Cowboy Songs Part 27

THE DISHEARTENED RANGER

Come listen to a ranger, you kind-hearted stranger, This song, though a sad one, you're welcome to hear; We've kept the Comanches away from your ranches, And followed them far o'er the Texas frontier.

We're weary of scouting, of traveling, and routing The blood-thirsty villains o'er prairie and wood; No rest for the sinner, no breakfast or dinner, But he lies in a supperless bed in the mud.

No corn nor potatoes, no bread nor tomatoes, But jerked beef as dry as the sole of your shoe; All day without drinking, all night without winking, I'll tell you, kind stranger, this never will do.

Those great alligators, the State legislators, Are puffing and blowing two-thirds of their time, But windy orations about rangers and rations Never put in our pockets one-tenth of a dime.

They do not regard us, they will not reward us, Though hungry and haggard with holes in our coats; But the election is coming and they will be drumming And praising our valor to purchase our votes.

For glory and payment, for vittles and raiment, No longer we'll fight on the Texas frontier.

So guard your own ranches, and mind the Comanches Or surely they'll scalp you in less than a year.

Though sore it may grieve you, the rangers must leave you Exposed to the arrows and knife of the foe; So herd your own cattle and fight your own battle, For home to the States I'm determined to go,--

Where churches have steeples and laws are more equal, Where houses have people and ladies are kind; Where work is regarded and worth is rewarded; Where pumpkins are plenty and pockets are lined.

Your wives and your daughters we have guarded from slaughter, Through conflicts and struggles I shudder to tell; No more well defend them, to G.o.d we'll commend them.

To the frontier of Texas we bid a farewell.

THE MELANCHOLY COWBOY

Come all you melancholy folks and listen unto me, I will sing you about the cowboy whose heart's so light and free; He roves all over the prairie and at night when he lays down His heart's as gay as the flowers of May with his bed spread on the ground.

They are a little bit rough, I must confess, the most of them at least; But as long as you do not cross their trail, you can live with them in peace.

But if you do, they're sure to rule, the day you come to their land, For they'll follow you up and shoot it out, they'll do it man to man.

You can go to a cowboy hungry, go to him wet or dry, And ask him for a few dollars in change and he will not deny; He will pull out his pocket-book and hand you out a note,-- Oh, they are the fellows to strike, boys, whenever you are broke.

You can go to their ranches and often stay for weeks, And when you go to leave, boys, they'll never charge you a cent; But when they go to town, boys, you bet their money is spent.

They walk right up, they take their drinks and they pay for every one.

They never ask your pardon, boys, for a thing that they have done.

They go to the ball-room, and swing the pretty girls around; They ride their bucking broncos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats; Their California saddles, their pants below their boots, You can hear their spurs go jing-a-ling, or perhaps somebody shoots.

Come all you soft and tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun, Come go among the cowboys and they'll show you how it's done; But take the kind advice of me as I gave it to you before, For if you don't, they'll order you off with an old Colt's forty-four.

BOB STANFORD

Bob Stanford, he's a Texas boy, He lives down on the flat; His trade is running a well-drill, But he's none the worse for that.

He is neither rich nor handsome, But, unlike the city dude, His manners they are pleasant Instead of flip and rude.

His people live in Texas, That is his native home, But like many other Western lads He drifted off from home.

He came out to New Mexico A fortune for to make, He punched the bottom out of the earth And never made a stake.

So he came to Arizona And again set up his drill To punch a hole for water, And he's punching at it still.

He says he is determined To make the business stick Or spend that derned old well machine And all he can get on tick.

I hope he is successful And I'll help him if I can, For I admire pluck and ambition In an honest working man.

So keep on going down, Punch the bottom out, or try, There is nothing in a hole in the ground That continues being dry.

CHARLIE RUTLAGE

Another good cow-puncher has gone to meet his fate, I hope he'll find a resting place within the golden gate.

Another place is vacant on the ranch of the X I T, 'Twill be hard to find another that's liked as well as he.

The first that died was Kid White, a man both tough and brave, While Charlie Rutlage makes the third to be sent to his grave, Caused by a cow-horse falling while running after stock; 'Twas on the spring round-up,--a place where death men mock.

He went forward one morning on a circle through the hills, He was gay and full of glee, and free from earthly ills; But when it came to finish up the work on which he went, Nothing came back from him; for his time on earth was spent.

'Twas as he rode the round-up, an X I T turned back to the herd; Poor Charlie shoved him in again, his cutting horse he spurred; Another turned; at that moment his horse the creature spied And turned and fell with him, and beneath, poor Charlie died.

His relations in Texas his face never more will see, But I hope he will meet his loved ones beyond in eternity.

I hope he will meet his parents, will meet them face to face, And that they will grasp him by the right hand at the shining throne of grace.

THE RANGE RIDERS

Come all you range riders and listen to me, I will relate you a story of the saddest degree, I will relate you a story of the deepest distress,-- I love my poor Lulu, boys, of all girls the best.

When you are out riding, boys, upon the highway, Meet a fair damsel, a lady so gay, With her red, rosy cheeks and her sparkling dark eyes, Just think of my Lulu, boys, and your bosoms will rise.

While you live single, boys, you are just in your prime; You have no wife to scold, you have nothing to bother your minds; You can roam this world over and do just as you will, Hug and kiss the pretty girls and be your own still.

But when you get married, boys, you are done with this life, You have sold your sweet comfort for to gain you a wife; Your wife she will scold you, and the children will cry, It will make those fair faces look withered and dry.

You can scarcely step aside, boys, to speak to a friend But your wife is at your elbow saying what do you mean.