Chapter 8

A group had gathered round him, His comrades in the fight, A tear rolled down each manly cheek As he bid a last good-night. One tried and true companion Was kneeling by his side, To stop his life-blood flowing, But alas, in vain he tried.

When to stop the life-blood flowing He found 'twas all in vain, The tears rolled down each man's cheek Like light showers of rain. Up spoke the noble ranger, "Boys, weep no more for me, I am crossing the deep waters To a country that is free.

"Draw closer to me, comrades, And listen to what I say, I am going to tell a story While my spirit hastens away. Way back in Northwest Texas, That good old Lone Star state, There is one that for my coming With a weary heart will wait.

"A fair young girl, my sister, My only joy, my pride, She was my friend from boyhood, I had no one left beside. I have loved her as a brother, And with a father's care I have strove from grief and sorrov Her gentle heart to spare.

"My mother, she lies sleeping Beneath the church-yard sod, And many a day has passed away Since her spirit fled to God. My father, he lies sleeping Beneath the deep blue sea, I have no other kindred, There are none but Nell and me.

"But our country was invaded And they called for volunteers; She threw her arms around me, Then burst into tears, Saying, 'Go, my darling brother, Drive those traitors from our shore, My heart may need your presence, But our country needs you more.'

"It is true I love my country, For her I gave my all. If it hadn't been for my sister, I would be content to fall. I am dying, comrades, dying, She will never see me more, But in vain she'll wait my coming By our little cabin door.

"Comrades, gather closer And listen to my dying prayer. Who will be to her as a brother, And shield her with a brother's care?" Up spake the noble rangers, They answered one and all, "We will be to her as brothers Till the last one does fall."

One glad smile of pleasure O'er the ranger's face was spread; One dark, convulsive shadow, And the ranger boy was dead. Far from his darling sister We laid him down to rest With his saddle for a pillow And his gun across his breast.

The Dying Ranger (Mus. Not.)

The sun was sink-ing in the west, And fell with lin-g'ring ray Through the branches of the for-est,... Where a wound-ed ran-ger lay; 'Neath the shade of a pal-met-to ... And the sun-set sil-v'ry sky, Far a-way from his home in Tex-as,... They laid him down to die.

THE FAIR FANNIE MOORE

Yonder stands a cottage, All deserted and alone, Its paths are neglected, With grass overgrown; Go in and you will see Some dark stains on the floor,-- Alas! it is the blood Of fair Fannie Moore.

To Fannie, so blooming, Two lovers they came; One offered young Fannie His wealth and his name; But neither his money Nor pride could secure A place in the heart Of fair Fannie Moore.

The first was young Randell, So bold and so proud, Who to the fair Fannie His haughty head bowed; But his wealth and his house Both failed to allure The heart from the bosom Of fair Fannie Moore.

The next was young Henry, Of lowest degree. He won her fond love And enraptured was he; And then at the altar He quick did secure The hand with the heart Of the fair Fannie Moore.

As she was alone In her cottage one day, When business had called Her fond husband away, Young Randell, the haughty, Came in at the door And clasped in his arms The fair Fannie Moore.

"O Fannie, O Fannie, Reflect on your fate And accept of my offer Before it's too late; For one thing to-night I am bound to secure,-- 'Tis the love or the life Of the fair Fannie Moore."

"Spare me, Oh, spare me!" The young Fannie cries, While the tears swiftly flow From her beautiful eyes; "Oh, no!" cries young Randell, "Go home to your rest," And he buried his knife In her snowy white breast.

So Fannie, so blooming, In her bright beauty died; Young Randell, the haughty, Was taken and tried; At length he was hung On a tree at the door, For shedding the blood Of the fair Fannie Moore.

Young Henry, the shepherd, Distracted and wild, Did wander away From his own native isle. Till at length, claimed by death, He was brought to this shore And laid by the side Of the fair Fannie Moore.

