like the bugle upon the mountain’s height;
His feet were animated, an’ a mighty movin’ sight,
When he commenced to holler, “Neow, fellers, stake yer pen!
Lock horns to all them heifers, an’ russle ’em like men.
Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an’ let ’em go,
Climb the grape vine round ’em—all hands do‑ce‑do!
You Mavericks, jine the round-up—Jest skip her waterfall,”
Huh! hit wuz gittin’ happy, “The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball!”
The boys were tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat,
That old bass viol’s music just got there with both feet.
That wailin’ frisky fiddle, I never shall forget;
And Windy kept a singin’—I think I hear him yet—
“O Xes, chase your squirrels, an’ cut ’em to one side,
Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P. Charley’s bride,
Doc. Hollis down the middle, an’ twine the ladies’ chain,
Varn Andrews pen the fillies in big T. Diamond’s train.
All pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an’ change,
’Big Boston’ lead the trail herd, through little Pitchfork’s range.
Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope ’em! Balance all!”
Huh! hit wuz gittin’ active—“The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball!”
The dust riz fast an’ furious, we all just galloped round,
Till the scenery got so giddy, that Z Bar Dick was downed.
We buckled to our partners, an’ told ’em to hold on,
Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.
Don’t tell me ’bout cotillions, or germans. No sir ’ee!
That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me.
I’m sick of lazy shufflin’s, of them I’ve had my fill,
Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill.
McAllister ain’t nowhere! when Windy leads the show,
I’ve seen ’em both in harness, an’ so I sorter know—
Oh, Bill, I shan’t forget yer, and I’ll oftentimes recall,
That lively-gaited sworray—“The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball.”
A Dance at the Ranch
From every point they gaily come, the broncho’s unshod feet
Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat;
The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind—
Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind.
The dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones
And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones,
Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers,
And pour the usual fairy tales into their list’ning ears.
Within the “best room” of the ranch the jolly gathered throng
Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song;
The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein
In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration’s chain.
The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow,
Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low;
Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret
Until their ears are greeted with the warning words, “All set!
S’lute yer pardners! Let ’er go!
Balance all an’ do‑ce‑do!
Swing yer girls an’ run away!
Right an’ left an’ gents sashay!
Gents to right an’ swing or cheat!
On to next gal an’ repeat!
Balance next an’ don’t be shy!
Swing yer pard an’ swing ’er high!
Bunch the gals an’ circle round!
Whack yer feet until they bound!
Form a basket! Break away!
Swing an’ kiss an’ all git gay!
Al’man left an’ balance all!
Lift yer hoofs an’ let ’em fall!
Swing yer op’sites! Swing agin!
Kiss the sagehens if you kin!”
An’ thus the merry dance went on till morning’s struggling light
In lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night,
And broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies
By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes.
The cowboys to the ranges speed to “work” the lowing herds,
The girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds,
And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree
They had that night at Jackson’s ranch down on the Owyhee.
At a Cowboy Dance
Git yo’ little sagehens ready;
Trot ’em out upon the floor—
Line up there, you critters! Steady!
Lively, now! One couple more.
Shorty, shed that ol’ sombrero;
Broncho, douse that cigaret;
Stop yer cussin’, Casimero,
’Fore the ladies. Now, all set:
S’lute yer ladies, all together;
Ladies opposite the same;
Hit the lumber with yer leather;
Balance all an’ swing yer dame;
Bunch the heifers in the middle;
Circle stags an’ do‑ce‑do;
Keep a-steppin’ to the fiddle;
Swing ’em ’round an’ off you go.
First four forward. Back to places.
Second foller. Shuffle back—
Now you’ve got it down to cases—
Swing ’em till their trotters crack.
Gents all right a-heel an’ toein’;
Swing ’em—kiss ’em if yo’ kin—
On to next an’ keep a-goin’
Till yo’ hit yer pards agin.
Gents to center. Ladies ’round ’em;
Form a basket; balance all;
Swing yer sweets to where yo’ found ’em;
All p’mnade around the hall.
Balance to yer pards an’ trot ’em
’Round the circle double quick;
Grab an’ squeeze ’em while you’ve got ’em—
Hold ’em to it if they kick.
Ladies, left hand to yer sonnies;
Alaman; grand right an’ left;
Balance all an’ swing yer honies—
Pick ’em up an’ feel their heft.
All p’mnade like skeery cattle;
Balance all an’ swing yer sweets;
Shake yer spurs an’ make ’em rattle—
Keno! Promenade to seats.
The Cowboys’ Ball
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin’ up the fiddle;
You an’ take yo’r pardner there, standin’ by the wall!
Say “How!” make a bow, and sashay down the middle;
Shake yo’r leg lively at the Cowboys’ Ball.
Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin’;
Everybody happy an’ the goose a-hangin’ high;
Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin’;
Keep a-stompin’ leather while you got one eye.
Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin’
Jumpin’ like a chicken that’s a-lookin’ for its head;
Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin’,
Just keep yo’r feet a-movin’ till we all drop dead!
High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers;
Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!
Uncle Ed’s gettin’ red—had too many dippers;
Better get him hobbled or he’ll break his leg!
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin’ up the fiddle;
Pass him up another for his arm is gettin’ slow.
Bow down! right in town—and sashay down the middle;
Got to keep a-movin’ for to see the
