that silent spot where the dead are laid. Not even a faro game was seen, and none flaunted the long, long green. ’Twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch of the real wild woolly West.
He vainly sought for a bad cayuse and the swirl and swish of the flying noose, And the cowboy’s yell as he roped a steer, but nothing of this fell on his ear. Not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flourished on every side, And the spurs and the “chaps” and the flannel shirts, the high-heeled boots and the guns and the quirts, The cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and swell outfits He’d read about in the novels grim, were not on hand for the likes of him.
He peered about for a stagecoach old, and a miner-man with a bag of gold, And a burro train with its pack-loads which he’d read they tie with the diamond hitch. The rattler’s whir and the coyote’s wail ne’er sounded out as he hit the trail; And no one knew of a branding bee or a steer round-up that he longed to see. But the oldest settler named Six-Gun Sim rolled a cigarette and remarked to him: “The West hez gone to the East, my son, and it’s only in tents sich things is done.”
A Cowboy Alone with His Conscience
When I ride into the mountains on my little broncho bird, Whar my ears are never pelted with the bawlin’ o’ the herd, An’ a sort o’ dreamy quiet hangs upon the western air, An’ thar ain’t no animation to be noticed anywhere; Then I sort o’ feel oneasy, git a notion in my head I’m the only livin’ mortal—everybody else is dead— An’ I feel a queer sensation, rather skeery like, an’ odd, When thar ain’t nobody near me, ’ceptin’ God.
Every rabbit that I startle from its shaded restin’ place, Seems a furry shaft o’ silence shootin’ into noiseless space, An’ a rattlesnake a crawlin’ through the rocks so old an’ gray Helps along the ghostly feelin’ in a rather startlin’ way. Every breeze that dares to whisper does it with a bated breath, Every bush stands grim an’ silent in a sort o’ livin’ death— Tell you what, a feller’s feelin’s give him many an icy prod, When thar ain’t nobody near him, ’ceptin’ God.
Somehow allus git to thinkin’ o’ the error o’ my ways, An’ my memory goes wingin’ back to childhood’s happy days, When a mother, now a restin’ in the grave so dark an’ deep, Used to listen while I’d whisper, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” Then a sort o’ guilty feelin’ gits a surgin’ in my breast, An’ I wonder how I’ll stack up at the final judgment test, Conscience allus welts it to me with a mighty cuttin’ rod, When thar ain’t nobody near me, ’ceptin’ God.
Take the very meanest sinner that the nation ever saw, One that don’t respect religion more’n he respects the law, One that never does an action that’s commendable or good, An’ immerse him fur a season out in Nature’s solitude, An’ the cog-wheels o’ his conscience’ll be rattled out o’ gear, More’n if he ’tended preachin’ every Sunday in the year, Fur his sins ’ill come a ridin’ through his cranium rough shod, When thar ain’t nobody near him, ’ceptin’ God.
Just A-Ridin’!
Oh, for me a horse and saddle Every day without a change; With the desert sun a-blazin’ On a hundred miles o’ range,
Just a-ridin’, just a-ridin’, Desert ripplin’ in the sun, Mountains blue along the skyline— I don’t envy anyone.
When my feet are in the stirrups And my horse is on the bust; When his hoofs are flashin’ lightnin’ From a golden cloud o’ dust; And the bawlin’ of the cattle Is a-comin’ down the wind— Oh, a finer life than ridin’ Would be mighty hard to find,
Just a-ridin’, just a-ridin’, Splittin’ long cracks in the air, Stirrin’ up a baby cyclone, Rootin’ up the prickly pear.
I don’t need no art exhibits When the sunset does his best, Paintin’ everlastin’ glories On the mountains of the west. And your operas look foolish When the night bird starts his tune And the desert’s silver-mounted By the kisses of the moon,
Just a-ridin’, just a-ridin’, I don’t envy kings nor czars When the coyotes down the valley Are a-singin’ to the stars.
When my earthly trail is ended And my final bacon curled, And the last great round up’s finished At the Home Ranch of the world, I don’t want no harps or haloes, Robes or other dress-up things— Let me ride the starry ranges On a pinto horse with wings,
Just a-ridin’, just a-ridin’, Splittin’ chunks o’ wintry air, With your feet froze to your stirrups And a snowdrift in your hair.
The End of the Trail
Soh, Bossie, soh! The water’s handy heah, The grass is plenty neah, An’ all the stars a-sparkle Bekaze we drive no mo’— We drive no mo’.
The long trail ends today— The long trail ends today, The punchers go to play And all you weary cattle May sleep in peace for sure— May sleep in peace for sure— Sleep, sleep for sure.
The moon can’t bite you heah, Nor punchers fright you heah. An’ you-all will be beef befo’ We need you any mo’— We need you any mo’!
A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign. ↩
Only such cowboys as are in desperate need of employment ever become sheepherders. ↩
Fox is a halfbreed Indian who sent me a lot of verse. Although he had never heard of Walt Whitman, these stanzas suggest that poet. The spelling and punctuation are mine. ↩
This fragment is not included in Mr. Clark’s poem. ↩
Colophon
Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp
was published in 1919 by John A. Lomax.
This ebook was produced for Standard Ebooks
by Hendrik Kaiber,
and is based on a transcription produced in 2007 by David Edwards, Joe Longo, and
