Chapter 9

While many a long-horned coaster,-- I mean, just so to speak,-- That hasn't had the advantage Of the range and gospel creek Will get to crop the grasses In the pasture of the Lord If the letter C showed up Beneath the devil's checker board.

THE U. S. A. RECRUIT

Now list to my song, it will not take me long, And in some things with me you'll agree; A young man so green came in from Moline, And enlisted a soldier to be. He had lots of pluck, on himself he was stuck, In his Government straights he looked "boss," And he chewed enough beans for a hoss.

He was a rookey, so flukey, He was a jim dandy you all will agree, He said without fear, "Before I'm a year In the Army, great changes you'll see." He was a stone thrower, a foam blower, He was a Loo Loo you bet, He stood on his head and these words gently said, "I'll be second George Washington yet."

At his post he did land, they took him in hand, The old bucks they all gathered 'round, Saying "Give us your fist; where did you enlist? You'll take on again I'll be bound; I've a blanket to sell, it will fit you quite well, I'll sell you the whole or a piece. I've a dress coat to trade, or a helmet unmade, It will do you for kitchen police."

Then the top said, "My Son, here is a gun, Just heel ball that musket up bright. In a few days or more you'll be rolling in gore, A-chasing wild Goo Goos to flight. There'll be fighting, you see, and blood flowing free, We'll send you right on to the front; And never you fear, if you're wounded, my dear, You'll be pensioned eight dollars per month."

He was worried so bad, he blew in all he had; He went on a drunk with goodwill. And the top did report, "One private short." When he showed up he went to the mill. The proceedings we find were a ten dollar blind, Ten dollars less to blow foam. This was long years ago, and this rookey you know Is now in the old soldiers' home.

THE COWGIRL

My love is a rider and broncos he breaks, But he's given up riding and all for my sake; For he found him a horse and it suited him so He vowed he'd ne'er ride any other bronco.

My love has a gun, and that gun he can use, But he's quit his gun fighting as well as his booze; And he's sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope, And there's no more cow punching, and that's what I hope.

My love has a gun that has gone to the bad, Which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad; For the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low, And it wobbles about like a bucking bronco.

The cook is an unfortunate son of a gun; He has to be up e'er the rise of the sun; His language is awful, his curses are deep,-- He is like cascarets, for he works while you sleep.

THE SHANTY BOY

I am a jolly shanty boy, As you will soon discover. To all the dodges I am fly, A hustling pine woods rover. A peavy hook it is my pride, An ax I well can handle; To fell a tree or punch a bull Get rattling Danny Randall.

Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.

I love a girl in Saginaw; She lives with her mother; I defy all Michigan To find such another. She's tall and fat, her hair is red, Her face is plump and pretty, She's my daisy, Sunday-best-day girl,-- And her front name stands for Kitty.

Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.

I took her to a dance one night, A mossback gave the bidding; Silver Jack bossed the shebang And Big Dan played the fiddle. We danced and drank, the livelong night. With fights between the dancing-- Till Silver Jack cleaned out the ranch And sent the mossbacks prancing.

Bung yer eye: bung yer eye.

ROOT HOG OR DIE

When I was a young man I lived on the square, I never had any pocket change and I hardly thought it fair; So out on the crosses I went to rob and to steal, And when I met a peddler oh, how happy I did feel.

One morning, one morning, one morning in May I seen a man a-coming, a little bit far away; I seen a man a-coming, come riding up to me "Come here, come here, young fellow, I'm after you to-day."

He taken me to the new jail, he taken me to the new jail, And I had to walk right in. There all my friends went back on me And also my kin.

I had an old rich uncle, who lived in the West, He heard of my misfortune, it wouldn't let him rest; He came to see me, he paid my bills and score,-- I have been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.

There's Minnie and Alice and Lucy likewise, They heard of my misfortune brought tears to their eyes. I've told 'em my condition, I've told it o'er and o'er; So I've been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.

