Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp quotes

Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,

Out where the smile dwells a little longer, That’s where the West begins; Out where the sun is a little brighter, Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter, Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, That’s where the West begins.

Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing, Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing, That’s where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making,

Where fewer hearts in despair are aching, That’s where the West begins; Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing, Where there’s more of giving and less of buying, And a man makes friends without half trying, That’s where the West begins.

Don’t you hear the fiddle shrieking? Don’t you hear the banjo speaking?

Don’t you hear the big spurs jingle?

Don’t you feel the red blood tingle? Faces dyed with desert brown, (One that’s set and white); Broncho Bill has come to town And danced his dance tonight.

Closer an’ closer come tenderfoot, An’ harder the whip to the hoss I put; But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his face Ran up to my side with his easy pace—

Rode up to my side, an’ dern his hide, Remarked ’twere a pleasant day fer a ride;

Then axed, onconcerned, if I had a match, An’ on his britches give it a scratch, Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day, An’ as fresh as a daisy scooted away.

Ahead he went, that infernal gong A-ringin’ “good-day” as he flew along,

An’ the smoke from his cigarette came back Like a vaporous snicker along his track.

On an’ on he sped, gettin’ further ahead, His feet keepin’ up that onceaseable tread, Till he faded away in the distance, an’ when I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again He war thar with the boys at the end of the race, That same …

Tom Stevens he said war his name, an’ he come From a town they call Bosting, in old Yankeedom. Then he jist paralyzed us by sayin’ he’d whirled That very identical wheel round the world.

Wal, pard, that’s the story of how that smart chap Done me up w’en I thought I had sich a soft snap,

Done me up on a race with remarkable ease, An’ lowered my pride a good many degrees. Did I give him the hoss? W’y o’ course I did, boss, An’ I tell you it warn’t no diminutive loss.

An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, And I shouldn’t be maundering here tonight; But she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound Her torn rebosa about the wound That I swiftly forgave her.

Scratches don’t count In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown—a deep, deep brown; Her hair was darker than her eye;

And the little grey hawk hangs aloft in the air, And the sly coyote trots here and there, And the black snake glides and glitters and slides Into the rift of a cottonwood tree; And the buzzard sails on, And comes and is gone,

Stately and still, like a ship at sea.

And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are, like the things that were. Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

And the buzzard sails on, And comes and is gone, Stately and still, like a ship at sea.

And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are, like the things that were.

Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

’Way high up in the Mokiones that top hoss done his best, ’Mid whippin’ brush and rattlin’ stones from canon-floor to crest; Up and down and round and cross Bob pounded weak and wan,

But pride still glued him to his hoss and glory spurred him on.

“Oh, glory be to me!” says he, “this glory trail is rough! But I’ll keep this dally round the horn until the toot of judgment morn Before I’ll holler ’nough!”

Raised the little king to his shoulder And chuckled, “Look at that!” As the chubby fingers clutched his hair; Then, “Boys, hand round the hat!” There never was such a hatful Of silver and gold and notes;

People are not always penniless Because they don’t wear coats.

And then, “Three cheers for the baby!” I tell you those cheers were meant, And the way that they were given Was enough to raise the tent. And then there was sudden silence And a gruff old miner said, “Come boys, enough of this rumpus;

So, looking a little sheepish, But with faces strangely bright, The audience, somewhat lingering, Flocked out into the night. And the bold-faced leader chuckled, “He wasn’t a bit afraid! He’s as game as he’s good-looking! Boys, that was a show that paid!”

I’m wild and woolly and full of fleas, I’m hard to curry below the knees,

I’m a she-wolf from Shamon Creek, For I was dropped from a lightning streak And it’s my night to hollow—Whoo‑pee!

I’ve read o’ the gals that broke ’em up a-sailin’ in airy flight On angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o’ the same at night, An’ a sort o’ disgusted frown’d bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow,

An’ I’d call ’em a lot o’ sissy boys⁠—but I’m seein’ it different now.

I got the jab in my rough ol’ heart, an’ I got it a-plenty, too, A center shot from a pair o’ eyes of the winninest sort o’ blue, An’ I ride the ranges a-sighin’ sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer— A durned heap …

Heigh-ho!