HELL IN TEXAS

The devil, we're told, in hell was chained, And a thousand years he there remained; He never complained nor did he groan, But determined to start a hell of his own, Where he could torment the souls of men Without being chained in a prison pen. So he asked the Lord if he had on hand Anything left when he made the land.

The Lord said, "Yes, I had plenty on hand, But I left it down on the Rio Grande; The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor I don't think you could use it in hell anymore." But the devil went down to look at the truck, And said if it came as a gift he was stuck; For after examining it carefully and well He concluded the place was too dry for hell.

So, in order to get it off his hands, The Lord promised the devil to water the lands; For he had some water, or rather some dregs, A regular cathartic that smelled like bad eggs. Hence the deal was closed and the deed was given And the Lord went back to his home in heaven. And the devil then said, "I have all that is needed To make a good hell," and hence he succeeded.

He began to put thorns in all of the trees, And mixed up the sand with millions of fleas; And scattered tarantulas along all the roads; Put thorns on the cactus and horns on the toads. He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers, And put an addition on the rabbit's ears; He put a little devil in the broncho steed, And poisoned the feet of the centipede.

The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings, The mosquito delights you with buzzing wings; The sand-burrs prevail and so do the ants, And those who sit down need half-soles on their pants. The devil then said that throughout the land He'd managed to keep up the devil's own brand, And all would be mavericks unless they bore The marks of scratches and bites and thorns by the score.

The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten, Too hot for the devil and too hot for men. The wild boar roams through the black chaparral,-- It's a hell of a place he has for a hell. The red pepper grows on the banks of the brook; The Mexicans use it in all that they cook. Just dine with a Greaser and then you will shout, "I've hell on the inside as well as the out!"

BY MARKENTURA'S FLOWERY MARGE

By Markentura's flowery marge the Red Chief's wigwam stood, Before the white man's rifle rang, loud echoing through the wood; The tommy-hawk and scalping knife together lay at rest, And peace was in the forest shade and in the red man's breast.

Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn, The life and light of the forest shade,-- The Red Chief's child is gone!

By Markentura's flowery marge the Spotted Fawn had birth And grew as fair an Indian maid as ever graced the earth. She was the Red Chief's only child and sought by many a brave, But to the gallant young White Cloud her plighted troth she gave.

By Markentura's flowery marge the bridal song arose, Nor dreamed they in that festive night of near approaching woes; But through the forest stealthily the white man came in wrath. And fiery darts before them spread, and death was in their path.

By Markentura's flowery marge next morn no strife was seen, But a wail went up, for the young Fawn's blood and White Cloud's dyed the green. A burial in their own rude way the Indians gave them there, And a low sweet requiem the brook sang and the air.

Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn, The life and light of the forest shade,-- The Red Chief's child is gone!

THE STATE OF ARKANSAW

My name is Stamford Barnes, I come from Nobleville town; I've traveled this wide world over, I've traveled this wide world round. I've met with ups and downs in life but better days I've saw, But I've never knew what misery were till I came to Arkansaw.

I landed in St. Louis with ten dollars and no more; I read the daily papers till both my eyes were sore; I read them evening papers until at last I saw Ten thousand men were wanted in the state of Arkansaw.

I wiped my eyes with great surprise when I read this grateful news, And straightway off I started to see the agent, Billy Hughes. He says, "Pay me five dollars and a ticket to you I'll draw, It'll land you safe upon the railroad in the State of Arkansaw."

I started off one morning a quarter after five; I started from St. Louis, half dead and half alive; I bought me a quart of whiskey my misery to thaw, I got as drunk as a biled owl when I left for old Arkansaw.

I landed in Ft. Smith one sultry Sunday afternoon, It was in the month of May, the early month of June, Up stepped a walking skeleton with a long and lantern jaw, Invited me to his hotel, "The best in Arkansaw."

I followed my conductor into his dwelling place; Poverty were depictured in his melancholy face. His bread it was corn dodger, his beef I could not chaw; This was the kind of hash they fed me in the State of Arkansaw.

