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Bachin'
Our lives are hid; our trails are strange...A Bad Half Hour
Wonder why I feel so restless . . .The Border
When the dreamers of old Coronado...A Border Affair
Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out ...
Spanish is the lovin' tongue...The Christmas Trail
The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips of snow...A Cowboy's Prayer (Written for Mother)
Oh Lord, I've never lived where churches grow. . .The Coyote
Trailing the last gleam after, in the valleys emptied of light...The Free Wind
I went and worked in a drippin' mine...From Town
We're the children of the open...The Glory Trail (High-Chin Bob)
'Way high up the Mogollons . . .God of the Open
God of the open, though I am so simple...God's Reserves
One time, 'way back where the year marks fadeJeff Hart
Jeff Hart rode out of the gulch to war...The Legend of Boastful Bill
At a roundup on the Gily, one sweet mornin' long ago...The Lost Pardner
I ride alone and hate the boys I meet.The Old Cow Man
I rode across a valley range...On Boot Hill
Up from the prairie and through the pines...Others
The daybreak comes so pure and still...The Outlaw
When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old...Pals (separate page)
Once we met in a cow corral...The Passing of the Trail
There was a sunny, savage land...The Piano at Red's
'Twas a hole called Red's Saloon . . .The Plainsmen
Men of the older, gentler soil...The Rains
You've watched the ground-hog's shadow and the shiftin' weather signs...Ridin'
There is some that like the city . . .The Roundup (separate page)
Come, strap on your chaps and your big spurs, too...Roundup Lullaby
Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine, coyote yappin' lazy on the hill...Saturday Night
Out from the ranch on a Saturday night...The Song of the Leather
When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky...Thanksgiving (separate page)
Accept my thanks today, O Lord, but not so much for bed and board...Thanksgiving Hymn, 1943 (separate page)
Another year grows calmly old and frost is on the morning grass...To Her
Cut loose a hundred rivers...The Westerner
My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains . . .The Wind is Blowin'
My tired horse nickers for his own home bars...
A Cowboy's Prayer
(Written for Mother)Oh Lord, I've never lived where churches
grow.
I love creation better as it stood
That day You finished it so long ago
And looked upon Your work and called it
good.
I know that others find You in the light
That's sifted down through tinted window
panes,
And yet I seem to feel You near tonight
In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains.I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well,
That You have made my freedom so com-
plete;
That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell,
Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street.
Just let me live my life as I've begun
And give me work that's open to the sky;
Make me a pardner of the wind and sun,
And I won't ask a life that's soft or high.Let me be easy on the man that's down;
Let me be square and generous with all.
I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm in
town,
But never let 'em say I'm mean or small!
Make me as big and open as the plains,
As honest as the hawse between my knees,
Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains,
Free as the hawk that circles down the
breeze!Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget.
You know about the reasons that are hid.
You understand the things that gall and fret;
You know me better than my mother did.
Just keep an eye on all that's done and said
And right me, sometimes, when I turn
aside,
And guide me on the long, dim, trail ahead
That stretches upward toward the Great
Divide.
In Katie Lee's classic book, Ten Thousand Goddam Cattle, A History of the American Cowboy in Song, Story, and Verse," she writes about "A Cowboy's Prayer": Of the hundreds of poems written about cowboys praying to the stars, this is probably the best. I've heard any number of cowboys recite it, but have never heard one sing it. The language is true to his free-roving spirit and gives insight to the code he lived by -- the things he expected of himself. According to Austin and Alta Fife, Clark wrote it while living on a ranch near Tombstone, Arizona, and it was first published in The Pacific Monthly, December of 1906. John I. White, in Git Along Little Dogies, notes that Tex Ritter used to recite the poem against the music of "The Cowboy's Dream," and that Clark had it stolen from him and put on postcards as "Anonymous" so many times that he made a collection of more than sixty thievings from his original.
The Glory Trail
(High-Chin Bob)'Way high up the Mogollons,
Among the mountain tops,
A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones
And licked his thankful chops,
When on the picture who should ride,
A-trippin' down a slope,
But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride
And mav'rick hungry rope."Oh, glory be to me," says he,
"And fame's unfadin' flowers!
All meddlin' hands are far away;
I ride my good top-hawse today
And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J—
Hi! kitty-cat, you're ours!"That lion licked his paw so brown
And dreamed soft dreams of veal—
And then the circlin' loop swung down
And roped him 'round his meal.
He yowled quick fury to the world
Till all the hills yelled back;
The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled
And Bob caught up the slack."Oh, glory be to me," laughs he.
"We hit the glory trail.
No human man as I have read
Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,
Nor ever hawse could drag one dead
Until we told the tale."'Way high up the Mogollons
That top-hawse done his best,
Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,
From canyon-floor to crest.
But ever when Bob turned and hoped
A limp remains to find,
A red-eyed lion, belly roped
But healthy, loped behind.
"Oh, glory be to me," grunts he.
"This glory trail is rough,
Yet even till the Judgment Morn
I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,
For never any hero born
Could stoop to holler: ''Nuff!'"Three suns had rode their circle home
Beyond the desert's rim,
And turned their star-herds loose to roam
The ranges high and dim;
Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross
Bob pounded, weak and wan,
For pride still glued him to his hawse
And glory drove him on."Oh, glory be to me," sighs he.
"He kain't be drug to death,
But now I know beyond a doubt
Them heroes I have read about
Was only fools that stuck it out
To end of mortal breath."'Way high up the Mogollons
A prospect man did swear
That moon dreams melted down his bones
And hoisted up his hair:
A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,
A lion trailed along,
A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,
Yelled out a crazy song."Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,
"And to my noble noose!