I will go to East Texas to marry me a wife, And try to maintain her the balance of my life; I'll try to maintain; I'll lay it up in store I've been a bad boy, I'll do so no more.

Young man, you robber, you had better take it fair, Leave off your marshal killing and live on the square; Should you meet the marshal, just pass him by; And travel on the muscular, for it's root hog or die.

When I drew my money I drew it all in cash And off to see my Susan, you bet I cut a dash; I spent my money freely and went it on a bum, And I love the pretty women and am bound to have my fun.

I used to sport a white hat, a horse and buggy fine, Courted a pretty girl and always called her mine; But all my courtships proved to be in vain, For they sent me down to Huntsville to wear the ball and chain.

Along came my true love, about twelve o'clock, Saying, "Henry, O Henry, what sentence have you got?" The jury found me guilty, the judge would allow no stay, So they sent me down to Huntsville to wear my life away.

Root Hog or Die (Mus. Not.)

When I was a young man I lived up-on the square, I nev-er had a-ny pock-et change and I hard-ly thought it fair, But out up-on the highway I went to rob and to steal, And when I met a ped-dler, Oh, how hap-py I did feel.

SWEET BETSY FROM PIKE

"A California Immigrant Song of the Fifties"

Oh, don't you remember sweet Betsy from Pike Who crossed the big mountains with her lover Ike, And two yoke of cattle, a large yellow dog, A tall, shanghai rooster, and one spotted hog? Saying, good-bye, Pike County, Farewell for a while; We'll come back again When we've panned out our pile.

One evening quite early they camped on the Platte, 'Twas near by the road on a green shady flat; Where Betsy, quite tired, lay down to repose, While with wonder Ike gazed on his Pike County rose.

They soon reached the desert, where Betsy gave out, And down in the sand she lay rolling about; While Ike in great terror looked on in surprise, Saying "Betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes." Saying, good-bye, Pike County, Farewell for a while; I'd go back to-night If it was but a mile.

Sweet Betsy got up in a great deal of pain And declared she'd go back to Pike County again; Then Ike heaved a sigh and they fondly embraced, And she traveled along with his arm around her waist.

The wagon tipped over with a terrible crash, And out on the prairie rolled all sorts of trash; A few little baby clothes done up with care Looked rather suspicious,--though 'twas all on the square.

The shanghai ran off and the cattle all died, The last piece of bacon that morning was fried; Poor Ike got discouraged, and Betsy got mad, The dog wagged his tail and looked wonderfully sad.

One morning they climbed up a very high hill, And with wonder looked down into old Placerville; Ike shouted and said, as he cast his eyes down, "Sweet Betsy, my darling, we've got to Hangtown."

Long Ike and sweet Betsy attended a dance, Where Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants; Sweet Betsy was covered with ribbons and rings. Quoth Ike, "You're an angel, but where are your wings?"

A miner said, "Betsy, will you dance with me?" "I will that, old hoss, if you don't make too free; But don't dance me hard. Do you want to know why? Dog on ye, I'm chock full of strong alkali."

Long Ike and sweet Betsy got married of course, But Ike getting jealous obtained a divorce; And Betsy, well satisfied, said with a shout, "Good-bye, you big lummax, I'm glad you backed out." Saying, good-bye, dear Isaac, Farewell for a while, But come back in time To replenish my pile.

THE DISHEARTENED RANGER

Come listen to a ranger, you kind-hearted stranger, This song, though a sad one, you're welcome to hear; We've kept the Comanches away from your ranches, And followed them far o'er the Texas frontier.

We're weary of scouting, of traveling, and routing The blood-thirsty villains o'er prairie and wood; No rest for the sinner, no breakfast or dinner, But he lies in a supperless bed in the mud.

No corn nor potatoes, no bread nor tomatoes, But jerked beef as dry as the sole of your shoe; All day without drinking, all night without winking, I'll tell you, kind stranger, this never will do.

Those great alligators, the State legislators, Are puffing and blowing two-thirds of their time, But windy orations about rangers and rations Never put in our pockets one-tenth of a dime.

