Kitabı oku: «Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads», sayfa 3

DAN TAYLOR

 
Dan Taylor is a rollicking cuss,
A frisky son of a gun,
He loves to court the maidens
And he savies how it's done.
 
 
He used to be a cowboy
And they say he wasn't slow,
He could ride the bucking bronco
And swing the long lasso.
 
 
He could catch a maverick by the head
Or heel him on the fly,
He could pick up his front ones
Whenever he chose to try.
 
 
He used to ride most anything;
Now he seldom will.
He says they cut some caper in the air
Of which he's got his fill.
 
 
He is done and quit the business,
Settled down to quiet life,
And he's hunting for some maiden
Who will be his little wife,—
 
 
One who will wash and patch his britches
And feed the setting hen,
Milk old Blue and Brindy,
And tend to baby Ben.
 
 
Then he'll build a cozy cottage
And furnish it complete,
He'll decorate the walls inside
With pictures new and sweet.
 
 
He will leave off riding broncos
And be a different man;
He will do his best to please his wife
In every way he can.
 
 
Then together in double harness
They will trot along down the line,
Until death shall call them over
To a bright and sunny clime.
 
 
May your joys be then completed
And your sorrows have amend,
Is the fondest wish of the writer,—
Your true and faithful friend.
 

WHEN WORK IS DONE THIS FALL

 
A group of jolly cowboys, discussing plans at ease,
Says one, "I'll tell you something, boys, if you will listen, please.
I am an old cow-puncher and here I'm dressed in rags,
And I used to be a tough one and take on great big jags.
 
 
"But I've got a home, boys, a good one, you all know,
Although I have not seen it since long, long ago.
I'm going back to Dixie once more to see them all;
Yes, I'm going to see my mother when the work's all done this fall.
 
 
"After the round-ups are over and after the shipping is done,
I am going right straight home, boys, ere all my money is gone.
I have changed my ways, boys, no more will I fall;
And I am going home, boys, when work is done this fall.
 
 
"When I left home, boys, my mother for me cried,
Begged me not to go, boys, for me she would have died;
My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me, that's all,
And with God's help I'll see her when the work's all done this fall."
 
 
That very night this cowboy went out to stand his guard;
The night was dark and cloudy and storming very hard;
The cattle they got frightened and rushed in wild stampede,
The cowboy tried to head them, riding at full speed.
 
 
While riding in the darkness so loudly did he shout,
Trying his best to head them and turn the herd about,
His saddle horse did stumble and on him did fall,
The poor boy won't see his mother when the work's all done this fall.
 
 
His body was so mangled the boys all thought him dead,
They picked him up so gently and laid him on a bed;
He opened wide his blue eyes and looking all around
He motioned to his comrades to sit near him on the ground.
 
 
"Boys, send mother my wages, the wages I have earned,
For I'm afraid, boys, my last steer I have turned.
I'm going to a new range, I hear my Master's call,
And I'll not see my mother when the work's all done this fall.
 
 
"Fred, you take my saddle; George, you take my bed;
Bill, you take my pistol after I am dead,
And think of me kindly when you look upon them all,
For I'll not see my mother when work is done this fall."
 
 
Poor Charlie was buried at sunrise, no tombstone at his head,
Nothing but a little board and this is what it said,
"Charlie died at daybreak, he died from a fall,
And he'll not see his mother when the work's all done this fall."
 

SIOUX INDIANS

 
I'll sing you a song, though it may be a sad one,
Of trials and troubles and where they first begun;
I left my dear kindred, my friends, and my home,
Across the wild deserts and mountains to roam.
 
 
I crossed the Missouri and joined a large train
Which bore us over mountain and valley and plain;
And often of evenings out hunting we'd go
To shoot the fleet antelope and wild buffalo.
 
 
We heard of Sioux Indians all out on the plains
A-killing poor drivers and burning their trains,—
A-killing poor drivers with arrows and bow,
When captured by Indians no mercy they show.
 