I started off next morning to catch the morning train, He says to me, "You'd better work, for I have some land to drain. I'll pay you fifty cents a day, your board, washing, and all,-- You'll find yourself a different man when you leave old Arkansaw."

I worked six weeks for the son of a gun, Jesse Herring was his name, He was six foot seven in his stocking feet and taller than any crane; His hair hung down in strings over his long and lantern jaw,-- He was a photograph of all the gents who lived in Arkansaw.

He fed me on corn dodgers as hard as any rock, Until my teeth began to loosen and my knees began to knock; I got so thin on sassafras tea I could hide behind a straw, And indeed I was a different man when I left old Arkansaw.

Farewell to swamp angels, cane brakes, and chills; Farewell to sage and sassafras and corn dodger pills. If ever I see this land again, I'll give to you my paw; It will be through a telescope from here to Arkansaw.

THE TEXAS COWBOY

Oh, I am a Texas cowboy, Far away from home, If ever I get back to Texas I never more will roam.

Montana is too cold for me And the winters are too long; Before the round-ups do begin Our money is all gone.

Take this old hen-skin bedding, Too thin to keep me warm,-- I nearly freeze to death, my boys. Whenever there's a storm.

And take this old "tarpoleon," Too thin to shield my frame,-- I got it down in Nebraska A-dealin' a Monte game.

Now to win these fancy leggins I'll have enough to do; They cost me twenty dollars The day that they were new.

I have an outfit on the Mussel Shell, But that I'll never see, Unless I get sent to represent The Circle or D.T.

I've worked down in Nebraska Where the grass grows ten feet high, And the cattle are such rustlers That they seldom ever die;

I've worked up in the sand hills And down upon the Platte, Where the cowboys are good fellows And the cattle always fat;

I've traveled lots of country,-- Nebraska's hills of sand, Down through the Indian Nation, And up the Rio Grande;--

But the Bad Lands of Montana Are the worst I ever seen, The cowboys are all tenderfeet And the dogies are too lean.

If you want to see some bad lands, Go over on the Dry; You will bog down in the coulees Where the mountains reach the sky.

A tenderfoot to lead you Who never knows the way, You are playing in the best of luck If you eat more than once a day.

Your grub is bread and bacon And coffee black as ink; The water is so full of alkali It is hardly fit to drink.

They will wake you in the morning Before the break of day, And send you on a circle A hundred miles away.

All along the Yellowstone 'Tis cold the year around; You will surely get consumption By sleeping on the ground.

Work in Montana Is six months in the year; When all your bills are settled There is nothing left for beer.

Work down in Texas Is all the year around; You will never get consumption By sleeping on the ground.

Come all you Texas cowboys And warning take from me, And do not go to Montana To spend your money free.

But stay at home in Texas Where work lasts the year around, And you will never catch consumption By sleeping on the ground.

THE DREARY, DREARY LIFE

A cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, Some say it's free from care; Rounding up the cattle from morning till night In the middle of the prairie so bare.

Half-past four, the noisy cook will roar, "Whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!" Slowly you will rise with sleepy-feeling eyes, The sweet, dreamy night passed away.

The greener lad he thinks it's play, He'll soon peter out on a cold rainy day, With his big bell spurs and his Spanish hoss, He'll swear to you he was once a boss.

The cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, He's driven through the heat and cold; While the rich man's a-sleeping on his velvet couch, Dreaming of his silver and gold.

Spring-time sets in, double trouble will begin, The weather is so fierce and cold; Clothes are wet and frozen to our necks, The cattle we can scarcely hold.

The cowboy's life is a dreary one, He works all day to the setting of the sun; And then his day's work is not done, For there's his night herd to go on.

The wolves and owls with their terrifying howls Will disturb us in our midnight dream, As we lie on our slickers on a cold, rainy night Way over on the Pecos stream.

You are speaking of your farms, you are speaking of your charms, You are speaking of your silver and gold; But a cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, He's driven through the heat and cold.

Some folks say that we are free from care, Free from all other harm; But we round up the cattle from morning till night Way over on the prairie so dry.