Funny how it come about!

Me and Texas Tom was out Takin’ of a moonlight walk, Fillin’ in the time with talk. Every star up in the sky Seemed to wink the other eye At each other, ’sif they Smelt a mouse around our way!

Oh, I sometimes think I’m locoed An’ jes fit fer herdin’ sheep, ’Cause I only think of Susie When I’m wakin’ or I’m sleep.

I’m wearin’ Cupid’s hobbles, An’ I’m tied to Love’s stake-pin,

And when my heart was branded The irons sunk deep in.

Then I take a bronc for Susie And she leaves her pots and pans And we figure out our future And talk o’er our homestead plans.

Spanish is the lovin’ tongue, Soft as music, light as spray;

’Twas a girl I learnt it from Livin’ down Sonora way. I don’t look much like a lover, Yet I say her love-words over Often, when I’m all alone— “Mi amor, mi corazón.”

Spanish is the lovin’ tongue, Soft as music, light as spray; ’Twas a girl I learnt it from Livin’ down Sonora way.

I don’t look much like a lover, Yet I say her love-words over

Often, when I’m all alone— “Mi amor, mi corazón.”

Never seen her since that night; I kaint cross the Line, you know. She was Mex. and I was white;

Like as not it’s better so.

Yet I’ve always sort of missed her Since that last, wild night I kissed her, Left her heart and lost my own— “Adiós, mi corazón.”

First thing you know, you gits so gay Your luck stampedes and gits away. An’ don’t you even start a guess That you’ve a cinch on happiness; Fer few e’er reach the Promised Land If they starts headed by a band.

Ride slow an’ quiet, humble, too, Or Fate will slap its brand on you.

The old range sleeps, there hain’t a stir. Less it’s a night-hawk’s sudden whir, Or cottonwoods a-whisperin while The red moon smiles a lovin’ smile.

Pepita sits, so young and sweet and fresh, The sun shines on her hair’s dusky mesh.

Her day of days, how soon it will be flown!

Se corren los toros! And Juan’s brought his Pepita into town.

Let us ride together— Blowing mane and hair,

Careless of the weather, Miles ahead of care,

Ring of hoof and snaffle, Swing of waist and hip, Trotting down the twisted road With the world let slip.

I ride the range for thy dear sake, To earn thee gold, Señorita, Lolita; And steal the gringo’s cows to make A ranch to hold Lolita!

Lonesome? Well, I guess so! This place is mighty blue;

The silence of the empty rooms Jes’ palpitates with—you.

The day has lost its beauty,

The sun’s a-shinin’ pale;

I’ll round up my belongin’s An’ I guess I’ll hit the trail.

Then you’ll get up on your trotters, But you have a job to stand; For the landscape round you totters An’ your collar’s full o’ sand.

Lots of fellers give prescriptions How a broncho should be rode, But there’s few that gives descriptions Of the times when they got throwed.

You bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun, Ye’re a hard little beast to break, But ye’re good for the fiercest kind of a run An’ ye’re quick as a rattlesnake.

But now—well, say, old hoss, if John D. Rockefeller shud come With all the riches his paws are on And want to buy you, you bum,

I’d laugh in his face an’ pat your neck

An’ say to him loud an’ strong: “I wouldn’t sell you this derned old wreck For all your wealth—so long!”

But now—well, say, old hoss, if John D. Rockefeller shud come With all the riches his paws are on And want to buy you, you bum, I’d laugh in his face an’ pat your neck An’ say to him loud an’ strong: “

I wouldn’t sell you this derned old wreck For all your wealth⁠—so long!

”

Ye’re wirey an’ tough an’ mighty hard, An’ homlier, too, than sin. But yer head’s all there an’ yer heart’s all right, An’ you’ve been a good pardner, too, An’ if ye’ve a soul it’s clean an’ white,

You ugly ol’ scoundrel, you!