 
We traveled three weeks till we came to the Platte
And pitched out our tents at the end of the flat,
We spread down our blankets on the green grassy ground,
While our horses and mules were grazing around.
 
 
While taking refreshment we heard a low yell,
The whoop of Sioux Indians coming up from the dell;
We sprang to our rifles with a flash in each eye,
"Boys," says our brave leader, "we'll fight till we die."
 
 
They made a bold dash and came near to our train
And the arrows fell around us like hail and like rain,
But with our long rifles we fed them cold lead
Till many a brave warrior around us lay dead.
 
 
We shot their bold chief at the head of his band.
He died like a warrior with a gun in his hand.
When they saw their bold chief lying dead in his gore,
They whooped and they yelled and we saw them no more.
 
 
With our small band,—there were just twenty-four,—
And the Sioux Indians there were five hundred or more,—
We fought them with courage; we spoke not a word,
Till the end of the battle was all that was heard.
 
 
We hitched up our horses and we started our train;
Three more bloody battles this trip on the plain;
And in our last battle three of our brave boys fell,
And we left them to rest in a green, shady dell.
 

THE OLD 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.
 
 
I started up the trail October twenty-third,
I started up the trail with the 2-U herd.
 
 
Oh, a ten dollar hoss and a forty dollar saddle,—
And I'm goin' to punchin' Texas cattle.
 
 
I woke up one morning on the old Chisholm trail,
Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail.
 
 
I'm up in the mornin' afore daylight
And afore I sleep the moon shines bright.
 
 
Old Ben Bolt was a blamed good boss,
But he'd go to see the girls on a sore-backed hoss.
 
 
Old Ben Bolt was a fine old man
And you'd know there was whiskey wherever he'd land.
 
 
My hoss throwed me off at the creek called Mud,
My hoss throwed me off round the 2-U herd.
 
 
Last time I saw him he was going cross the level
A-kicking up his heels and a-running like the devil.
 
 
It's cloudy in the West, a-looking like rain,
And my damned old slicker's in the wagon again.
 
 
Crippled my hoss, I don't know how,
Ropin' at the horns of a 2-U cow.
 
 
We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly,
We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by.
 
 
No chaps, no slicker, and it's pouring down rain,
And I swear, by god, I'll never night-herd again.
 
 
Feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle,
I hung and rattled with them long-horn cattle.
 
 
Last night I was on guard and the leader broke the ranks,
I hit my horse down the shoulders and I spurred him in the flanks.
 
 
The wind commenced to blow, and the rain began to fall,
Hit looked, by grab, like we was goin' to loss 'em all.
 
 
I jumped in the saddle and grabbed holt the horn,
Best blamed cow-puncher ever was born.
 
 
I popped my foot in the stirrup and gave a little yell,
The tail cattle broke and the leaders went to hell.
 
 
I don't give a damn if they never do stop;
I'll ride as long as an eight-day clock.
 
 
Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn,
Best damned cowboy ever was born.
 
 
I herded and I hollered and I done very well,
Till the boss said, "Boys, just let 'em go to hell."
 
 
Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,
So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.
 
 
We rounded 'em up and put 'em on the cars,
And that was the last of the old Two Bars.
 
 
Oh it's bacon and beans most every day,—
I'd as soon be a-eatin' prairie hay.
 
 
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 went to the boss to draw my roll,
He had it figgered out I was nine dollars in the hole.
 
 
I'll sell my outfit just as soon as I can,
I won't punch cattle for no damned man.
 
 
Goin' back to town to draw my money,
Goin' back home to see my honey.
 
 
With my knees in the saddle and my seat in the sky,
I'll quit punching cows in the sweet by and by.
 
 
Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya,
Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya.
 

JACK DONAHOO

 
Come, all you bold, undaunted men,
You outlaws of the day,
It's time to beware of the ball and chain
And also slavery.
Attention pay to what I say,
And verily if you do,
I will relate you the actual fate
Of bold Jack Donahoo.
 
 
He had scarcely landed, as I tell you,
Upon Australia's shore,
Than he became a real highwayman,
As he had been before.
There was Underwood and Mackerman,
And Wade and Westley too,
These were the four associates
Of bold Jack Donahoo.
 