Oh, stranger, tell my pards below
I took a rampin' dream in tow,
And if I never lay him low,
I'll never turn him loose!"
A Bad Half Hour
Wonder why I feel so restless;
Moon is shinin' still and bright,
Cattle all is restin' easy,
But I just kain't sleep tonight.
Ain't no cactus in my blankets,
Don't know why they feel so hard—
'Lesst it's Warblin' Jim a-singin'
"Annie Laurie" out on guard."Annie Laurie"— wish he'd quit it!
Couldn't sleep now if I tried.
Makes the night seem big and lonesome
And my throat feels sore inside.
How my Annie used to sing it!
And it sounded good and gay.
Nights I drove her home from dances
When the east was turning gray.Yes, "her brow was like the snowdrift"
And her eyes like quiet streams,
"And her face" — I still can see it
Much too frequent in my dreams;
And her hand was soft and trembly
That night underneath the tree,.
When I couldn't help but tell her
She was "all the world to me."But her folks said I was "shif'less,"
"Wild," "unsettled.,"— they was right,
For I leaned to punchin' cattle
And I'm at it still tonight.
And she married young Doc Wilkins—
Oh my Lord! but that was hard!
Wish that fool would quit his singin'
"Annie Laurie" out on guard.Oh I just kaint stand it thinkin;
Of the things that happened then.
Good old times, and all apast me!
Never seem to come again—
My turn? Sure. I'll come a runnin'.
Warm me up some coffee, pard—
But I'll stop that Jim from singin'
"Annie Laurie" out on guard.
To Her
Cut loose a hundred rivers,
Roaring across my trail,
Swift as the lightning quivers,
Loud as a mountain gale.
I build me a boat of slivers;
I weave me a sail of fur,
And ducks may founder and die
But I
Cross that river to her!Bunch the deserts together,
Hang three suns in the vault;
Scorch the lizards to leather,
Strangle the springs with salt.
I fly with a buzzard feather,
I dig me wells with a spur,
And snakes may famish and fry
But I
Cross that desert to her!Murder my sleep with revel;
Make me ride through the bogs
Knee to knee with the devil,
Just ahead of the dogs.
I harrow the Bad Lands level,
I teach the tiger to purr,
For saints may wallow and lie
But I
Go clean-hearted to her!
This poem is included in our Cowboy Love Poetry collection
It is beautifully put to music like no one else could by Wylie Gustafson of Wylie and Wild West on his Paradise CD
The Lost Pardner
I ride alone and hate the boys I meet.
Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so.
I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite--
And yet I liked 'em just a week ago.
I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares!
The bird songs make me sore.
I seem the only thing on earth that cares
'Cause Al ain't here no more!'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur--
And, when I raised him up so limp and weak,
One look before his eyes begun to blur
And then--the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak!
And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,
And after year on year
When we had always trailed it side by side,
He went--and left me here!We loved each other in the way men do
And never spoke about it, Al and me,
But we both knowed, and knowin' it so true
Was more than any woman's kiss could be.
We knowed--and if the way was smooth or rough,
The weather shine or pour,
While I had him the rest seemed good enough--
But he ain't here no more!What is there out beyond the last divide?
Seems like that country must be cold and dim.
He'd miss the sunny range he used to ride,
And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.
It's no use thinkin'--all I'd think or say
Could never make it clear.
Out that dim trail that only leads one way
He's gone--and left me here!The range is empty and the trails are blind,
And I don't seem but half myself today.
I wait to hear him ridin' up behind
And feel his knee rub mine the good old way
He's dead--and what that means no man kin tell.
Some call it "gone before."
Where? I don't know, but God! I know so well
That he ain't here no more!
The Christmas Trail
The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips of snow
And 'cross the ranges layin' brown and dead;
It's cryin' through the valley trees that wear the mistletoe
And mournin' with the gray clouds overhead.
Yes it's sweet with the beat of my little hawse's feet
And I whistle like the air was warm and blue
For I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you,
Old folks,
I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you.Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the Spring
Had weedled me to hoppin' of the bars.
And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buzzard's wing
And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars.
But the bright campfire light only dances for a night,
While the home-fire burns forever clear and true,
So 'round the year I circle back to you,
Old folks,
'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you.Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer sun
Had shot a charge of fire through my veins,
And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' and fun
'Mong the mav'ricks drifted from the plains.
Ay, the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I'd forgot,
And the devil smacked the young blood in his stew,
Yet I'm lovin' every mile that's nearer you,
Good folks,
Lovin' every blessed mile that's nearer you.Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall,
When the clouds of bawlin' dust before us ran,
And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin' of us all
To stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man.
But the pride sort of died when the man got weary eyed;
'Twas a sleepy boy that rode the nightguard through,
And he dreamed himself along a trail to you,
Old folks,
Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you.The coyote's Winter howl cuts the dusk behind the hill,
But the ranch's shinin' window I kin see,
And though I don't deserve it and, I reckon, never will,
There'll be room beside the fire kep' for me.
Skimp my plate 'cause I'm late. Let me hit the old kid gait,
For tonight I'm stumblin' tired of the new
And I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you,
Old folks,
I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you.
Bachin'
Our lives are hid; our trails are strange;
We're scattered through the West
In canyon cool, on blistered range
Or windy mountain crest.
Wherever Nature drops her ears
And bares her claws to scratch,
From Yuma to the north frontiers,
You'll likely find the bach',
You will,
The shy and sober bach'!Our days are sun and storm and mist,
The same as any life,
Except that in our trouble list
We never count a wife.
