning at the daybreak To eat cold beef and U-S-U steak, And out to your work no matter if it's rain,-- And that is the life on the U-S-U range.

You work hard all day and come in at night, And turn your horse loose, for they say it's all right, And set down to supper and begin to complain Of the chuck that you eat on the U-S-U range.

The grub that you get is beans and cold rice And U-S-U steak cooked up very nice; And if you don't like that you needn't complain, For that's what you get on the U-S-U range.

Now, kind friends, I must leave you, I no longer can remain, I hope I have pleased you and given you no pain. But when I am gone, don't think me strange, For I have been a cow-puncher on the U-S-U range.

I'M A GOOD OLD REBEL

Oh, I'm a good old rebel, that's what I am; And for this land of freedom, I don't care a damn, I'm glad I fought agin her, I only wish we'd won, And I don't axe any pardon for anything I've done.

I served with old Bob Lee, three years about, Got wounded in four places and starved at Point Lookout; I caught the rheumatism a-campin' in the snow, But I killed a _chance_ of Yankees and wish I'd killed some mo'.

For I'm a good old rebel, etc.

I hate the constitooshin, this great republic too; I hate the mouty eagle, an' the uniform so blue; I hate their glorious banner, an' all their flags an' fuss, Those lyin', thievin' Yankees, I hate 'em wuss an' wuss.

For I'm a good old rebel, etc.

I won't be re-constructed! I'm better now than them; And for a carpet-bagger, I don't give a damn; So I'm off for the frontier, soon as I can go, I'll prepare me a weapon and start for Mexico.

For I'm a good old rebel, etc.

THE COWBOY

All day long on the prairies I ride, Not even a dog to trot by my side; My fire I kindle with chips gathered round, My coffee I boil without being ground.

I wash in a pool and wipe on a sack; I carry my wardrobe all on my back; For want of an oven I cook bread in a pot, And sleep on the ground for want of a cot.

My ceiling is the sky, my floor is the grass, My music is the lowing of the herds as they pass; My books are the brooks, my sermons the stones, My parson is a wolf on his pulpit of bones.

And then if my cooking is not very complete You can't blame me for wanting to eat. But show me a man that sleeps more profound Than the big puncher-boy who stretches himself on the ground.

My books teach me ever consistence to prize, My sermons, that small things I should not despise; My parson remarks from his pulpit of bones That fortune favors those who look out for their own.

And then between me and love lies a gulf very wide. Some lucky fellow may call her his bride. My friends gently hint I am coming to grief, But men must make money and women have beef.

But Cupid is always a friend to the bold, And the best of his arrows are pointed with gold. Society bans me so savage and dodge That the Masons would ball me out of their lodge.

If I had hair on my chin, I might pass for the goat That bore all the sins in the ages remote; But why it is I can never understand, For each of the patriarchs owned a big brand.

Abraham emigrated in search of a range, And when water was scarce he wanted a change; Old Isaac owned cattle in charge of Esau, And Jacob punched cows for his father-in-law.

He started in business way down at bed rock, And made quite a streak at handling stock; Then David went from night-herding to using a sling; And, winning the battle, he became a great king. Then the shepherds, while herding the sheep on a hill, Got a message from heaven of peace and goodwill.

The Cowboy (Mus. Not.)

Music by the "Kid"

All day on the prai-rie in the sad-dle I ride, Not e-ven a dog, boys, to trot by my side. My fire I must kin-dle with chips gathered round, And boil my own cof-fee with-out be-ing ground. I wash in a pool and I wipe on a sack, I car-ry my ward-robe all on my back.

BILL PETERS, THE STAGE DRIVER

Bill Peters was a hustler From Independence town; He warn't a college scholar Nor man of great renown, But Bill had a way o' doing things And doin' 'em up brown.

Bill driv the stage from Independence Up to the Smokey Hill; And everybody knowed him thar As Independence Bill,-- Thar warn't no feller on the route That driv with half the skill.

Bill driv four pair of horses, Same as you'd drive a team, And you'd think you was a-travelin' On a railroad driv by steam; And he'd git thar on time, you bet, Or Bill 'u'd bust a seam.

He carried mail and passengers, And he started on the dot, And them teams o' his'n, so they say, Was never known to trot; But they went it in a gallop And kept their axles hot.

When Bill's stage 'u'd bust a tire, Or something 'u'd break down, He'd hustle round and patch her up And start off with a bound; And the wheels o' that old shack o' his Scarce ever touched the ground.

And Bill didn't low no foolin', And when Inguns hove in sight And bullets rattled at the stage, He druv with all his might; He'd holler, "Fellers, give 'em hell, I ain't got time to fight."

Then the way them wheels 'u'd rattle, And the way the dust 'u'd fly, You'd think a million cattle, Had stampeded and gone by; But the mail 'u'd get thar just the same, If the horses had to die.

He driv that stage for many a year Along the Smokey Hill, And a pile o' wild Comanches Did Bill Peters have to kill,-- And I reckon if he'd had good luck He'd been a drivin' still.

But he chanced one day to run agin A bullet made o' lead, Which was harder than he bargained for And now poor Bill is dead; And when they brung his body home A barrel of tears was shed.

HARD TIMES

Come listen a while and I'll sing you a song Concerning the times--it will not be long-- When everybody is striving to buy, And cheating each other, I cannot tell why,-- And it's hard, hard times.

From father to mother, from sister to brother, From cousin to cousin, they're cheating each other. Since cheating has grown to be so much the fashion, I believe to my soul it will run the whole Nation,-- And it's hard, hard times.

Now there is the talker, by talking he eats, And so does the butcher by killing his meats. He'll toss the steelyards, and weigh it right down, And swear it's just right if it lacks forty pounds,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there is the merchant, as honest, we're told. Whatever he sells you, my friend, you are sold; Believe what I tell you, and don't be surprised To find yourself cheated half out of your eyes,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there is the lawyer you plainly will see, He will plead your case for a very large fee, He'll law you and tell you the wrong side is right, And make you believe that a black horse is white,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there is the doctor, I like to forgot, I believe to my soul he's the worst of the lot; He'll tell you he'll cure you for half you possess, And when you're buried he'll take all the rest,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there's the old bachelor, all hated with scorn, He's like an old garment all tattered and torn, The girls and the widows all toss him a sigh, And think it quite right, and so do I,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there's the young widow, coquettish and shy, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye, But when she gets married she'll cut quite a dash, She'll give him the reins and she'll handle the cash,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there's the young lady I like to have missed, And I believe to my soul she'd like to be kissed; She'll tell you she loves you with all pretence And ask you to call again some time hence,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there's the young man, the worst of the whole. Oh, he will tell you with all of his soul, He'll tell you he loves you and for you will die, And when he's away he will swear it's a lie,-- And it's hard, hard times.

COLE YOUNGER

Am one of a band of highwaymen, Cole Younger is my name; My crimes and depredations have brought my friends to shame; The robbing of the Northfield Bank, the same I can't deny, For now I am a prisoner, in the Stillwater jail I lie.

'Tis of a bold, high robbery, a story to you I'll tell, Of a California miner who unto us befell; We robbed him of his money and bid him go his way, For which I will be sorry until my dying day.

And then we started homeward, when brother Bob did say: "Now, Cole, we will buy fast horses and on them ride away. We will ride to avenge our father's death and try to win the prize; We will fight those anti-guerrillas until the day we die."