Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp Part 11

All the boys start out together For the round-up some fine day When you're due to throw your leather On a little wall-eyed bay, An' he swells to beat the nation When you're cinchin' up the slack, An' he keeps an elevation In your saddle at the back.

He stands still with feet a-sprawlin', An' his eye shows lots of white, An' he kinks his spinal column, An' his hide is puckered tight, He starts risin' an' a-jumpin', An' he strikes when you get near, An' you cuss him an' you thump him Till you get him by the ear,--

Then your right hand grabs the saddle An' you ketch your stirrup, too, An' you try to light a-straddle Like a woolly buckaroo; But he drops his head an' switches, Then he makes a backward jump, Out of reach your stirrup twitches But your right spur grabs his hump.

An' "Stay with him!" shouts some feller; Though you know it's hope forlorn, Yet you'll show that you ain't yeller An' you choke the saddle horn.

Then you feel one rein a-droppin'

An' you know he's got his head; An' your shirt tail's out an' floppin'; An' the saddle pulls like lead.

Then the boys all yell together Fit to make a feller sick: "Hey, you short horn, drop the leather!

Fan his fat an' ride him slick!"

Seems you're up-side-down an' flyin'; Then your spurs begin to slip.

There's no further use in tryin', For the horn flies from your grip,

An' you feel a vague sensation As upon the ground you roll, Like a violent separation 'Twixt your body an' your soul.

Then you roll agin a hummock Where you lay an' gasp for breath, An' there's somethin' grips your stomach Like the finger-grips o' death.

They all offers you prescriptions For the grip an' for the croup, An' they give you plain descriptions How you looped the spiral loop; They all swear you beat a circus Or a hoochy-koochy dance, Moppin' up the canon's surface With the bosom of your pants.

Then you'll get up on your trotters, But you have a job to stand; For the landscape round you totters An' your collar's full o' sand.

Lots of fellers give prescriptions How a broncho should be rode, But there's few that gives descriptions Of the times when they got throwed.

_Anonymous._

PARDNERS

YOU bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun, Ye're a hard little beast to break, But ye're good for the fiercest kind of a run An' ye're quick as a rattlesnake.

Ye jolted me good when we first met In the dust of that bare corral, An' neither one of us will forget The fight we fit, old pal.

But now--well, say, old hoss, if John D. Rockefeller shud come With all the riches his paws are on And want to buy you, you b.u.m, I'd laugh in his face an' pat your neck An' say to him loud an' strong: "I wouldn't sell you this derned old wreck For all your wealth--so long!"

For we have slept on the barren plains An' cuddled against the cold; We've been through tempests of drivin' rains When the heaviest thunder rolled; We've raced from fire on the lone prairee An' run from the mad stampede; An' there ain't no money could buy from me A pard of your style an' breed.

So I reckon we'll stick together, pard, Till one of us cashes in; Ye're wirey an' tough an' mighty hard, An' homlier, too, than sin.

But yer head's all there an' yer heart's all right, An' you've been a good pardner, too, An' if ye've a soul it's clean an' white, You ugly ol' scoundrel, you!

_Berton Braley._

THE BRONC THAT WOULDN'T BUST

I'VE busted bronchos off and on Since first I struck their trail, And you bet I savvy bronchos From nostrils down to tail; But I struck one on Powder River, And say, hands, he was the first And only living broncho That your servant couldn't burst.

He was a no-count buckskin, Wasn't worth two-bits to keep, Had a black stripe down his backbone, And was woolly like a sheep.

That hoss wasn't built to tread the earth; He took natural to the air; And every time he went aloft He tried to leave me there.

He went so high above the earth Lights from Jerusalem shone.

Right thar we parted company And he came down alone.

I hit terra firma, The buckskin's heels struck free, And brought a bunch of stars along To dance in front of me.

I'm not a-riding airships Nor an electric flying beast; Ain't got no rich relation A-waitin' me back East; So I'll sell my chaps and saddle, My spurs can lay and rust; For there's now and then a digger That a buster cannot bust.

_Anonymous._

THE OL' COW HAWSE

WHEN it comes to saddle hawses, there's a difference in steeds: There is fancy-gaited critters that will suit some feller's needs; There is nags high-bred an' tony, with a smooth an' shiny skin, That will capture all the races that you want to run 'em in.

But fer one that never tires; one that's faithful, tried and true; One that allus is a "stayer" when you want to slam him through, There is but one breed o' critters that I ever came across That will allus stand the racket: 'tis the Ol'

Cow Hawse

No, he ain't so much fer beauty, fer he's scrubby an' he's rough, An' his temper's sort o' sa.s.sy, but you bet he's good enough!

Fer he'll take the trail o' mornin's, be it up or be it down, On the range a-huntin' cattle or a-lopin' into town, An' he'll leave the miles behind him, an' he'll never sweat a hair, 'Cuz he's a willin' critter when he's goin' anywhere.

Oh, your thoroughbred at runnin' in a race may be the boss, But fer all day ridin' lemme have the Ol'

Cow Hawse!

When my soul seeks peace and quiet on the home ranch of the blest, Where no storms or stampedes bother, an' the trails are trails o'

rest, When my brand has been inspected an' p.r.o.nounced to be O K, An' the boss has looked me over an' has told me I kin stay, Oh, I'm hopin' when I'm lopin' off across that blessed range That I won't be in a saddle on a critter new an' strange, But I'm prayin' every minnit that up there I'll ride across That big heaven range o' glory on an Ol'

Cow Hawse _E. A. Brinninstool._

THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA

WRANGLE up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out, Tune your old guitarra till she tw.a.n.gs right stout, For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain, But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain.

_Shinin' dobe fire-place, shadows on the wall (See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:) It's the best grand high that there is within the law When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."_

Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail, Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high-arched tail, But we held 'em and we shoved 'em for our longin' hearts were tried By a yearnin' for tobaccer and our dear fireside.

_Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop (You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!) Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw, But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."_

Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford-- Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord, But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!

_Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots!

(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in his boots?) Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw, But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."_

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, Livin' is a luxury that don't come high; Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow, For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!

_Lively on the last turn! Lope'er to the death!