I used to run about, now I stay at home, Take care of my wife and child; Nevermore to roam, always stay at home, Take care of my wife and child.

Half-past four the noisy cook will roar, "Hurrah, boys! she's breaking day!" Slowly we will rise and wipe our sleepy eyes, The sweet, dreamy night passed away.

The Dreary, Dreary Life (Mus. Not.)

A cow-boy's life is a drear-y, drear-y life, Some REFRAIN.--Half-past four the ... noi-sy cook will roar,

say it's free from care; Rounding up the "Whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!" Slow-ly you will

cat-tle from morn-ing till night In the rise ... with sleep-y feel-ing eyes, The ... mid-dle of the prai-rie so ... bare, sweet, dream-y night passed a-way.

JIM FARROW

It's Jim Farrow and John Farrow and little Simon, too, Have plenty of cattle where I have but few. Marking and branding both night and day,-- It's "Keep still, boys, my boys, and you'll all get your pay." It's up to the courthouse, the first thing they know, Before the Grand Jury they'll have to go. They'll ask you about ear-marks, they'll ask you about brand, But tell them you were absent when the work was on hand. Jim Farrow brands J.F. on the side; The next comes Johnnie who takes the whole hide; Little Simon, too has H. on the loin;-- All stand for Farrow but it's not good for Sime. You ask for the mark, I don't think it's fair, You'll find the cow's head but the ear isn't there It's a crop and a split and a sort of a twine,-- All stand for F. but it's not good for Sime.

"Get up, my boys," Jim Farrow will say, "And out to horse hunting before it is day." So we get up and are out on the way But it's damn few horses we find before day. "Now saddle your horses and out on the peaks To see if the heifers are out on the creeks." We'll round 'em to-day and we'll round 'em to-morrow, And this ends my song concerning the Farrows.

YOUNG CHARLOTTIE

Young Charlottie lived by a mountain side in a wild and lonely spot, There was no village for miles around except her father's cot; And yet on many a wintry night young boys would gather there,-- Her father kept a social board, and she was very fair.

One New Year's Eve as the sun went down, she cast a wistful eye Out from the window pane as a merry sleigh went by. At a village fifteen miles away was to be a ball that night; Although the air was piercing cold, her heart was merry and light.

At last her laughing eye lit up as a well-known voice she heard, And dashing in front of the door her lover's sleigh appeared. "O daughter, dear," her mother said, "this blanket round you fold, 'Tis such a dreadful night abroad and you will catch your death of cold."

"Oh no, oh no!" young Charlottie cried, as she laughed like a gipsy queen, "To ride in blankets muffled up, I never would be seen. My silken coat is quite enough, you know it is lined throughout, And there is my silken scarf to wrap my head and neck about."

Her bonnet and her gloves were on, she jumped into the sleigh, And swiftly slid down the mountain side and over the hills away. All muffled up so silent, five miles at last were past When Charlie with few but shivering words, the silence broke at last.

"Such a dreadful night I never saw, my reins I can scarcely hold." Young Charlottie then feebly said, "I am exceedingly cold." He cracked his whip and urged his speed much faster than before, While at least five other miles in silence had passed o'er.

Spoke Charles, "How fast the freezing ice is gathering on my brow!" Young Charlottie then feebly said, "I'm growing warmer now." So on they sped through the frosty air and the glittering cold starlight Until at last the village lights and the ball-room came in sight.

They reached the door and Charles sprang out and reached his hands to her. "Why sit you there like a monument that has no power to stir?" He called her once, he called her twice, she answered not a word, And then he called her once again but still she never stirred.

He took her hand in his; 'twas cold and hard as any stone. He tore the mantle from her face while cold stars on it shone. Then quickly to the lighted hall her lifeless form he bore;-- Young Charlottie's eyes were closed forever, her voice was heard no more.

And there he sat down by her side while bitter tears did flow, And cried, "My own, my charming bride, you nevermore shall know." He twined his arms around her neck and kissed her marble brow, And his thoughts flew back to where she said, "I'm growing warmer now."

