Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp Part 13

AT A COWBOY DANCE

GIT yo' little sagehens ready; Trot 'em out upon the floor-- Line up there, you critters! Steady!

Lively, now! One couple more.

Shorty, shed that ol' sombrero; Broncho, douse that cigaret; Stop yer cussin', Casimero, 'Fore the ladies. Now, all set:

S'lute yer ladies, all together; Ladies opposite the same; Hit the lumber with yer leather; Balance all an' swing yer dame; Bunch the heifers in the middle; Circle stags an' do-ce-do; Keep a-steppin' to the fiddle; Swing 'em 'round an' off you go.

First four forward. Back to places.

Second foller. Shuffle back-- Now you've got it down to cases-- Swing 'em till their trotters crack.

Gents all right a-heel an' toein'; Swing 'em--kiss 'em if yo' kin-- On to next an' keep a-goin'

Till yo' hit yer pards agin.

Gents to center. Ladies 'round 'em; Form a basket; balance all; Swing yer sweets to where yo' found 'em; All p'mnade around the hall.

Balance to yer pards an' trot 'em 'Round the circle double quick; Grab an' squeeze 'em while you've got 'em-- Hold 'em to it if they kick.

Ladies, left hand to yer sonnies; Alaman; grand right an' left; Balance all an' swing yer honies-- Pick 'em up an' feel their heft.

All p'mnade like skeery cattle; Balance all an' swing yer sweets; Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle-- Keno! Promenade to seats.

_James Barton Adams._

THE COWBOYS' BALL

_YIP! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; You an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall!

_Say "How!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle_; Shake yo'r leg lively at the Cowboys' Ball.

Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin'; Everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high; Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin'; Keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye.

Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin'

Jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head; Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin', Just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead!

High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers; Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!

Uncle Ed's gettin' red--had too many dippers; Better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg!

_Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; Pa.s.s him up another for his arm is gettin' slow.

_Bow down! right in town--and sashay down the middle_; Got to keep a-movin' for to see the show!

Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute?

Like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars?

All right! Fine night--Dance? There's nothin' in it!

That's my pony there, peekin' through the bars.

Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten!

Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see; Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin'

Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.

_Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all!

_Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle..._ But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball.

_Henry Herbert Knibbs._

PART III

COWBOY TYPES

_DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples-- When there's water in its bed; Where no man is ever drunken-- All prefer mescal instead; Where no lie is ever uttered-- There being nothin' one can trade; Where no marriage vows are broken 'Cause the same are never made._

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.

_Anonymous._

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 d.i.c.k'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' h.e.l.l! how that kid kin sing!

"Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin,"

He leads, an' the rafters ring; "Fight manfully onward, dark pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sel o' men What ain't no saints, as I said.

_Percival Combes._