The Dying Cowboy
O bury me not on the lone prairie,
These words came low and mournfully
From the pallid lips of a youth who lay
On his dying couch at the close of day.
He had wailed in pain till o'er his brow
Death's shadows fast were gathering now;
He thought of his home and his loved one nigh
As the cowboys gathered to see him die.
It matters not, I've oft been told,
Where the body lies when the heart grows cold;
Yet grant, O grant, this wish to me,
O bury me not on the lone prairie.
O bury me not on the lone prairie
Where the wild coyotes will howl o'er me,
In a narrow grave just six by three,
O bury me not on the lone prairie.
"O bury me not" and his voice failed there,
But we took no heed of his dying prayer;
In a narrow grave just six by three
We buried him there on the lone prairie.
Yes, we buried him there on the lone prairie,
Where the owl all night hoots mournfully,
And the blizzard beats and the winds blow free
O'er his lowly grave on the lone prairie.
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The Chisholm Trail
Come along, boys, and listen to my tale,
I'll tell you of my troubles on the old Chisholm trail.
Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya,
Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya.
Oh, a ten-dollar hoss and a forty-dollar saddle,
And I'm goin' to punchin' Texas cattle.
No chaps, no slicker, and it's pourin' down rain.
And I swear, by God, I'll never night-herd again.
Last night I was on guard, and the leader broke the ranks,
I hit my horse down the shoulder and I spurred him in the flanks.
The wind commenced to blow, and the rain began to fall,
It looked, by grab, like we was goin' to lose 'em all.
I herded and hollered and I done very well,
Till the boss said "Boys, just let 'em go to hell."
We rounded 'em up and put 'em on the cars,
And that was the last of the old Two Bars.
I'm on my best horse, and I'm goin' at a run,
I'm the quickest shootin' cowboy that ever pulled a gun.
I went to the wagon to get my roll,
To come back to Texas, dad-burn my soul.
I'll sell my outfit just as soon as I can,
I won't punch cattle for no man.
Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya,
Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya. |
Git Along Little Dogies
As I walked out one morning for pleasure,
I spied a cow-puncher all riding alone;
His hat was throwed back and his spurs was a-jingling,
As he approached me a singin' this song:
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
It's your misfortune and none of my own.
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
For you know Wyoming will be your new home.
Early in the spring we round up the dogies,
Mark and brand and bob off their tails
Round up our horses, load up the chuck wagon.
Then throw the dogies upon the trail.
It's whooping and yelling and driving the dogies;
Oh how I wish you would go on;
It's whooping and punching and go on, little dogies,
For you know Wyoming will be your new home.
Some boys go up the trail for pleasure
But that's where you get it most awfully wrong;
For you haven't any idea the trouble they give us
While we go driving them all along.
When the night comes on we hold them on the bed ground,
These little dogies that roll on so slow;
Roll up the herd and cut out the strays,
And roll the little dogies that never rolled before.
Your mother she was raised way down in Texas,
Where the Jimson weed and sand burrs grow;
Now we'll fill you up on prickly pear and cholla
Till you are ready for the trail to Idaho. Git Along Little Dogies
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The Old Cowboy
I rode a line on the open range
When cow-punching was not slow;
I turned the longhorn one way, boys,
And the other the buffalo.
I went up the trail in the eighties
And the hardships that I have stood,
I've drunk water from the cow tracks, boys,
When you bet it tasted good.
I've starved and ate of the prickly pear,
And I've slickered it out in the rain;
Been tortured by the Apaches
Till I could not bear the pain.
I've been in many a stampede too
I've heard the roaring noise,
And the light we had to turn them by
Was the lighting on their horns.
But many a man I worked with then
Is sleeping on Boot Hill;
And the last cow drive was made to Dodge
Over the Jones and Plummer Trail.
I used to be a tough one, boys,
Hell-bending I did go;
Killed a man in old Cheyenne,
But now, I'm getting slow.
They're building towns and railroads now
Where we used to bed our cows;
And the man with the mule and the plow and the hoe
Is digging up our old bed ground.
The old cowboy has watched the change,
Has seen the good times go;
And the old cowboy will soon leave the plain
Just like the old buffalo.
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