The Cowboy
He wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,
And leggins of fancy fringed leather;
He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots,
And he’s happy in all kinds of weather;
He’s fond of his horse, it’s a broncho, of course,
For oh, he can ride like the devil;
He is old for his years and he always appears
Like a fellow who’s lived on the level;
He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look
Of a man that to fear is a stranger;
Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve
For his wild life of duty and danger.
He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet,
And for fashion, oh well! he’s not in it;
He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear
At the rate of two-forty a minute;
His saddle’s the best in the wild, woolly West,
Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;
Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks,
But his knowledge is not got from your scholars;
He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,
And he hates and despises a coward;
Yet the cowboy, you’ll find, to women is kind
Though he’ll fight till by death overpowered.
Hence I say unto you—give the cowboy his due
And be kind, my friends, to his folly;
For he’s generous and brave though he may not behave
Like your dudes, who are so melancholy.
Bar-Z on a Sunday Night
We ain’t no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,
’Tis said—an’ we know who ’tis—
“Th’ devil’s laid hold on us, tooth an’ branch,
An’ uses us in his biz.”
Still, we ain’t so bad but we might be wuss,
An’ you’d sure admit that’s right,
If you happened—an’ unbeknown to us—
Around, of a Sunday night.
Th’ week-day manners is stowed away,
Th’ jokes an’ the card games halts,
When Dick’s ol’ fiddle begins to play
A toon—an’ it ain’t no waltz.
It digs fer th’ things that are out o’ sight,
It delves through th’ toughest crust,
It grips th’ heart-strings, an’ holds ’em tight,
Till we’ve got ter sing—er bust!
With pipin’ treble the kid starts in,
An’ Hell! how that kid kin sing!
“Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin’ is sin,”
He leads, an’ the rafters ring;
“Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,”
We shouts it with force an’ vim;
“Look ever to Jesus, he’ll carry you through,”—
That’s puttin’ it up to Him!
We ain’t no saints on the ol’ Bar-Z,
But many a time an’ oft
When ol’ fiddle’s a-pleadin’, “Abide with me,”
Our hearts gets kinder soft.
An’ we makes some promises there an’ then
Which we keeps—till we goes to bed—
That’s the most could be ast o’ a passel o’ men
What ain’t no saints, as I said.
A Cowboy Race
A pattering rush like the rattle of hail
When the storm king’s wild coursers are out on the trail,
A long roll of hoofs—and the earth is a drum!
The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!
A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;
A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;
A swift-swirling dust-cloud—a mad hurricane
Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;
Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun
The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!
The Habit
I’ve beat my way wherever any winds have blown;
I’ve bummed along from Portland down to San Antone;
From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill—
For once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.
I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I,
“I’ll never wander further till I come to die.”
But the wind it sorter chuckles, “Why, o’ course you will.”
An’ sure enough I does it ’cause I can’t keep still.
I’ve seen a lot o’ places where I’d like to stay,
But I gets a-feelin’ restless an’ I’m on my way.
I was never meant for settin’ on my own door sill,
An’, once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.
I’ve been in rich men’s houses an’ I’ve been in jail,
But when it’s time for leavin’ I jes hits the trail.
I’m a human bird of passage and the song I trill
Is, “Once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.”
The sun is sorter coaxin’ an’ the road is clear,
An’ the wind is singin’ ballads that I got to hear.
It ain’t no use to argue when you feel the thrill;
For, once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.
A Ranger
He never made parade of tooth or claw;
He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin’ herds.
Though he had a rather meanin’-lookin’ jaw,
He was shy of exercisin’ it with words.
As a circus-ridin’ preacher of the law,
All his preachin’ was the sort that hit the nail;
He was just a common ranger, just a ridin’ pilgrim stranger,
And he labored with the sinners of the trail.
Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad,
Then hit southward with the old, old killer’s plan,
And nobody missed the woman very bad,
While they’d just a little rather missed the man.
But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad,
And then loped away to bring him back again,
For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border
And his business was to hunt for sinful men!
So the trail it led him southward all the day,
Through the shinin’ country of the thorn and snake,
Where the heat had drove the