He took her back into the sleigh and quickly hurried home; When he arrived at her father's door, oh, how her friends did mourn; They mourned the loss of a daughter dear, while Charles wept over the gloom, Till at last he died with the bitter grief,--now they both lie in one tomb.

THE SKEW-BALL BLACK

It was down to Red River I came, Prepared to play a damned tough game,-- Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

I crossed the river to the ranch where I intended to work, With a big six-shooter and a derned good dirk,-- Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

They roped me out a skew-ball black With a double set-fast on his back,-- Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

And when I was mounted on his back, The boys all yelled, "Just give him slack,"-- Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

They rolled and tumbled and yelled, by God, For he threw me a-whirling all over the sod,-- Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

I went to the boss and I told him I'd resign, The fool tumbled over, and I thought he was dyin',-- Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

And it's to Arkansaw I'll go back, To hell with Texas and the skew-ball black,-- Whoa! skew, till I saddle you, whoa!

THE RAMBLING COWBOY

There was a rich old rancher who lived in the country by, He had a lovely daughter on whom I cast my eye; She was pretty, tall, and handsome, both neat and very fair, There's no other girl in the country with her I could compare.

I asked her if she would be willing for me to cross the plains; She said she would be truthful until I returned again; She said she would be faithful until death did prove unkind, So we kissed, shook hands, and parted, and I left my girl behind.

I left the State of Texas, for Arizona I was bound; I landed in Tombstone City, I viewed the place all round. Money and work were plentiful and the cowboys they were kind But the only thought of my heart was the girl I left behind.

One day as I was riding across the public square The mail-coach came in and I met the driver there; He handed me a letter which gave me to understand That the girl I left in Texas had married another man.

I turned myself all round and about not knowing what to do, But I read on down some further and it proved the words were true. Hard work I have laid over, it's gambling I have designed. I'll ramble this wide world over for the girl I left behind.

Come all you reckless and rambling boys who have listened to this song, If it hasn't done you any good, it hasn't done you any wrong; But when you court a pretty girl, just marry her while you can, For if you go across the plains she'll marry another man.

THE COWBOY AT CHURCH

Some time ago,--two weeks or more If I remember well,-- I found myself in town and thought I'd knock around a spell, When all at once I heard the bell,-- I didn't know 'twas Sunday,-- For on the plains we scarcely know A Sunday from a Monday,--

A-calling all the people From the highways and the hedges And all the reckless throng That tread ruin's ragged edges, To come and hear the pastor tell Salvation's touching story, And how the new road misses hell And leads you straight to glory.

I started by the chapel door, But something urged me in, And told me not to spend God's day In revelry and sin. I don't go much on sentiment, But tears came in my eyes. It seemed just like my mother's voice Was speaking from the skies.

I thought how often she had gone With little Sis and me To church, when I was but a lad Way back in Tennessee. It never once occurred to me About not being dressed In Sunday rig, but carelessly I went in with the rest.

You should have seen the smiles and shrugs As I went walking in, As though they thought my leggins Worse than any kind of sin; Although the honest parson, In his vestry garb arrayed Was dressed the same as I was,-- In the trappings of his trade.

The good man prayed for all the world And all its motley crew, For pagan, Hindoo, sinners, Turk, And unbelieving Jew,-- Though the congregation doubtless thought That the cowboys as a race Were a kind of moral outlaw With no good claim to grace.

Is it very strange that cowboys are A rough and reckless crew When their garb forbids their doing right As Christian people do? That they frequent scenes of revelry Where death is bought and sold, Where at least they get a welcome Though it's prompted by their gold?

Stranger, did it ever strike you, When the winter days are gone And the mortal grass is springing up To meet the judgment sun, And we 'tend mighty round-ups Where, according to the Word, The angel cowboy of the Lord Will cut the human herd,--

That a heap of stock that's lowing now Around the Master's pen And feeding at his fodder stack Will have the brand picked then? And brands that when the hair was long Looked like the letter C, Will prove to be the devil's, And the brand the letter D;