Through progress of the railroads our occupation's gone;
So we will put ideas into words, our words into a song.
First comes the cowboy; he is pointed for the west;
Of all the pioneers I claim the cowboys are the best;
You will miss him on the round-up; it's gone, his merry shout,—
The cowboy has left the country and the camp-fire has gone out.
There is the freighters, our companions; you've got to leave this land;
Can't drag your loads for nothing through the gumbo and the sand.
The railroads are bound to beat you when you do your level best;
So give it up to the grangers and strike out for the west.
Bid them all adieu and give the merry shout,—
The cowboy has left the country and the camp-fire has gone out.
When I think of those good old days, my eyes with tears do fill;
When I think of the tin can by the fire and the coyote on the hill.
I'll tell you, boys, in those days old-timers stood a show,—
Our pockets full of money, not a sorrow did we know.
But things have changed now; we are poorly clothed and fed.
Our wagons are all broken and our ponies 'most all dead.
Soon we will leave this country; you'll hear the angels shout,
"Oh, here they come to Heaven, the camp-fire has gone out."