Each has a reason why he's lone,
But keeps it 'neath his hat;
Or, if he's got to tell some one,
Confides it to his cat,
He does,
Just tells it to his cat.We're young or old or slow or fast,
But all plumb versatyle.
The mighty bach' that fires the blast
Kin serve up beans in style.
The bach' that ropes the plungin' cows
Kin mix the biscuits true--
We earn our grub by drippin brows
And cook it by 'em too,
We do,
We cook it by 'em too.We like to breathe unbranded air,
Be free of foot and mind,
And go or stay, or sing or swear,
Whichever we're inclined.
An appetite, a conscience clear,
A pipe that's rich and old
Are loves that always bless and cheer
And never cry or scold,
They don't.
They never cry or scold.Old Adam bached some ages back
And smoked his pipe so free,
A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shack
Beneath a mango tree.
He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways,
And scripture proves the same,
For Adam's only happy days
Was 'fore the woman came,
They was,
All 'fore the woman came.
The Free Wind
I went and worked in a drippin' mine
'Mong the rock and the oozin' wood,
For the dark it seemed lit with a dollar sign
And they told me money's good.
So I jumped and sweat for a flat-foot boss
Till my pocket bulged with pay,
But my heart it fought like a led bronc hawse
Till I flung my drill away.For the wind, the wind, the good free wind,
She sang from the pine divide
That the sky was blue and the young years few
And the world was big and wide!
From the poor, bare hills all gashed with scars
I rode till the range was crossed;
Then I watched the gold of the sunset bars
And my camp-sparks glintin' toward the starts
And laughed at the pay I'd lost.I went and walked in the city way
Down a glitterin' canyon street,
For the thousand lights looked good and gay
And they said life there was sweet.
So the wimmin laughed while night reeled by
And the wine ran red and gold,
But their laugh was the starved wolf's huntin' cry
And their eyes were hard and old.And the wind, the wind, the clean free wind,
She laughed through April rains:
"Come out and live by the wine I give
In the smell of the greenin' plains!"
And I looked back once to the smoky towers
Where my face had bleached so pale,
Them loped through the lash of drivin' showers
To the uncut sod and the prairie flowers
And the old wide life o' the trail.I went and camped in the valley trees
Where the thick leaves whispered rest,
For love lived there 'mong the honey bees,
And they told me love was best.
There the twilight lanes were cool and dim
And the orchards pink with May,
Yet my eyes they'd lift to the valley's rim
Where the desert reached away.And the wind, the wind, the wild free wind,
She called from the web love spun
To the unbought sand of the lone trail land
And the sweet hot kiss o' the sun!
Oh, I looked back twice to the valley lass,
Then I set my spurs and sung,
For the sun sailed up above the pass
And the mornin' wind was in the grass
And my hawse and me was young.
The Passing of the Trail
There was a sunny, savage land
Beneath the eagle's wings,
And there, across the thorns and sand,
Wild rovers rode as kings.
Is it a yarn from long ago
And far across the sea?
Could that land be the land we know?
Those roving riders we?The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane,
How comes it, pard of mine?
Within a day it slipped away
And hardly left a sign.
Now history a tale has gained
To please the younger ears --
A race of kings that rose, and reigned,
And passed in fifty years!Dream back beyond the cramping lanes
To glories that have been --
The camp smoke on the sunset plains,
The riders loping in
Loose rein and rowelled heel to spare,
The wind our only guide,
For youth was in the saddle there
With half a world to ride.The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane,
Dead is the branding fire.
The prairies wild are tame and mild,
All close-corralled with wire.
The sunburnt demigods who ranged
And laughed and lived so free
Have topped the last divide, or changed
To men like you and me.Where, in the valley fields and fruits,
Now hums a lively street,
We milled a mob of fighting brutes
Among the grim mesquite.
It looks a far and fearful way--
The trail from Now to Then--
But time is telescoped to-day,
A hundred years in ten.The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane,
Our brows are scarcely seamed,
But we may scan a mighty span
Methuselah ne'er dreamed.
Yet pardner, we are dull and old
With paltry hopes and fears,
Beside those rovers gay and bold
Far riding down the years!
The Westerner
My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains,
And each one sleeps alone.
Their trails may dim to the grass and rains,
For I choose to make my own.
I lay proud claim to their blood and name,
But I lean on no dead kin;
My name is mine, for the praise or scorn,
And the world began when I was born
And the world is mine to win.They built high towns on their old log sills,
Where the great, slow rivers gleamed,
But with new, live rock from the savage hills
I'll build as they only dreamed.
The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp
lies,
Till the rails glint down the pass;
The desert springs into fruit and wheat
And I lay the stones of a solid street
Over yesterday's untrod grass.I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth
Or the way he makes his prayer.
I grant him a white man's room on earth
If his game is only square.
While he plays it straight I'll call him mate;
If he cheats I drop him flat.
Old class and rank are a wornout lie,
For all clean men are as good as I,
And a king is only that.I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state
That will spoon me out my food.
A stout heart sings in the fray with fate
And the shock and sweat are good.
From noon to noon all the earthly boon
That I ask my God to spare
Is a little daily bread in store,
With the room to fight the strong for more,
And the weak shall get their share.The sunrise plains are a tender haze
And the sunset seas are gray,
But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze
Over me and the big today.
What good to me is a vague "maybe"
Or a mournful "might have been,"
For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn
And the world began when I was born
And the world is mine to win.
The Piano at Red's
'Twas a hold called Red's Saloon
In La Vaca Town;
'Twas an old piano there,
Blistered, marred and brown,
And a man more battered still,
Takin' drinks for fees,
Played all night from memory
On the yellow keys.While the glasses clinked and clashed
On the sloppy bar,
The piano's dreamy voice
Took you out and far,
Ridin' old, forgotten trails
Underneath the moon,
Till you heard a drunken yell
Back in Red's Saloon.Whirr of wheel and slap of cards,
Talk of loss and gain,
Mixed with hum of honey bees
Down a sunny lane.