I’ve busted bronchos off and on Since first I struck their trail, And you bet I savvy bronchos From nostrils down to tail;

… on the home ranch of the blest, Where no storms or stampedes bother, an’ the trails are trails o’ rest, When my brand has been inspected an’ pronounced to be OK, An’ the boss has looked me over an’ has told me I kin stay,

Oh, I’m hopin’ when I’m lopin’ off across that blessed range That I won’t be in a saddle on a critter new an’ strange,

But I’m prayin’ every minnit that up there I’ll ride across That big heaven range o’ glory on an Ol’ Cow Hawse

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, Livin’ is a luxury that don’t come high; Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,

For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!

Lively on the last turn! Lope’er to the death! (Reddy’s soul is willin’ but he’s gettin’ short o’ breath.) Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw When we have an hour of firelight set to “Turkey in the Straw.”

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,

Livin’ is a luxury that don’t come high;

Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow, For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!

But she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes Seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise. She snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way, And I hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play—

Tell you what the joys of heaven ain’t a cussed circumstance To the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance.

When they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare, Every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear.

Where the coyotes come a-howlin’ round the ranches after dark, And the mocking-birds are singin’ to the lovely “medder lark”; Where the possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes abound,

And the monstrous stars are winkin’ o’er a wilderness profound;

Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; Where the antelope is grazin’ and the lonely plovers call— It was there that I attended “The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball.”

Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork’s waters flow,

Where the cattle are “a-browzin’ ” and the Spanish ponies grow;

Where the Norther “comes a-whistlin’ ” from beyond the Neutral strip And the prairie dogs are sneezin’, as if they had “the Grip”; Where the coyotes come a-howlin’ round the ranches after dark, And the mocking-birds are singin’ to the lovely “medder lark”;

Don’t tell me ’bout cotillions, or germans. No sir ’ee! That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me. I’m sick of lazy shufflin’s, of them I’ve had my fill,

Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill.

McAllister ain’t nowhere! when Windy leads the show, I’ve seen ’em both in harness, an’ so I sorter know— Oh, Bill, I shan’t forget yer, and I’ll oftentimes recall, That lively-gaited sworray—“The Cowboys’ Christmas Ball.”

High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers; Real old rally round the dipper and the keg! Uncle Ed’s gettin’ red—had too many dippers;

Better get him hobbled or he’ll break his leg!

Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin’ up the fiddle; Pass him up another for his arm is gettin’ slow. Bow down! right in town—and sashay down the middle; Got to keep a-movin’ for to see the show!

Hence I say unto you—give the cowboy his due And be kind, my friends, to his folly; For he’s generous and brave though he may not behave Like your dudes, who are so melancholy.

We ain’t no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,

’Tis said—an’ we know who ’tis— “Th’ devil’s laid hold on us, tooth an’ branch, An’ uses us in his biz.”

It digs fer th’ things that are out o’ sight, It delves through th’ toughest crust, It grips th’ heart-strings, an’ holds ’em tight,

Till we’ve got ter sing⁠—er bust!

With pipin’ treble the kid starts in, An’ Hell! how that kid kin sing! “Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin’ is sin,” He leads, an’ the rafters ring; “Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,” We shouts it with force an’ vim;

We ain’t no saints on the ol’ Bar-Z, But many a time an’ oft When ol’ fiddle’s a-pleadin’, “Abide with me,” Our hearts gets kinder soft. An’ we makes some promises there an’ then

Which we keeps⁠—till we goes to bed⁠—

That’s the most could be ast o’ a passel o’ men What ain’t no saints, as I said.

An’ we makes some promises there an’ then Which we keeps—till we goes to bed— That’s the most could be ast o’ a passel o’ men What ain’t no saints, as I said.

A pattering rush like the rattle of hail When the storm king’s wild coursers are out on the trail,

A long roll of hoofs—and the earth is a drum! The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!

A pattering rush like the rattle of hail When the storm king’s wild coursers are out on the trail,

A long roll of hoofs⁠—and the earth is a drum!

The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!

I’ve seen a lot o’ places where I’d like to stay, But I gets a-feelin’ restless an’ I’m on my way. I was never meant for settin’ on my own door sill, An’, once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.

I’ve been in rich men’s houses an’ I’ve been in jail, But when it’s time for leavin’ I jes hits the trail.

I’m a human bird of passage and the song I trill Is, “Once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.”

