Cowboy Poems

A Prairie Song

by Anonymous

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Oh, music springs under the galloping hoofs,
Out on the plains;
Where mile after mile drops behind with a smile,
And to-morrow seems always to tempt and beguile,—
Out on the plains.

Oh, where are the traces of yesterday's ride?
There to the north;
Where alfalfa and sage sigh themselves into sleep,
Where the buttes loom up suddenly, startling and steep,—
There to the north.

Oh, rest not my pony, there's youth in my heart,
Out on the plains;
And the wind sings a wild song to rob me of care,
And there's room here to live and to love and to dare,—
Out on the plains.

The Cowboy's Life

by Anonymous

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The bawl of a steer
To a cowboy's ear
Is music of sweetest strain;
And the yelping notes
Of the gray coyotes
To him are a glad refrain.

And his jolly songs
Speed him along
As he thinks of the little gal
With golden hair
Who is waiting there
At the bars of the home corral.

For a kingly crown
In the noisy town
His saddle he wouldn't change;
No life so free
As the life we see
'Way out on the Yaso range.

His eyes are bright
And his heart as light
As the smoke of his cigarette;
There's never a care
For his soul to bear,
No trouble to make him fret.

The rapid beat
Of his bronco's feet,
On the sod as he speeds along,
Keeps living time
To the ringing rhyme
Of his rollicking cowboy's song.

Hike it, cowboys,
For the range away
On the back of a bronc of steel,
With a careless flirt
Of the raw-hide quirt
And the dig of a roweled heel.

The winds may blow
And the thunder growl
Or the breeze may safely moan;
A cowboy's life
Is a royal life,
His saddle his kingly throne.

Saddle up, boys,
For the work is play
When love's in the cowboy's eyes,
When his heart is light
As the clouds of white
That swim in the summer skies.

The Railroad Corral

And So, Unemotionally, There Began One of the Wildest and Strangest Journeys Ever Made in Any Land
by W. H. D. Koerner

by Anonymous

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Oh, we're up in the morning ere breaking of the day,
The chuck-wagon's busy, the flapjacks in play;
The herd is astir o'er hillside and vale,
With the night riders rounding them into the trail.
Oh, come take up your cinches, come shake out your reins;
Come wake your old bronco and break for the plains;
Come roust out your steers from the long chaparral,
For the outfit is off to the railroad corral.

The sun circles upward; the steers as they plod
Are pounding to powder the hot prairie sod;
And it seems, as the dust makes you dizzy and sick,
That we'll never reach noon and the cool shady creek.
But tie up your kerchief and ply up your nag;
Come dry up your grumbles and try not to lag,
Come with your steers from the long chaparral
For we're far on the road to the railroad corral.

The afternoon shadows are starting to lean,
When the chuck-wagon sticks in the marshy ravine;
The herd scatters farther than vision can look,
For you can bet all true punchers will help out the cook.
Come shake out your rawhide and snake it up fair;
Come break your old bronco to take in his share;
Come from your steers in the long chaparral,
For 't is all in the drive to the railroad corral.

But the longest of days must reach evening at last,
The hills all climbed, the creeks all past;
The tired herd droops in the yellowing light;
Let them loaf if they will, for the railroad's in sight.
So flap up your holster and snap up your belt,
And strap up your saddle whose lap you have felt;
Good-bye to the steers from long chaparral,
For there's a town that's a trunk by the railroad corral.

Ridin'

by Charles Badger Clark

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There is some that likes 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 along 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-coming' 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 Song of the Leather

by Charles Badger Clark

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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! reach '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?
Go to sleep, pardner mine, go to sleep."

A Cowboy's Prayer

by Charles Badger Clark

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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 complete;
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.

The Wind is Blowin'

by Charles Badger Clark

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My tired hawse nickers for his own home bars;
A hoof clicks out a spark.
The dim creek flickers to the lonesome stars;
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 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 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.

The Christmas Trail

by Charles Badger Clark

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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.
Yet 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 wheedled 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 the fun
'Mong the other 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 a 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 night-guard 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.

The Outlaw

by Charles Badger Clark

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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 taut 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 kaint quite break is himse'f.