Glimpses of your mother's face,
Touch of girlish lips
Often made you lose your count
As you stacked your chips.Scufflin' feet and thud of fists,
Curses hot as fire—
Still the music sang of love,
Longin', lost desire,
Dreams that never could have been,
Joys that couldn't stay—
While the man upon the floor
Wiped the blood away.Then, some way, it followed you,
Slept upon your breast,
Trailed you out across the range,
Never let you rest;
And for days and days you'd hum
Just one scrap of tune—
Funny place for music, though
Back in Red's Saloon!
There is some that like the city—
Grass that's curried smooth and green,
Theaytres and stranglin' collars,
Wagons run by gasoline—
But for me it's hawse and saddle
Every day without a change,
And a desert sun a-blazin'
On a hundred miles of range.Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—
Desert ripplin' in the sun,
Mountains blue among the skyline—
I don't envy anyone
When I'm ridin'.When my feet is in the stirrups
And my hawse is on the bust,
With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin'
From a cloud of golden dust,
And the bawlin' of the cattle
Is a-comin' down the wind
Then a finer life than ridin'
Would be mighty hard to find.Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—
Splittin' long cracks through the
air,
Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,
Rippin' up the prickly pear
As I'm ridin'.I don't need no art exhibits
When the sunset does her best,
Paintin' everlastin' glory
On the mountains to the west
And your opery looks foolish
When the night-bird starts his tune
And the desert's silver mounted
By the touches of the moon.Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—
Who kin envy kings and czars
When the coyotes down the valley
Are a singin' to the stars,
If he's ridin'?When my earthly trail is ended
And my final bacon curled
And the last great roundup's finished
At the Home Ranch of the world
I don't want no harps nor haloes
Robes nor other dressed up things—
Let me ride the starry ranges
On a pinto hawse with wings!Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—
Nothin' I'd like half so well
As a-roundin' up the sinners
That have wandered out of Hell,
And a-ridin'
The Wind is Blowin'
My tired horse nickers for his own home bars;
A hoof clicks out a spark.
The dim creek flickers to the lonesome starts;
The trail twists down the dark.
The ridge pines whimper to the pines below.
The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
The birch has yellowed since I saw you last,
The Fall haze blued as the creeks,
The big pine bellowed as the snow swished past,
But still, above the peaks,
The same stars twinkle that we used to know.
The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
The stars up yonder wait at the end of time
But earth fires soon go black.
I trip and wander on the trail I climb--
A fool who will look back
To glimpse a fire dead a year ago.
The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
Who says the lover kills the man in me?
Beneath the day's hot blue
This thing hunts cover and my heart fights free
To laugh an hour or two.
But now it wavers like a wounded doe.
The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
This poem is included in our Cowboy Love Poetry collection
The Bunk-House Orchestra
Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,
Tune your old guitarra till she twangs 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 fireplace, 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 yearlin' for tobacker 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 'is 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
(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)
Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw
When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw."
The Rains
The Old Cow ManYou've watched the ground-hog's shadow and the shiftin' weather signs
Till the Northern prairie starred itse'f with flowers;
You've seen the snow a-meltin' up among the Northern pines
And the mountain creeks a-roarin' with the showers.
You've blessed the stranger sunlight when the Winter days were done
And the Summer creepin' down the budded lanes.
Did you ever see a Springtime in the home range of the sun,
When the desert land is waitin' for the Rains?The April days are sun and sun; the last thin cloud is fled.
It's gold about the eastern mountain crest,
Then blaze upon the yellow range all day from overhead
And then a stripe of gold across the west.
The dry wind mourns among the hills, a-huntin' trees and grass,
Then down the desert flats it rises higher
And sweeps a rollin' dust-storm up and flings it through the pass
And fills the evenin' west with smoulderin' fire.It's sun and sun without a change the lazy length o' May
And all the little sun things own the land.
The horned toad basks and swells himse'f; the bright swifts dart and play;
The rattler hunts or dozes in the sand.
The wind comes off the desert like it brushed a bed of coals;
The sickly range grass withers down and fails;
The bony cattle bawl around the dryin' water holes,
They stagger off along the stony trails.The days crawl on to Summer suns that slower blaze and wheel;
The mesas heave and quiver in the noon.
The mountains they are ashes and the sky is shinin' steel,
Though the mockin'-birds are singin' that it's June.
And here and there among the hills, a-standin' white and tall,
The droopin' plumes of yucca flowers gleam,
The buzzards circle, circle where the startin' cattle fall
And the whole hot land seems dyin' in a dream.But last across the sky-line comes a thing that's strange and new,
A little cloud of saddle blanket size.
It blackens 'long the mountains and bulges up the blue
And shuts the weary sun-glare from our eyes.
Then the lightnin's gash the heavens and the thunder jars the world
And the gray of fallin' water wraps the plains,
And 'cross the burnin' ranges, down the wind, the word is whilrled:
"Here's another year of livin', and the Rains!"You've seen your fat fields ripplin' with the treasure that they hoard;
Have you seen a mountain stretch and rub its eyes?
Or bare hills lift their streamin' faces up and thank the Lord,
Fairly tremblin' with their gladness and surprise?
Have you heard the 'royos singin' and the new breeze hummin' gay,
As the greenin' ranges shed their dusty stains--
Just a whole dead world sprung back to life and laughin' in a day!
Did you ever see the comin' of the Rains?