 
Jack Donahoo, who was so brave,
Rode out that afternoon,
Knowing not that the pain of death
Would overtake him soon.
So quickly then the horse police
From Sidney came to view;
"Begone from here, you cowardly dogs,"
Says bold Jack Donahoo.
 
 
The captain and the sergeant
Stopped then to decide.
"Do you intend to fight us
Or unto us resign?"
"To surrender to such cowardly dogs
Is more than I will do,
This day I'll fight if I lose my life,"
Says bold Jack Donahoo.
 
 
The captain and the sergeant
The men they did divide;
They fired from behind him
And also from each side;
It's six police he did shoot down
Before the fatal ball
Did pierce the heart of Donahoo
And cause bold Jack to fall.
 
 
And when he fell, he closed his eyes,
He bid the world adieu;
Come, all you boys, and sing the song
Of bold Jack Donahoo.
 

UTAH CARROLL

 
And as, my friend, you ask me what makes me sad and still,
And why my brow is darkened like the clouds upon the hill;
Run in your pony closer and I'll tell to you the tale
Of Utah Carroll, my partner, and his last ride on the trail.
 
 
'Mid the cactus and the thistles of Mexico's fair lands,
Where the cattle roam in thousands, a-many a herd and brand,
There is a grave with neither headstone, neither date nor name,—
There lies my partner sleeping in the land from which I came.
 
 
We rode the range together and had rode it side by side;
I loved him as a brother, I wept when Utah died;
We were rounding up one morning, our work was almost done,
When on the side the cattle started on a mad and fearless run.
 
 
The boss man's little daughter was holding on that side.
She rushed; the cattle saw the blanket, they charged with maddened fear.
And little Varro, seeing the danger, turned her pony a pace
And leaning in the saddle, tied the blanket in its place.
 
 
In leaning, she lost her balance and fell in front of that wild tide.
Utah's voice controlled the round-up. "Lay still, little Varro," he cried.
His only hope was to raise her, to catch her at full speed,
And oft-times he had been known to catch the trail rope off his steed.
 
 
His pony reached the maiden with a firm and steady bound;
Utah swung out from the saddle to catch her from the ground.
He swung out from the saddle, I thought her safe from harm,
As he swung in his saddle to raise her in his arm.
 
 
But the cinches of his saddle had not been felt before,
And his back cinch snapt asunder and he fell by the side of Varro.
He picked up the blanket and swung it over his head
And started across the prairie; "Lay still, little Varro," he said.
 
 
Well, he got the stampede turned and saved little Varro, his friend.
Then he turned to face the cattle and meet his fatal end.
His six-shooter from his pocket, from the scabbard he quickly drew,—
He was bound to die defended as all young cowboys do.
 
 
His six-shooter flashed like lightning, the report rang loud and clear;
As the cattle rushed in and killed him he dropped the leading steer.
And when we broke the circle where Utah's body lay,
With many a wound and bruise his young life ebbed away.
 
 
"And in some future morning," I heard the preacher say,
"I hope we'll all meet Utah at the round-up far away."
Then we wrapped him in a blanket sent by his little friend,
And it was that very red blanket that brought him to his end.
 

THE BULL-WHACKER

 
I'm a lonely bull-whacker
On the Red Cloud line,
I can lick any son of a gun
That will yoke an ox of mine.
And if I can catch him,
You bet I will or try,
I'd lick him with an ox-bow,—
Root hog or die.
 
 
It's out on the road
With a very heavy load,
With a very awkward team
And a very muddy road,
You may whip and you may holler,
But if you cuss it's on the sly;
Then whack the cattle on, boys,—
Root hog or die.
 
 
It's out on the road
These sights are to be seen,
The antelope and buffalo,
The prairie all so green,—
The antelope and buffalo,
The rabbit jumps so high;
It's whack the cattle on, boys,—
Root hog or die.
 