The Pale Horse

by James W. Whilt

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When I saddle the pale horse, to take my last ride,
To the home ranch, over the Great Divide,
Will I find the trail blazed all the way,
A place to camp, at the close of day?

Will the trail be smooth, and the weather fair?
(For no one has ever come back from there)
But the good book says, if we shoot square,
"Have no fear of the trails over there!"

An unseen hand guides the pale horse straight,
O'er the summit height, to the home ranch gate,
Where we all must meet the Boss Supreme,
And all will be one pleasant dream.

No herding of dogies on frost night,
Or wild stampede in the morning's light.
No cinching of saddles, or shipping of steers.
No sorrow or trouble or bitter tears.

But the sun will shine, and cool breezes blow,
Over a range ever free from snow;
And for those who lived as He who died
To save us riders—that Great Divide

Will be only a foothill, so very low;
That on its summit sweet flowers do grow,
And the trail itself will be smooth all the way,
With a place to camp at the close of day.

When at last I reach that Home Ranch gate,
Peter will say, "You sure shot straight,"
And the gate will open for me, I know,
Saying, "Pull off your saddle, and let him go!"

The Tied Maverick

by Charles Badger Clark

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Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast
And my wild record closes.
This maverick is down at last
Just roped and tied with roses.
And one small girl's to blame for it,
Yet I don't fight with shame for it
Lay on the iron; I'm game for it,
Just roped and tied with roses.

I loped among the wildest band
Of saddle-hatin' winners
Gay colts that never felt a brand
And scarred old outlaw sinners.
The wind was rein and guide to us;
The world was pasture wide to us
And our wild name was pride to us
High headed bronco sinners!

So, loose and light we raced and fought
And every range we tasted,
But now, since I'm corralled and caught,
I know them days were wasted.
From now, the all-day gait for me,
The trail that's hard but straight for me,
For down that trail, who'll wait for me!
Ay! them old days were wasted!

But though I'm broke, I'll never be
A saddle-marked old groaner,
For never worthless bronc like me
Got such a gentle owner.
There could be colt days glad as mine
Or outlaw runs as mad as mine
Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine,
But never such an owner.

Lay on the iron, and lay it red!
I'll take it kind and clever.
Who wouldn't hold a prouder head
To wear that mark forever?
I'll never break and stray from her;
I'd starve and die away from her.
Lay on the iron it's play from her
And brand me hers forever!

The Old Frying Pan

by James W. Whilt

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You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,
Your roasters and toasters, they're all lots of trouble;
But when out in the hills, just find if you can,
Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.

Over a campfire you don't need a stove,
Out in the hills, the place we all love,
Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,
With many the thanks to the old frying pan.

When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,
I know old epicures would look, with a frown
At the meal set before me; dispute it who can,
With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.

With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,
Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,
You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;
Was dish e'er invented like the old frying pan?

Many a miner, in the good days of old,
Way back in the foothills a-searching for gold
Deep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,
Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.

There's been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurry
Used no other iron, but why should they worry,
For many and many and many the brand,
That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.

So your praises I'll shout, both far, wide and high,
That you're the best dish, till the day that I die;
Why, there's many a woman "cleaned up" on her man
With no other club but the old frying pan.

The Old Dutch Oven

Arthur Chapman

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Some sigh for cooks of boyhood days, but none of them for me;
One roundup cook was best of all—'twas with the XBar-T.
And when we heard the grub-pile call at morning, noon, and night,
The old Dutch oven never failed to cook the things just right.

'T was covered o'er with red-hot coals, and when we fetched her out,
The biscuits there were of the sort no epicure would flout.
I ain't so strong for boyhood grub, 'cause, summer, spring, or fall,
The old Dutch oven baked the stuff that tasted best of all.

Perhaps 't was 'cause our appetites were always mighty sharp—
The men who ride the cattle range ain't apt to kick or carp;
But, anyway, I find myself a-dreaming of that bread
The old Dutch oven baked for us beneath those coals so red.