I rode across a valley range
I hadn't seen for years.
The trail was all so spoilt and strange
It nearly fetched the tears.
I had to let ten fences down
(The fussy lanes ran wrong)
And each new line would make me frown
And hum a mournin' song.Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!
The nester brand is on the land;
I reckon I'll retire,
While progress toots her brassy horn
And makes her motor buzz,
I thank the Lord I wasn't born
No later than I was.'Twas good to live when all the sod,
Without no fence or fuss,
Belonged in partnership to God,
The Gover'ment and us.
With skyline bounds from east to west
And room to go and come,
I loved my fellow man the best
When he was scattered some.Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!Close and closer cramps the wire.
There's hardly any place to back away
And call a man a liar.Their house has locks on every door;
Their land is in a crate.
These ain't the plains of God no more,
They're only real estate.There's land where yet no ditchers dig
Nor cranks experiment;
It's only lovely, free and big
And isn't worth a cent.
I pray that them who come to spoil
May wait till I am dead
Before they foul that blessed soil
With fence and cabbage head.Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!Far and farther crawls the wire.
To crowd and pinch another inch
Is all their heart's desire.
The word is overstocked with men
And some will see the day
When each must keep his little pen,
But I'll be far away.When my old soul hunts range and rest
Beyond the last divide,
Just plant me in some stretch of West
That's sunny, lone and wide.
Let cattle rub my tombstone down
And coyotes mourn their kin,
Let hawses paw and tromp the moun'
But don't you fence it in!Oh it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
And they pen the land with wire.
They figure fence and copper cents
Where we laughed 'round the fire.
Job cussed his birthday, night and morn,
In his old land of Uz,
But I'm just glad I wasn't born
no later than I was!
Sometimes a nearly-identical poem called "Way Out West" is attributed to cowboy, writer, and detective Charles A. Siringo 1855-1928 (read more about him in the Handbook of Texas Online). That attribution appears in John A. Lomax' Cowboy Songs and Frontier Ballads, first published in 1910 and reprinted many times, where Lomax notes the poem is from A Lone Star Cowboy (1919) by Siringo.
In Siringo's book, he gives the proper credit to Badger Clark and writes:
When the time comes for putting me under the sod, I hope the little verse by Badger Clarke (sic), Jr., which follows, will be carved on my headstone. The verse was dug up from the William E. Hawks collection of cowboy songs as appropriate for the wind-up of a fool cowboy's life history.
Mr. William E. Hawks, of Bennington, Vermont, a cowboy of the old school, has been fifteen years gathering cowboy songs and data, with a view of publishing a true history of the early day cattle business, so that posterity will know the class of dare-devils who paved the way for the man with a hoe.
The hoe-man will need no history for the benefit of posterity, as he is here to stay. When once he plants his feet on the soil, time or cyclones cannot jar him loose.'Twas good to live when all the range,
Without no fence or fuss,
Belonged in partnership to God,
The Government and us.
With skyline bounds from east to west
And room to go and come,
I liked my fellow man the best
When he was scattered some.
When my old soul hunts range and rest
Beyond the last divide,
Just plant me on some stip of west
That's sunny, lone and wide.
Let cattle rub my tombstone round,
And coyotes wail their kin,
Let hosses come and paw and the mound
But don't you fence it in!Lomax did give the poem the proper attribution in his Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp, first printed in 1919. You can read and download the entire text of that book at Project Gutenberg.
Jeff Hart
Jeff Hart rode out of the gulch to war
When the low sun yellowed the pines.
He waved to his folks in the cabin door
And yelled to the men at the mines.
The gulch kept watch till he dropped from sight—
Neighbors and girl and kin.
Jeff Hart rode out of the gulch one night;
Next morning the world came in.
His dad went back to the clinking drills
And his mother cooked for the men;
The pines branched black on the eastern hills,
Then black to the west again.
But never again, by dusk or dawn,
Were the days in the gulch the same,
For back up the hill Jeff Hart had gone
The trample of millions came.
Then never a clatter of dynamite
But echoed the guns of the Aisne,
And the coyote's wail in the woods at night
Was bitter with Belgium's pain.
We hear the snarl of a savage sea
In the pines when the wind went through,
And the strangers Jeff Hart fought to free
Grew folks to the folks he knew.
Jeff Hart has drifted for good and all,
To the ghostly bugles blown,
But the far French valley that saw him fall
Blood kin to the gulch is grown;
And his foreign folks are ours by right—
The friends that he died to win.
Jeff Hart rode out of the gulch one night;
Next morning the world came in.by Charles Badger Clark, from Sun and Saddle Leather, 1915
The Coyote
Trailing the last gleam after,
In the valleys emptied of light,
Ripples a whimsical laughter
Under the wings of the night.
Mocking the faded west airily,
Meeting the little bats merrily,
Over the mesas it shrills
To the red moon on the hills.
Mournfully rising and waning,
Far through the moon-silvered land
Wails a weird voice of complaining
Over the thorns and the sand.
Out of blue silences eerily.
On to the black mountains wearily,
Till the dim desert is crossed,
Wanders the cry, and is lost.
Here by the fire's ruddy streamers,
Tired with our hopes and our fears,
We inarticulate dreamers
Hark to the song of our years.
Up to the brooding divinity
Far in that sparkling infinity
Cry our despair and delight,
Voice of the Western night!
The Legend of Boastful Bill
At a roundup on the Gily,
One sweet mornin' long ago,
Ten of us was throwed right freely
By a hawse from Idaho.
And we thought he'd go a-beggin'
For a man to break his pride
Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin',
Boastful Bill cut loose and cried --
"I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;
I fulfill my earthly mission with a quirt;
I kin ride the highest liver
'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,
And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."
