When y’u grows, little varmint, little boy,
Y’u’ll be ridin’ a hoss by yo’ fathah’s side
With yo’ gun and yo’ spurs and yo’ howstrong pride.
Will y’u think of yo’ home when the world rolls wide?
Will y’u wish for yo’ mothah, little boy?
When y’u love in yo’ manhood, little boy—
When y’u dream of a girl who is angel fair—
When the stars are her eyes and the wind is her hair—
When the sun is her smile and yo’ heaven’s there—
Will y’u care for yo’ mothah, little boy?
I could not be so well content,
So sure of thee,
Señorita,
But well I know you must relent
And come to me,
Lolita!
The Caballeros throng to see
Thy laughing face,
Señorita,
Lolita.
But well I know thy heart’s for me,
Thy charm, thy grace,
Lolita!
I ride the range for thy dear sake,
To earn thee gold,
Señorita,
Lolita;
And steal the gringo’s cows to make
A ranch to hold
Lolita!
Lonesome? Well, I guess so!
This place is mighty blue;
The silence of the empty rooms
Jes’ palpitates with—you.
The day has lost its beauty,
The sun’s a-shinin’ pale;
I’ll round up my belongin’s
An’ I guess I’ll hit the trail.
Out there in the sagebrush
A-harkin’ to the “Coo‑oo”
Of the wild dove in his matin’
I can think alone of you.
Perhaps a gaunt coyote
Will go a-lopin’ by
An’ linger on the mountain ridge
An’ cock his wary eye.
An’ when the evenin’ settles,
A-waitin’ for the dawn
Perhaps I’ll hear the ground owl:
“She’s gone—she’s gone—she’s gone!”
You’re very well polished, I’m free to confess,
Well balanced, well rounded, a power for right;
But cool and collected—no steel could be less;
You’re primed for continual fight.
Your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will,
On hatred and choler you seem to have fed;
But when I control you, your temper is nil;
In fact, you’re most easily led.
Though lead is your diet and fight is your fun,
I simply can’t give you the jolt;
For I love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun—
You forty-five caliber Colt!
That time when Bob got throwed
I thought I sure would bust.
I like to died a-laffin’
To see him chewin’ dust.
He crawled on that Andy bronc
And hit him with a quirt.
The next thing that he knew
He was wallowin’ in the dirt.
Yes, it might a-killed him,
I heard the old ground pop;
But to see if he was injured
You bet I didn’t stop.
I just rolled on the ground
And began to kick and yell;
It like to tickled me to death
To see how hard he fell.
’Twarn’t more than a week ago
That I myself got throwed,
(But ’twas from a meaner horse
Than old Bob ever rode).
D’you reckon Bob looked sad and said,
“I hope that you ain’t hurt!”
Naw! He just laffed and laffed and laffed
To see me chewin’ dirt.
I’ve been prayin’ ever since
For his horse to turn his pack;
And when he done it, I’d a laffed
If it had broke his back.
So I was still a-howlin’
When Bob, he got up lame;
He seen his horse had run clean off
And so for me he came.
He first chucked sand into my eyes,
With a rock he rubbed my head,
Then he twisted both my arms—
“Now go fetch that horse,” he said.
So I went and fetched him back,
But I was feelin’ good all day;
For I sure enough do love to see
A feller get throwed that way.
Haven’t got no special likin’ fur the toney sorts o’ play,
Chasin’ foxes or that hossback polo game,
Jumpin’ critters over hurdles—sort o’ things that any jay
Could accomplish an’ regard as rather tame.
None o’ them is worth a mention, to my thinkin’ p’int o’ view,
Which the same I hold correct without a doubt,
As a-toppin’ of a broncho that has got it in fur you
An’ concludes that’s just the time to have it out.
Don’t no sooner hit the saddle than the exercises start,
An’ they’re lackin’ in perliminary fuss;
You kin hear his j’ints a-crackin’ like he’s breakin’ ’em apart,
An’ the hide jes’ seems a-rippin’ off the cuss,
An’ you sometimes git a joltin’ that makes everything turn blue,
An’ you want to strictly mind what you’re about,
When you’re fightin’ with a broncho that has got it in fur you
An’ imagines that’s the time to have it out.
Bows his back when he is risin’, sticks his nose between his knees,
An’ he shakes hisself while a-hangin’ in the air;
Then he hits the earth so solid that it somewhat disagrees
With the usual peace an’ quiet of your hair.
You imagine that your innards are a-gittin’ all askew,
An’ your spine don’t feel so cussed firm an’ stout,
When you’re up agin a broncho that has got it in fur you
Doin’ of his level best to have it out.
He will rise to the occasion with a lightnin’ jump, an’ then
When he hits the face o’ these United States
Doesn’t linger half a second till he’s in the air agin—
Occupies the earth an’ then evacuates.
Isn’t any sense o’ comfort like a-settin’ in a pew
Listenin’ to hear a sleepy parson spout
When you’re up on top a broncho that has got it in fur you
An’ is desputly a-tryin’ to have it out.
Always feel a touch o’ pity when he has to give it up
After makin’ sich a well intentioned buck
An’ is standin’ broken hearted an’ as gentle as a pup
A reflectin’ on the rottenness o’ luck.
Puts your sympathetic feelin’s, as you might say, in a stew,
Though you’re lame as if a-sufferin’ from the gout,
When you’re lightin’ off a broncho that has had it in fur you
An’ mistook the proper time to have it out.
If a feller’s been a-straddle
Since he’s big enough to ride,
And has had to sling his saddle
On most any colored hide—
Though it’s nothin’ they take pride in,
Still most fellers I have knowed,
If they ever done much ridin’,
Has at different times got throwed.
All the boys start out together
For the round-up some fine day
When you’re due to throw your leather
On a little wall-eyed bay,
An’
