Various - Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads

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.

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.

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!

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.