 
It's every day at twelve
There's something for to do;
And if there's nothing else,
There's a pony for to shoe;
I'll throw him down,
And still I'll make him lie;
Little pig, big pig,
Root hog or die.
 
 
Now perhaps you'd like to know
What we have to eat,
A little piece of bread
And a little dirty meat,
A little black coffee,
And whiskey on the sly;
It's whack the cattle on, boys,—
Root hog or die.
 
 
There's hard old times on Bitter Creek
That never can be beat,
It was root hog or die
Under every wagon sheet;
We cleaned up all the Indians,
Drank all the alkali,
And it's whack the cattle on, boys,—
Root hog or die.
 
 
There was good old times in Salt Lake
That never can pass by,
It was there I first spied
My China girl called Wi.
She could smile, she could chuckle,
She could roll her hog eye;
Then it's whack the cattle on, boys,—
Root hog or die.
 
 
Oh, I'm going home
Bull-whacking for to spurn,
I ain't got a nickel,
And I don't give a dern.
'Tis when I meet a pretty girl,
You bet I will or try,
I'll make her my little wife,—
Root hog or die.
 

THE "METIS" SONG OF THE BUFFALO HUNTERS

By Robideau

 
Hurrah for the buffalo hunters!
Hurrah for the cart brigade!
That creak along on its winding way,
While we dance and sing and play.
Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade!
 
 
Hurrah for the Pembinah hunters!
Hurrah for its cart brigade!
For with horse and gun we roll along
O'er mountain and hill and plain.
Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade!
 
 
We whipped the Sioux and scalped them too,
While on the western plain,
And rode away on our homeward way
With none to say us nay,—
Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! Hurrah!
 
 
Mon ami, mon ami, hurrah for our black-haired girls!
That braved the Sioux and fought them too,
While on Montana's plains.
We'll hold them true and love them too,
While on the trail of the Pembinah, hurrah!
Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade of Pembinah!
 
 
We have the skins and the meat so sweet.
And we'll sit by the fire in the lodge so neat,
While the wind blows cold and the snow is deep.
Then roll in our robes and laugh as we sleep.
Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! Hurrah!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
 

THE COWBOY'S LAMENT

 
As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen,
Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay.
 
 
"Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,
Play the Dead March as you carry me along;
Take me to the green valley, there lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.
 
 
"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy,"
These words he did say as I boldly stepped by.
"Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story;
I was shot in the breast and I know I must die.
 
 
"Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin,
Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song,
Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong.
 
 
"My friends and relations, they live in the Nation,
They know not where their boy has gone.
He first came to Texas and hired to a ranchman,
Oh, I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.
 
 
"Go write a letter to my gray-haired mother,
And carry the same to my sister so dear;
But not a word of this shall you mention
When a crowd gathers round you my story to hear.
 
 
"Then beat your drum lowly and play your fife slowly,
Beat the Dead March as you carry me along;
We all love our cowboys so young and so handsome,
We all love our cowboys although they've done wrong.
 
 
"There is another more dear than a sister,
She'll bitterly weep when she hears I am gone.
There is another who will win her affections,
For I'm a young cowboy and they say I've done wrong.
 
 
"Go gather around you a crowd of young cowboys,
And tell them the story of this my sad fate;
Tell one and the other before they go further
To stop their wild roving before 'tis too late.
 
 
"Oh, muffle your drums, then play your fifes merrily;
Play the Dead March as you go along.
And fire your guns right over my coffin;
There goes an unfortunate boy to his home.
 
 
"It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing,
It was once in the saddle I used to go gay;
First to the dram-house, then to the card-house,
Got shot in the breast, I am dying to-day.
 
 
"Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin;
Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall.
Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall.
 
 
"Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly,
And give a wild whoop as you carry me along;
And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me,
For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.
 
 
"Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water,
To cool my parched lips," the cowboy said;
Before I turned, the spirit had left him
And gone to its Giver,—the cowboy was dead.
 
 
We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,
And bitterly wept as we bore him along;
For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome,
We all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong.
 