I’ve been in rich men’s houses an’ I’ve been in jail, But when it’s time for leavin’ I jes hits the trail.

I’m a human bird of passage and the song I trill

Is, “Once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.”

The sun is sorter coaxin’ an’ the road is clear, An’ the wind is singin’ ballads that I got to hear. It ain’t no use to argue when you feel the thrill;

For, once you git the habit, why, you can’t keep still.

He never made parade of tooth or claw; He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin’ herds. Though he had a rather meanin’-lookin’ jaw, He was shy of exercisin’ it with words.

But “I got ’im” was the most the ranger said And you couldn’t hire him, now, to tell the tale; He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin’ pilgrim stranger And he labored with the sinners of the trail.

I’ve swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell;

I’ve braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne; I’ve fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin’ swine An’ swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;

I’ve had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes; I’ve grabbed an army mule plum by the tail;

But I’ve never been so snortin’, really highfalutin’ mad As when you up and hands me ginger ale.

I went into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar, And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.

When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild, And my temper has 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.

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.

’Twas the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul, As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky, The tale of the Upland Rider’s fate while I dug in the water hole For a drop, a taste of …

Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning, Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned;

For higher than law is the love of a mother⁠— It reversed the decision⁠—the court was adjourned.

We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West— We scatter the wicked like straw! We are the Nemeses, never at rest— We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!

Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still, And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide, That safety and honor may tread in our path; The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side, As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath.

We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West⁠— We scatter the wicked like straw!

We are the Nemeses, never at rest— We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!

A‑a! ma‑a! ba‑a! eh‑eh‑eh! The tune would then be gay; There is, I mind, a parson kind Just forty miles away. Why, Eden would come back again, With sage and sheep corrals, And I could swing a singin’ pen To write her “pastorals.”

I pack a rifle on my arm And jump at flies that buzz; There’s nothin’ here to do me harm; I sometimes wish there was.

If through that brush above the pool A red should creep—and creep— Wah! cut down on ’im!—Stop, you fool! That’s nothin’ but a sheep.

From a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps To the biled shirt o’ the city and the other tony traps.

Never seed sich herds o’ people throwed together, every brand O’ humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land

Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin’ on new sort o’ feed. Actin’ restless an’ oneasy, like they threatened to stampede.

Never seed sich herds o’ people throwed together, every brand O’ humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin’ on new sort o’ feed. Actin’ restless an’ oneasy, like they threatened to stampede.

Mighty curious to a rider comin’ from the range, he feels

What you’d call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels; Like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range To another run o’ grazin’ where the brands it sees are strange.

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 wuz!

’Twas good to live when all the sod, Without no fence nor fuss, Belonged in partnership to God, The Government and us. With skyline bounds from east to west And room to go and come,

I loved my fellowman 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.

’Twas good to live when all the sod, Without no fence nor fuss,

Belonged in partnership to God, The Government and us.

With skyline bounds from east to west And room to go and come, I loved my fellowman 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.

There 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.

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 tramp the moun’— But don’t you fence it in!

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 tramp 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.

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 tramp the moun’— But don’t you fence it in!

And oh, for a night in the open Where no sound discordant mars, And the marvelous glow, when the sun is low, And the silence under the stars!

Ho, wind from the western prairies!

Ho, voice from a far domain! I feel in your breath what I’ll feel till death, The call of the plains again! The call of the Spirit of Freedom To the spirit of freedom in me;

Ho, wind from the western prairies! Ho, voice from a far domain! I feel in your breath what I’ll feel till death, The call of the plains again!

The call of the Spirit of Freedom To the spirit of freedom in me;

My heart leaps high with a jubilant cry And I answer in ecstasy!

All day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars, Kept vigil o’er thousands held by neither posts nor bars; With never a diversion in all the lonesome land,

But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand.

Sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat; And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat; The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod Some Texas steer pursuing o’er the pathless waste of sod.

Then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure, To the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e’er endure From the Llano Estacado to Dakota’s distant sands, Where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands.

Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave, And weave of Texas grasses a garland for his grave;

And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun.

Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave, And weave of Texas grasses a garland for his grave; And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun.

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.

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 of 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!