They do not regard us, they will not reward us, Though hungry and haggard with holes in our coats; But the election is coming and they will be drumming And praising our valor to purchase our votes.

For glory and payment, for vittles and raiment, No longer we'll fight on the Texas frontier. So guard your own ranches, and mind the Comanches Or surely they'll scalp you in less than a year.

Though sore it may grieve you, the rangers must leave you Exposed to the arrows and knife of the foe; So herd your own cattle and fight your own battle, For home to the States I'm determined to go,--

Where churches have steeples and laws are more equal, Where houses have people and ladies are kind; Where work is regarded and worth is rewarded; Where pumpkins are plenty and pockets are lined.

Your wives and your daughters we have guarded from slaughter, Through conflicts and struggles I shudder to tell; No more well defend them, to God we'll commend them. To the frontier of Texas we bid a farewell.

THE MELANCHOLY COWBOY

Come all you melancholy folks and listen unto me, I will sing you about the cowboy whose heart's so light and free; He roves all over the prairie and at night when he lays down His heart's as gay as the flowers of May with his bed spread on the ground.

They are a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them at least; But as long as you do not cross their trail, you can live with them in peace. But if you do, they're sure to rule, the day you come to their land, For they'll follow you up and shoot it out, they'll do it man to man.

You can go to a cowboy hungry, go to him wet or dry, And ask him for a few dollars in change and he will not deny; He will pull out his pocket-book and hand you out a note,-- Oh, they are the fellows to strike, boys, whenever you are broke.

You can go to their ranches and often stay for weeks, And when you go to leave, boys, they'll never charge you a cent; But when they go to town, boys, you bet their money is spent. They walk right up, they take their drinks and they pay for every one. They never ask your pardon, boys, for a thing that they have done.

They go to the ball-room, and swing the pretty girls around; They ride their bucking broncos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats; Their California saddles, their pants below their boots, You can hear their spurs go jing-a-ling, or perhaps somebody shoots.

Come all you soft and tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun, Come go among the cowboys and they'll show you how it's done; But take the kind advice of me as I gave it to you before, For if you don't, they'll order you off with an old Colt's forty-four.

BOB STANFORD

Bob Stanford, he's a Texas boy, He lives down on the flat; His trade is running a well-drill, But he's none the worse for that.

He is neither rich nor handsome, But, unlike the city dude, His manners they are pleasant Instead of flip and rude.

His people live in Texas, That is his native home, But like many other Western lads He drifted off from home.

He came out to New Mexico A fortune for to make, He punched the bottom out of the earth And never made a stake.

So he came to Arizona And again set up his drill To punch a hole for water, And he's punching at it still.

He says he is determined To make the business stick Or spend that derned old well machine And all he can get on tick.

I hope he is successful And I'll help him if I can, For I admire pluck and ambition In an honest working man.

So keep on going down, Punch the bottom out, or try, There is nothing in a hole in the ground That continues being dry.

CHARLIE RUTLAGE

Another good cow-puncher has gone to meet his fate, I hope he'll find a resting place within the golden gate. Another place is vacant on the ranch of the X I T, 'Twill be hard to find another that's liked as well as he.

The first that died was Kid White, a man both tough and brave, While Charlie Rutlage makes the third to be sent to his grave, Caused by a cow-horse falling while running after stock; 'Twas on the spring round-up,--a place where death men mock.

He went forward one morning on a circle through the hills, He was gay and full of glee, and free from earthly ills; But when it came to finish up the work on which he went, Nothing came back from him; for his time on earth was spent.

'Twas as he rode the round-up, an X I T turned back to the herd; Poor Charlie shoved him in again, his cutting horse he spurred; Another turned; at that moment his horse the creature spied And turned and fell with him, and beneath, poor Charlie died.

His relations in Texas his face never more will see, But I hope he will meet his loved ones beyond in eternity. I hope he will meet his parents, will meet them face to face, And that they will grasp him by the right hand at the shining throne of grace.

