Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp

of the West,
Where nature’s handiwork lies in virginal beauty.
Amidst the hum of city life
I saunter back to dreams of home.
Astride the back of my trusty steed
I wander away, losing myself
In the foothills of the Rockies.

Away from human habitations,
Up the rugged slopes,
Through the timbered stretches,
I hear the frightful cry of wolves
And see a bear sneaking up behind.

Many nights ago,
While herding a bunch of cattle
During the round-up season,
I lay upon the grass
Looking at the mated stars;
I wondered if a cowboy
Could go to the Unknown Place,
The Happy Hunting Ground,
When this short life is over.

But, here or there, I shall always live
In the land of mountain air
Where the grizzly dwells
And sage brush grows;
Where mountain trout are not a few;
In the land of the Bitterroot⁠—
The Indian land⁠—Land of the Golden West.

James Fox.

A Cowboy Toast

Here’s to the passing cowboy, the plowman’s pioneer;
His home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer;
Around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler’s hide,
His bridle sporting conchos, his lasso at his side.
All day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars,
Kept vigil o’er thousands held by neither posts nor bars;
With never a diversion in all the lonesome land,
But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand.

Sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat;
And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat;
The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod
Some Texas steer pursuing o’er the pathless waste of sod.
With lasso, quirt, and ’colter the cowboy knew his skill;
They pass with him to history and naught their place can fill;
While he, bold broncho rider, ne’er conned a lesson page⁠—
But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage.

And oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies!
When lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes;
When raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart
Lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start.
That meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede,
When none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead;
Ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near⁠—
With cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere.

Then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure,
To the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e’er endure
From the Llano Estacado to Dakota’s distant sands,
Where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands.
Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave,
And weave of Texas grasses a garland for his grave;
And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done
With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun.

James Barton Adams.

Ridin’ Up the Rocky Trail from Town

“Billy Leamont rode out of the town⁠—
Close at his shoulder rode Jack Lorell⁠—
Over the leagues of the prairies brown,
Into the hills where the sun goes down⁠—
Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!
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Billy Leamont looked down the dell⁠—
Dead below; him lay Jack Lorell⁠—
With his gun at his forehead he fired and fell,
Then rode they two through the streets of hell⁠—
Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!”

The Ballad of Billy Leamont.5

We’re the children of the open and we hate the haunts o’ men,
But we had to come to town to get the mail.
And we’re ridin’ home at daybreak⁠—’cause the air is cooler then⁠—
All ’cept one of us that stopped behind in jail.
Shorty’s nose won’t bear paradin’, Bill’s off eye is darkly fadin’,
All our toilets show a touch of disarray,
For we found that City life is a constant round of strife
And we aint the breed for shyin’ from a fray.

Chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with fear
And the chaparral is tremblin’ all aroun’
For we’re wicked to the marrer; we’re a midnight dream of terror
When we’re ridin’ up the rocky trail from town!

We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.
From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights.
We have gathered fightin’ pointers from the famous bronco steed
And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites.
So when some high-collared herrin’ jeered the garb that I was wearin’
’Twasn’t long till we had got where talkin’ ends,
And he et his ill-bred chat, with a sauce of derby hat,
While my merry pardners entertained his friends.

Sing ’er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news.
Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.
We’re the fiercest wolves a-prowlin’ and it’s just our night for howlin’
When we’re ridin’ up the rocky trail from town.

Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves,
Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn’t fight,
Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law of six years’ crop of calves
And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,
There has been a taste for battle ’mong the men that follow cattle
And a love of doin’ things that’s wild and strange.
And the warmth of Laban’s words when he missed his speckled herds
Still is useful in the language of the range.

Sing ’er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,
For we wear the brand of Ishm’el like a crown.
We’re the sons o’ desolation, we’re the outlaws of creation⁠—
Ee‑Yow! a-ridin’ up the rocky trail from town!

The Disappointed Tenderfoot

He reached the West in a palace car where the writers tell us the cowboys are,
With the redskin bold and the centipede and the rattlesnake and the loco weed.
He looked around for the Buckskin Joes and the things he’d seen in the Wild West shows⁠—
The cowgirls gay and the bronchos wild and the painted face of the Injun child.
He listened close for the fierce war-whoop, and his pent-up spirits began to droop,
And he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of the sights of the story books.

He’d hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold bad man with a pistol shot,
And entered a low saloon by chance, where the tenderfoot is supposed to dance
While the cowboy shoots at his bootheels there and the smoke of powder begrims the air,
But all was quiet as if he’d strayed to