Bacon

by Charles Badger Clark

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You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin
But of all grub we love you the best.
You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin
And helped us win out in the West,
You froze with us up on the Laramie trail;
You sweat with us down at Tucson;
When Injun was painted and white man was pale
You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail
And load up our Colts and hang on.

You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain
Over campfires of sagebrush and oak;
The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main
Have carried your savory smoke.
You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest;
You're as good in December as May;
You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased
And the rough course of empire to westward was greased
By the bacon we fried on the way.

We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eat
And your virtues we often forget.
We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat,
But we love you and swear by you yet.
Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin',
All the westerners join in the toast,
From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine,
From Canada down to the Mexican Line,
From Omaha out to the coast!

Southwestern June

by Charles Badger Clark

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Lazy little hawse, it's noon
And we've wasted saddle leather,
But the mornin's slip so soon
When we drift around together
In this lazy, shinin' weather,
Sunny, easy-goin' June.

Who kin study shamblin' herds,
How they calve or die or wander,
When the bridegroom mockin'-birds,
Singin' here and there and yonder,
Trill that June's too bright to ponder
And life's just too fine for words!

Down the desert's hazy blue
See the tall gray whirlwinds farin',
Slow, contented sort of crew
Trailin' 'cross the sunny barren,
Headed nowhere and not carin'
Just the same as me and you.

From a world of unfenced room
Just a breath of breeze is strayin',
Triflin' with the yucca bloom
Till its waxy bells are swayin',
On my cheek warm kisses layin'
Soft as touch of ostrich plume.

When the July lightnin' gleams
This brown range will start to workin',
Hills be green and tricklin' streams
Down each deep arroyo lurkin';
Now the sleepy land is shirkin',
Drowzin', smilin' in her dreams.

Steppin' little hawse, it's noon.
Turquoise blue the far hills glimmer;
"Sun—sun—sun," the mockers croon
Where the yellow range lands shimmer,
And our sparklin' spirits simmer
For we're young yet, and it's June!

To Her

by Charles Badger Clark

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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!

A Roundup Lullaby

by Charles Badger Clark

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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 nothiny skeery;
He's singin' to his dearie
Hee ya, tammalalleday!
Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'.

Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need,
Nothin' we kin 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 the same to me.

So o, now, for dreams they never pay.
The dust it keeps us 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.
Kaint 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!
Mockin-birds don't sing until the mornin'.

Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue,
Always feelin' thorns that slab 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'.

From Town

by Charles Badger Clark

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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 wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight 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'
'Twas'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'
When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town.

Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves,
Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight,
Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years' crop of calves
And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,
There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle
And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange,
And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds
Still is useful in the language of the range.

Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,
For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.
We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation—
Ee—yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!

A Bad Half Hour

by Charles Badger Clark

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Wonder why I feel so restless;
Moon is shinin' still and bright,
Cattle all is restin' easy,
But I just kaint sleep tonight.
Ain't no cactus in my blankets,
Don't know why they feel so hard
'Less 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 turnin' gray.

Yes, "her brow was like the snowdrift"
And her eyes like quiet streams,
"And her face" I still kin 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.

Hawse Work

by Charles Badger Clark

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Stop! there's the wild bunch to right of the trail,
Heads up and ears up and ready to sail,
Led by a mare with the green in her eyes,
Mean as the devil and nearly as wise.
Circle 'em, boys, and the pass is the place;
Settle your heels for a rowelin' race.

Oh, hawse work! the sweep and the drift of it! Hawse work! the leap and the lift of it!
Who wants to fly in the empty blue sky When he kin ride on the hawse work!

Ai! and they're off in a whirlwind. So!
Straight in the line we don't want 'em to go;
Light-footed, wild-hearted, look at 'em flit!
Head 'em, now! rowel, and turn loose the bit!
Whee! and the rip and the rush and the beat,
Rattlin rocks and the whippin' mesquit!

Oh, hawse work! the swing and the swell of it! Hawse work! the sing and the yell of it!
Holler goodbye to the dull and the dry; Leave 'em behind on the hawse work.

Shorty is down with his hawse in a heap;
Might have pulled in for a gully so deep.
Reddy he rides like he's tired of his life;
Ought to be thinkin he's got a wife—
Shrinkin' and thinkin' of bones that may crunch?
No! Yip! we've headed the mare and her bunch!