THE RANGE RIDERS

Come all you range riders and listen to me, I will relate you a story of the saddest degree, I will relate you a story of the deepest distress,-- I love my poor Lulu, boys, of all girls the best.

When you are out riding, boys, upon the highway, Meet a fair damsel, a lady so gay, With her red, rosy cheeks and her sparkling dark eyes, Just think of my Lulu, boys, and your bosoms will rise.

While you live single, boys, you are just in your prime; You have no wife to scold, you have nothing to bother your minds; You can roam this world over and do just as you will, Hug and kiss the pretty girls and be your own still.

But when you get married, boys, you are done with this life, You have sold your sweet comfort for to gain you a wife; Your wife she will scold you, and the children will cry, It will make those fair faces look withered and dry.

You can scarcely step aside, boys, to speak to a friend But your wife is at your elbow saying what do you mean. With her nose turned upon you it will look like sad news,-- I advise you by experience that life to refuse.

Come fill up your bottles, boys, drink Bourbon around; Here is luck to the single wherever they are found. Here is luck to the single and I wish them success, Likewise to the married ones, I wish them no less.

I have one more request to make, boys, before we part. Never place your affection on a charming sweetheart. She is dancing before you your affections to gain; Just turn your back on them with scorn and disdain.

HER WHITE BOSOM BARE

The sun had gone down O'er the hills of the west, And the last beams had faded O'er the mossy hill's crest, O'er the beauties of nature And the charms of the fair, And Amanda was bound With her white bosom bare.

At the foot of the mountain Amanda did sigh At the hoot of an owl Or the catamount's cry; Or the howl of some wolf In its low, granite cell, Or the crash of some large Forest tree as it fell.

Amanda was there All friendless and forlorn With her face bathed in blood And her garments all torn. The sunlight had faded O'er the hills of the green, And fierce was the look Of the wild, savage scene.

For it was out in the forest Where the wild game springs, Where low in the branches The rude hammock swings; The campfire was kindled, Well fanned by the breeze, And the light of the campfire Shone round on the trees.

The campfire was kindled, Well fanned by the breeze, And the light of the fire Shone round on the trees; And grim stood the circle Of the warrior throng, Impatient to join In the war-dance and song.

The campfire was kindled, Each warrior was there, And Amanda was bound With her white bosom bare. She counted the vengeance In the face of her foes And sighed for the moment When her sufferings might close.

Young Albon, he gazed On the face of the fair While her dark hazel eyes Were uplifted in prayer; And her dark waving tresses In ringlets did flow Which hid from the gazer A bosom of snow.

Then young Albon, the chief Of the warriors, drew near, With an eye like an eagle And a step like a deer. "Forbear," cried he, "Your torture forbear; This maiden shall live. By my wampum I swear.

"It is for this maiden's freedom That I do crave; Give a sigh for her suffering Or a tear for her grave. If there is a victim To be burned at that tree, Young Albon, your leader, That victim shall be."

Then quick to the arms Of Amanda he rushed; The rebel was dead, And the tumult was hushed; And grim stood the circle Of warriors around While the cords of Amanda Young Albon unbound.

So it was early next morning The red, white, and blue Went gliding o'er the waters In a small birch canoe; Just like the white swan That glides o'er the tide, Young Albon and Amanda O'er the waters did ride.

O'er the blue, bubbling water, Neath the evergreen trees, Young Albon and Amanda Did ride at their ease; And great was the joy When she stepped on the shore To embrace her dear father And mother once more.

Young Albon, he stood And enjoyed their embrace, With a sigh in his heart And a tear on his face; And all that he asked Was kindness and food From the parents of Amanda To the chief of the woods.

Young Amanda is home now, As you all know, Enjoying the friends Of her own native shore; Nevermore will she roam O'er the hills or the plains; She praises the chief That loosened her chains.