So Bill climbed the Northern Fury
And they mangled up the air
Till a native of Missouri
Would have owned his brag was fair.
Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
And the wind it flapped his shirt,
Loud above the hawse's squealin'
We could hear our friend assert
"I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke.
Someone hand me up the makin's of a smoke!
If you think my fame needs bright'nin'
W'y I'll rope a streak of lightnin'
And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke."
Then one caper of repulsion
Broke that hawse's back in two.
Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
Skyward man and saddle flew.
Up he mounted, never laggin',
While we watched him through our tears,
And his last thin bit of braggin'
Came a-droppin' to our ears.
"If you'd ever watched my habits very close
You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross.
I have kep' my talent hidin';
I'm too good for earthly ridin'
And I'm off to bust the lightnin's, --
Adios!"
Years have gone since that ascension.
Boastful Bill ain't never lit,
So we reckon that he's wrenchin'
Some celestial outlaw's bit.
When the night rain beats our slickers
And the wind is swift and stout
And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
We kin sometimes hear him shout --
"I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;
I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky.
Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders
While we're rippin' clouds to flinders.
If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!"Stardust on his chaps and saddle,
Scornful still of jar and jolt,
He'll come back some day, astraddle
Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.
And the thin-skinned generation
Of that dim and distant day
Sure will stare with admiration
When they hear old Boastful say --
"I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed.
Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best.
Huh, you soft and dainty floaters,
With your a'roplanes and motors --
Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!"
The late Buck Ramsey comments on the poem in an essay, "Cowboy Libraries and Lingo," in Cowboy Poets & Cowboy Poetry, edited by David Stanley and Elaine Thatcher. He writes, "..for imaginative cowboy lingo and outlandish braggadocio, Badger Clark's "The Legend of Boastful Bill" is hard to beat...Bill goes on one hell of a ride, but as a challenge this raging bronc is for Boastful Bill about like hairpinning Aunt Maude's milk cow..."
Clark wrote the poem in 1907 and our version is from Clark's Sun and Saddle Leather, first published in 1915. John Lomax included the poem in his 1919 book, Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp, transcribed from a recitation.
Among the top recordings of the poem are by Randy Rieman, on his Where the Ponies Come to Drink CD, Paul Zarzyski on Cowboy Poetry Classics from Smithsonian Classics, and Larry Maurice on his Purt Near CD. There is a recording of Badger Clark reciting his poem, on a CD available from the Badger Clark Memorial Society. Clark's recording of his poem, Ridin', from the same CD, is included on The BAR-D Roundup: Volume Two (2007).
A Border Affair
Spanish is the lovin' tongue,
Soft as music, lights as spray.
'Twas a girl I learnt it from,
Livin' down Sonora way.
I don't look much like a lover,
Yet I say her love words over
Often when I'm all alone --
"Mi amor, mi corazon."
Nights when she knew where I'd ride
She would listen for my spurs,
Fling the big door open wide,
Raise them laughin' eyes of her
And my heart would nigh stop beatin'
When I heard her tender greetin',
Whispered soft for me alone
"Mi amor! mi corazon!"
Moonlight in the patio,
Old Seņora noddin' near,
Me and Juana talkin' low
So the Madre couldn't hear --
How those hours would go a-flyin;!
And too soon I'd hear her sighin'
In her little sorry tone --
"Adios, mi corazon!"
But one time I had to fly
For a foolish gamlin' fight,
And we said a swift goodbye
In that black, unlucky night.
When I'd loosed her arms from clingin'
With her words the hoofs kep' ringin'
As I galloped north alone --
"Adios, mi corazon"
Never seen her since that night,
I kain't cross the Line, you know.
She was Mex and I was white;
Like as not it's better so.
Yet I've always sort of missed her
Since that last wild night I kissed her,
Left her heart and lost my own --
"Adios, mi corazon!"
The Plainsmen
Men of the older, gentler soil,
Loving the things that their fathers wrought--
Worn old fields of their father's toil,
Scarred old hills where their fathers fought--
Loving their land for each ancient trace,
Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face,
Such as they never can understand
The way we have loved you, young, young land!Born of a free, world-wandering race,
Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.
What did we care for the father's place,
Having ours fresh from the hand of God?
Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you
When from unreckoned miles of you,
Thrilling the wind with a sweet command,
Youth unto youth called, young, young land?North, where the hurrying seasons changed
Over great gray plains where the trails lay long,
Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged,
Setting our days to a saddle song.
Through the icy challenge you flung us,
Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us,
Following as far as the rainbow spanned,
Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land!South where the sullen black mountains guard
Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun,
Over blinding trails where the hoof rang hard,
Laughing or cursing, we rode and won.
Drunk with the virgin white fire of you,
Hotter than thirst was desire of you;
Straight in our faces you burned your brand,
Marking your chosen ones, young, young land.When did we long for the sheltered gloom
Of the older game with its cautious odds?
Gloried we always in sun and room,
Spending our strength like the younger gods.
By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us,
By the pain that tested in the man in us,
By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand,
You were our true-love, young, young land.When the last free trail is a prime, fenced land
And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,
Richer and statelier then you'll reign,
Mother of men whom the world will praise.
And your sons will love you and sigh for you,
Labor and battle and die for you,
But never the fondest will understand
The way we have loved you, young, young land.
God of the Open
God of the open, though I am so simple
Out in the wind I can travel with you,
noons when the hot mesas ripple and dimple,
Nights when the stars glitter cool in the blue.
Too far you stand for the reach of my hand,
Yet I can feel you big heart as it beats
Friendly and warm in the sun or the storm.