Oh, hawse work! the rip and the tear of it! Hawse work! the dip and the dare of it!
Life flutters high when you're lookin' to die; That is the fun of the hawse work.

Hi! and you're foolish for once, old lass,
Streakin' it straight for the trap in the pass.
Into the canyon the hoof-thunder drums—
Where is that holdup? Hmp! there he comes,
Crow-hoppin' down from the bluff—too late!
Damn! and they're gone for a tour of the State!

Oh, hawse work, the rant and the fuss of it!
Hawse work! the pant and the cuss of it!
Yet when I sigh and the world is a lie
Give me a day on the hawse work!

The Camp-fire Has Gone Out

by Anonymous

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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."

The Dying Cowboy

by H. Clemons

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"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie";
Those words came slow and mournfully
From the pallid lips of a youth that lay
On his dying couch at the close of day.

He had wasted and pined till o'er his brow
Death's shadows fast were drawing now;
He had thought of home and the loved ones nigh,
As the cowboys gathered to see him die.

How oft have I listened to those well-known words,
The wild wind and the sound of birds;
He had thought of home and the cottonwood boughs,
Of the scenes that he loved in his childhood hours.

"I have always wished to be laid, when I died,
In the old churchyard on the green hillside,
By the grave of my father, oh, let my grave be;
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie.

"I wish to be laid where a mother's care
And a sister's tear can mingle there;
Where friends can come and weep o'er me;
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie.

"Oh, bury me not—" and his voice failed there;
They paid no heed to his dying prayer;
In a narrow grave just six by three,
They laid him there on the lone prairie.

Where the dewdrops fall and the butterfly rests,
The wild rose blooms on the prairie's crest,
Where the coyotes howl and the wind sports free,
They laid him there on the lone prairie.

Passing of the Range

by James W. Whilt

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Full Text

Today as I gaze o'er the prairie
That stretches away into space,
I look back only a few short years
At the change that's taken place.

When I was one of the cowboys,
All our time was spent on the range;
Now I don't see even one rider,—
'Tis then I feel lonesome and strange.

No trail-herds with plaintive lowing,
No shouting, or singing to steers,
No sound of horses mad galloping,—
It almost moves me to tears.

For then we rode stirrup to stirrup,
While the jingle of spurs played a tune;
Oh! could I go back to the round-up
For a day at the cow-camp in June.

When the grass was so green on the prairie,
With the cattle all sleek and so fat,
Each rider all dressed for hard riding,
With high heels and chaps and wide hat.

Each with his string of horses,
Some broken and others half wild,
The wilder the better he liked them,
Happy and carefree as a child;—

Wild as the steers that they wrangled,
Hardy as the bronchos they rode,
Ready to take others' troubles,
Or carry another one's load.

Those were the real days I tell you—
Night-herding by light of the stars;
Three weeks drive to the stockyards
Where we loaded the steers in the cars.

Then when the loading was finished
And the cattle were on their way,
The Boss called the bunch together
And gave us our season's pay.

We were just like a bunch of children,
And many an old-timer like me
Recalls being served in his saddle,
When on a periodical spree.

Now, cattle are held in pastures,
They no longer roam wild and free,—
And the cowboys are gone forever,
Leaving only a memory.

And as each one crosses the border
That is over the Great Divide,
I hope the bunk-house is ample
And none will be left outside.

The Old Cow Man

by Charles Badger Clark

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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 nor fuss,
Belonged in pardnership 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 play 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 world 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!

Table of Contents

A Prairie Song

The Cowboy's Life

The Railroad Corral

Ridin'

The Song of the Leather

A Cowboy's Prayer

The Wind is Blowin'

The Christmas Trail

The Outlaw

The Pale Horse

The Tied Maverick

The Old Frying Pan

The Old Dutch Oven

Bacon

Southwestern June

To Her

A Roundup Lullaby

From Town

A Bad Half Hour

Hawse Work

The Camp-fire Has Gone Out

The Dying Cowboy

Passing of the Range

The Old Cow Man

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