JUAN MURRAY

My name is Juan Murray, and hard for my fate, I was born and raised in Texas, that good old lone star state. I have been to many a round-up, boys, have worked on the trail, Have stood many a long old guard through the rain, yes, sleet, and hail; I have rode the Texas broncos that pitched from morning till noon, And have seen many a storm, boys, between sunrise, yes, and noon.

I am a jolly cowboy and have roamed all over the West, And among the bronco riders I rank among the best. But when I left old Midland, with voice right then I spoke,-- "I never will see you again until the day I croak."

But since I left old Texas so many sights I have saw A-traveling from my native state way out to Mexico,-- I am looking all around me and cannot help but smile To see my nearest neighbors all in the Mexican style.

I left my home in Texas to dodge the ball and chain. In the State of Sonora I will forever remain. Farewell to my mother, my friends that are so dear, I would like to see you all again, my lonesome heart to cheer.

I have a word to speak, boys, only another to say,-- Don't never be a cow-thief, don't never ride a stray; Be careful of your line, boys, and keep it on your tree,-- Just suit yourself about it, for it is nothing to me.

But if you start to rustling you will come to some sad fate, You will have to go to prison and work for the state. Don't think that I am lying and trying to tell a joke, For the writer has experienced just every word he's spoke.

It is better to be honest and let other's stock alone Than to leave your native country and seek a Mexican home. For if you start to rustling you will surely come to see The State of Sonora,--be an outcast just like me.

GREER COUNTY

Tom Hight is my name, an old bachelor I am, You'll find me out West in the country of fame, You'll find me out West on an elegant plain, And starving to death on my government claim.

Hurrah for Greer County! The land of the free, The land of the bed-bug, Grass-hopper and flea; I'll sing of its praises And tell of its fame, While starving to death On my government claim.

My house is built of natural sod, Its walls are erected according to hod; Its roof has no pitch but is level and plain, I always get wet if it happens to rain.

How happy am I on my government claim, I've nothing to lose, and nothing to gain; I've nothing to eat, I've nothing to wear,-- From nothing to nothing is the hardest fare.

How happy am I when I crawl into bed,-- A rattlesnake hisses a tune at my head, A gay little centipede, all without fear, Crawls over my pillow and into my ear.

Now all you claim holders, I hope you will stay And chew your hard tack till you're toothless and gray; But for myself, I'll no longer remain To starve like a dog on my government claim.

My clothes are all ragged as my language is rough, My bread is corn dodgers, both solid and tough; But yet I am happy, and live at my ease On sorghum molasses, bacon, and cheese.

Good-bye to Greer County where blizzards arise, Where the sun never sinks and a flea never dies, And the wind never ceases but always remains Till it starves us all out on our government claims.

Farewell to Greer County, farewell to the West, I'll travel back East to the girl I love best, I'll travel back to Texas and marry me a wife, And quit corn bread for the rest of my life.

ROSIN THE BOW

I live for the good of my nation And my sons are all growing low, But I hope that my next generation Will resemble Old Rosin the Bow.

I have traveled this wide world all over, And now to another I'll go, For I know that good quarters are waiting To welcome Old Rosin the Bow.

The gay round of delights I have traveled, Nor will I behind leave a woe, For while my companions are jovial They'll drink to Old Rosin the Bow.

This life now is drawn to a closing, All will at last be so, Then we'll take a full bumper at parting To the name of Old Rosin the Bow.

When I am laid out on the counter, And the people all anxious to know, Just raise up the lid of the coffin And look at Old Rosin the Bow.

And when through the streets my friends bear me, And the ladies are filled with deep woe, They'll come to the doors and the windows And sigh for Old Rosin the Bow.

Then get some fine, jovial fellows, And let them all staggering go; Then dig a deep hole in the meadow And in it toss Rosin the Bow.

Then get a couple of dornicks, Place one at my head and my toe, And do not forget to scratch on them, "Here lies Old Rosin the Bow."

Then let those same jovial fellows Surround my lone grave in a row, While they drink from my favorite bottle The health of Old Rosin the Bow.

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