Are you the same as the God of the streets?Yours is the sunny blue roof I ride under;
Mountain and plain are the house you have made.
Sometimes it roars with the wind and the thunder
But in your house I am never afraid.
He? Oh they give him the license to live,
Aim in their ledgers, to pay him his due,
Gather by herds to present him with words--
Words! What are words when my heart talks with you?God of the open, forgive an old ranger
Penned among walls where he never sees through.
Well do I know, though their God seems a stranger,
Earth has no room for another like you.
Shut out the roll of the wheels from my soul;
Send me a wind that is singing and sweet
Into this place where the smoke dims your face.
Help me see you in the God of the street.
On Boot Hill
Up from the prairie and through the pines,
Over your struggling headboard lines
Winds of the West go by.
You must love them, you booted dead,
More than the dreamers who died in bed--
You old-timers who took your lead
Under the open sky!Leathery knights of the dim old trail,
Lawful fighters or scamps for jail,
Dimly your virtues shine,
Yet who am I that I judge your wars.
Deeds that my daintier soul abhors,
Wide-open sins of the wide outdoors,
Manlier sins than mine.Dear old mavericks, customs mend
I would not glory to make an end
Marked like a homemade sieve.
But with a touch of your own old pride
Grant me to travel the way I ride.
Gamely and gaily, the way you died,
Give me the nerve to live.Ay, and for you I will dare assume
Some Valhalla of sun and room
Over the last divide.
There, in eternally fenceless West,
Rest to your souls, if they care to rest,
Or else fresh horses beyond the crest
And a star-speckled range to ride.
The Outlaw
When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old,
By the foot or the neck or the horn,
He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white
But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.
Though the taught ropes sing like a banjo string
And the latigoes creak and strain,
Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer
And I'll tumble him on the plain.For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,
And the man is the boss of the herd,
And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,
Must come down when he says the word.When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse
And my spurs clinch into his hide,
He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,
But wherever he goes I'll ride.
Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top
Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,
But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel
Till he's happy to own he's broke.For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,
And the hawse may be prince of his clan,
But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot
And own that his boss is the man.When the devil at rest underneath my vest
Gets up and begins to paw
And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins,
Then I tackle the real outlaw.
When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild
And my temper is fractious growed,
If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,
Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast.
He kin brag till he makes you deaf,
But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,
That he kain't quite break is himse'f.
God's Reserves
One time, 'way back where the year marks fade
God said: "I see I must lose my West,
The place where I've always come to rest,
For the White Man grows till he fights for bread
And he begs and prays for a chance to spread."Yet I won't give all of my last retreat;
I'll help him to fight his long trail though,
But I'll keep some land from his field and street
The way that it was when the world was new.
He'll cry for it all, for that's his way
And yet he may understand some day."And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'way
To the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin,
God stripped some places to sand and clay
And dried up the beds where the streams had been.He marked His reserves with these plain signs
And stationed His rangers to guard the lines.
Then the White Man came, as the East growed old,
And blazed his trail with the wreck of war.
He riled the rivers to hunt for gold
And found the stuff he was lookin' for;
Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts
And gnashed through the hills with railroad cuts.He flung out his barb-wire fences wide
And plowed up the ground where the grass was high.
He stripped off the trees from the mountain side
And ground out his ore where the streams run by,
Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar,
And the White Man was feelin' at home once more.But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things
That gall and grate on the White Man's nerves,
Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs
And guarded the lines of God's reserves.
So the folks all shy from desert land,
'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand.There the world's the same as the day 'twas new,
With the land as clean as the smokeless sky
And never a noise as the years have flew,
But the sound of the warm wind driftin' by'
And there, alone, with the man's world far,
There's a chance to think who you really are.And over the reach of the desert bare,
When the sun drops low and day wind stills,
Sometimes you kin almost see Him there,
As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills,
A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our ken
And restin' Himself from the noise of men.
Roundup Lullaby
Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine,
Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill,
Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line,
Time for millin' cattle to be still.So--o, now, the lightnin's far away,
The coyote's nothing skeery;
He's singin' to his dearie --
Hee--ya, tammalalleday!
Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'.
Nothin' out on the hazy range that you folks need,
Nothin' we can see to take your eye.
Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede,
Plungin' down some royo bank to die.So--o, now, for still the shadows stay;
The moon is slow and steady;
The sun comes when he's ready.
Hee--ya, tammalalleday!
No use runnin' out to meet the mornin'.
Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim,
Dreamin' of a land too far to see.
There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brim
And it often seems that way to me.So--o, now, for dreams they never pay.
The dust it keeps you blinkin'.
We're seven miles from drinkin'.
Hee--ya, tammalalleday!
But we got to stand it till the mornin'.
Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through.
Kain't see much beyond our saddle horns.
Always far away is misty silver-blue;
Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns.So--o, now. It must be this away--
The lonesome owl a-callin',
The mournful coyote squallin'.
Hee--ya, tammalalleday!
Mocking-birds don't sing until the mornin'.
Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue
Always feelin' thorns that stab and sting
Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true,
So I ride around myself and sing,So--o, now, a man has got to stay,
A-likin' or a-hatin',
But workin' on and waitin'
Hee--ya, tammalalleday!
All of us are waitin' for the mornin'.
[As a song, "Roundup Lullaby" has been sung by folks from Katie Lee to Bing Crosby to Sue Harris, and as a song, it's also been called "Cowboy Lullaby" and "Desert Silver Blue." The University of Colorado has a few different vintage sheet music versions in their digital archive.]
The Song of the Leather
When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky
Through the desert so empty and bright,
When I'm watchin' the miles as they go crawlin' by
And a-hopin' I'll get there by night,
Then my hawse never speaks through the long sunny day,
But my saddle he sings in his creaky old way:"Easy--easy--easy--
For a temperit pace ain't a crime.