LOVE IN DISGUISE

 
As William and Mary stood by the seashore
Their last farewell to take,
Returning no more, little Mary she said,
"Why surely my heart will break."
"Oh, don't be dismayed, little Mary," he said,
As he pressed the dear girl to his side,
"In my absence don't mourn, for when I return
I'll make little Mary my bride."
 
 
Three years passed on without any news.
One day as she stood by the door
A beggar passed by with a patch on his eye,
"I'm home, oh, do pity, my love;
Have compassion on me, your friend I will be.
Your fortune I'll tell besides.
The lad you mourn will never return
To make little Mary his bride."
 
 
She startled and trembled and then she did say,
"All the fortune I have I freely give
If what I ask you will tell unto me,—
Say, does young William yet live?"
"He lives and is true and poverty poor,
And shipwreck has suffered beside;
He'll return no more, because he is poor,
To make little Mary his bride."
 
 
"No tongue can tell the joy I do feel
Although his misfortune I mourn,
And he's welcome to me though poverty poor,
His jacket all tattered and torn.
I love him so dear, so true and sincere,
I'll have no other beside;
Those with riches enrobed and covered with gold
Can't make little Mary their bride."
 
 
The beggar then tore the patch from his eye,
His crutches he laid by his side,
Coat, jacket and bundle; cheeks red as a rose,
'Twas William that stood by her side.
"Then excuse me, dear maid," to her he said,
"It was only your love I tried."
So he hastened away at the close of the day
To make little Mary his bride.
 

MUSTANG GRAY

 
There once was a noble ranger,
They called him Mustang Gray;
He left his home when but a youth,
Went ranging far away.
 
 
But he'll go no more a-ranging,
The savage to affright;
He has heard his last war-whoop,
And fought his last fight.
 
 
He ne'er would sleep within a tent,
No comforts would he know;
But like a brave old Tex-i-an,
A-ranging he would go.
 
 
When Texas was invaded
By a mighty tyrant foe,
He mounted his noble war-horse
And a-ranging he did go.
 
 
Once he was taken prisoner,
Bound in chains upon the way,
He wore the yoke of bondage
Through the streets of Monterey.
 
 
A senorita loved him,
And followed by his side;
She opened the gates and gave to him
Her father's steed to ride.
 
 
God bless the senorita,
The belle of Monterey,
She opened wide the prison door
And let him ride away.
 
 
And when this veteran's life was spent,
It was his last command
To bury him on Texas soil
On the banks of the Rio Grande;
 
 
And there the lonely traveler,
When passing by his grave,
Will shed a farewell tear
O'er the bravest of the brave.
 
 
And he'll go no more a-ranging,
The savage to affright;
He has heard his last war-whoop,
And fought his last fight.
 

YOUNG COMPANIONS

 
Come all you young companions
And listen unto me,
I'll tell you a story
Of some bad company.
 
 
I was born in Pennsylvania
Among the beautiful hills
And the memory of my childhood
Is warm within me still.
 
 
I did not like my fireside,
I did not like my home;
I had in view far rambling,
So far away did roam.
 
 
I had a feeble mother,
She oft would plead with me;
And the last word she gave me
Was to pray to God in need.
 
 
I had two loving sisters,
As fair as fair could be,
And oft beside me kneeling
They oft would plead with me.
 
 
I bid adieu to loved ones,
To my home I bid farewell,
And I landed in Chicago
In the very depth of hell.
 
 
It was there I took to drinking,
I sinned both night and day,
And there within my bosom
A feeble voice would say:
 
 
"Then fare you well, my loved one,
May God protect my boy,
And blessings ever with him
Throughout his manhood joy."
 
 
I courted a fair young maiden,
Her name I will not tell,
For I should ever disgrace her
Since I am doomed for hell.
 
 
It was on one beautiful evening,
The stars were shining bright,
And with a fatal dagger
I bid her spirit flight.
 
 
So justice overtook me,
You all can plainly see,
My soul is doomed forever
Throughout eternity.
 
 
It's now I'm on the scaffold,
My moments are not long;
You may forget the singer
But don't forget the song.