Let your mount hit it steady, but give him his ease,
For the sun hammers hard and there's never a breeze.
We kin get there in plenty of time."When I'm after some critter that's hit the high lope,
And a-spurrin' my hawse till he flies,
When I'm watchin' the chances for throwin' my rope
And a-winkin' the sweat from my eyes,
Then the leathers they squeal with the lunge and the swing
And I work to the livelier tune that they sing:"Reach 'im!, reach 'im, reachin 'im!
If you lather your hawse to the heel!
There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick;
Never mind if it's rough and the bushes are thick--
Pull your hat down and fling in the steel!"When I've rustled all day till I'm achin' for rest
And I'm ordered a night-guard to ride,
With the tired little moon hangin' low in the west
And my sleepiness fightin' my pride,
Then I nod and I blink at the dark herd below
And the saddle he sings as my hawse paces slow:"Sleepy--sleepy--sleepy--
We was ordered a close watch to keep,
But I'll sing you a song in a drowsy old key;
All the world is a-snoozin' so why shouldn't we?
Got to sleep, pardner mine, go to sleep."
The daybreak comes so pure and still.
He said that I was pure as dawn,
That day we climbed to Signal Hill.
Back there before the war came on.
God keep me pure as he is brave,
And fit to take his name.
I let him go and fight to save
Some other girl from shame.Across the gulch it glimmers white,
The little house we plotted for.
We would be sitting here tonight
If he had never gone to war--
The firelight and the cricket's cheep,
My arm around his neck--
I let him go and fight to keep
Some other home from wreck.And every day I ride to town
The wide lands talk to me of him--
The slopes with pine trees marching down,
The spread-out prairies, blue and dim.
He loved it for the freedom's sake
Almost as he loved me.
I let him go and fight to make
Some other country free.by Charles Badger Clark, from Sun and Saddle Leather,, 1915
The Border
When the dreamers of old Coronado,
From the hills where the heat ripples run,
Made a dust to the far Colorado
And wagged their steel caps in the sun,
They prayed like the saint and the martyr
And swore like the devils below,
For a man is both angel and Tartar
In the land where the dry rivers flow.Ay, the Border, the sun smitten Border,
That fences the Land of the Free,
Where the desert glares grim like a warder
And the Rio gleams on to the sea;
Where ruins, like dreamy old sages,
Hint tales of dead empires and ages,
Where a young race is rearing the stages
Of ambitious empires to be.Came the padres to soften the savage
And show him the heavenly goal;
Came Spaniards to piously ravage
And winnow his flesh from his soul;
Then miner and riotous herder,
Over-riding white breed of the North,
Brought progress, and new sorts of murder,
And a kind of perpetual Fourth.Ay, the Border, the whimsical Border,
Deep purples and dazzling gold,
Soft hearts full of mirthful disorder,
Hard faces, sun wrinkled and old,
Warm kisses 'neath patio roses,
Cold lead as the luck-god disposes,
Clean valor fame never discloses,
Black trespasses laughingly told!Then out from the peaceful old places
Walked the Law, grave, strong and serene,
And the harsh elbow-rub of the races
Was padded, with writs in between.
Then stilled was the strife and the racket
That neighborly love might advance--
With a knife in the sleeve of its jacket
And a gun in the band of its pants.Ay, the Border, the bright, placid Border!
It sleeps, like a snake in the sun,
Like a "hole" tamped and primed in due order,
Like a shining and full throated gun.
But the dust-devil dances and staggers
And the yucca flower daintily swaggers
At her birth from a cluster of daggers,
And ever the heat ripples run.Fierce, hot, is the Border's bright daytime,
Calm, sweet, the vast night on its plains;
White hell on the mesas, its Maytime,
A green-and-gold heaven, its Rains.
It is grimmer than slumber's dark brother,
'Tis as gay as the mocking-bird likes;
It loves like a lioness mother
And strikes as the rattlesnake strikes.Ay, the border, the bewildering Border,
Our youngest, and oldest, domains,
Where the face of the Angel Recorder
Knits hard between chuckles and pains,
Vast peace, the clear sky's earthly double,
Witch cauldron forever a-bubble,
Home of mystery, splendor and trouble
And a people with sun in their veins.
Saturday Night
Out from the ranch on a Saturday night,
Ridin' a hawse that's a shootin' star,
Close on the flanks of the flyin' daylight,
Racin' with dark for the J L Bar.
Fox-trot and canter will do for the day;
It's a gallop, my love, when I'm ridin' your way.Up the arroyo the trippin' hoofs beat,
Flingin' the hinderin' gravel wide;
Now your light glimmers across the mesquite,
Glimpsed from the top of a rocky divide;
Down through a draw where the shadows are gray
I'm comin', my darlin', I'm ridin' your way.West, where the sky is a-blushin' afar,
Matchin' your cheeks as the daylight dies,
West, where the shine of a glitterin' star
Hints of the light I will find in your eyes,
Night-birds are passin' the signal to say:
"He's comin', my lady, he's ridin' your way."Hoof-beats are measurin' seconds so fast,
Clickin' them off with an easy rhyme;
Minutes will grow into months at the last,
Mebbe to bring us a marryin' time.
Life would be singin' and work would be play
If every night I was ridin' your way.by Badger Clark from Sun and Saddle Leather, 1922
From Town
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 ain't the breed for shyin' from a fray.Chant your warwhoop, pardners dear, while the east turns pale with fear
And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'
For we're qicked to the marrer; we're a mid-night 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 illbred 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'
