WESTERN BALLADS AND SONGS
73. The Texas Rangers 163
74. The Little Old Sod Shanty On The Claim . . 165
75. Cowboy Song 166
76. The Old Chisholm Trail 167
77. The Dying Cowboy 170
78. O Bury Me Not On The Lone Prairie . . .171
79. I Want To Be A Cowboy 173
80. Whoopee Ti Yi Yo, Git Alono Little Doqies . 174
81. Cheyenne Boys 175
82. Breaking In A Tenderfoot 176
83. Starving To Death On A Government Claim . . 178
84. The Buffalo Skinners 181
85. The Kinkaiders' Song 184
86. Dakota Land 185
87. The Dreary Black Hills ........ 185
88. Joe Bowers 186
89. In The Summer Of Sixty 189
90. The Dying Californian 191
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WESTERN BALLADS AND SONGS
73. THE TEXAS RANGERS
Come all you Texas Rangers wherever you may be,
I'll tell you of some trouble which happened unto me.
My name 'tis nothing extra, the truth to you I'll tell,
Come all you jolly Rangers, I'm sure I wish you well.
It was the age of sixteen I joined the royal band,
We marched from San Antonio, unto the Rio Grande.
Our captain he informed us, perhaps he thought 'twas right,
Before we reached the station, he was sure we would have to fight.
It was one morning early, our captain gave command,
"To arms, to arms," he shouted, "and by your horses stand."
We heard those Indians coming, we heard them give their yell,
My feelings at that moment no human tongue can tell.
We saw their smoke arising, it almost reached the sky,
My feelings at that moment, now is my time to die.
We saw those Indian's coming, their arrows around us hailed,
My heart it sank within me, my courage almost failed.
We fought them full nine hours until the strife was o'er,
The like of dead and wounded, I never saw before.
Five hundred as noble Rangers as ever served the west, We'll bury those noble Rangers, sweet peace shall be their rest.
I thought of my poor mother, those words she said to me,
"To you they are all strangers, you had better stay with me."
I thought she was old and childish, perhaps she did not know,
My mind was bent on roving and I was bound to go.
Perhaps you have a mother, likewise a sister too, Perhaps you have a sweetheart to weep and mourn for you.
►
If this be your condition I advise you to never roam, I advise you by experience you had better stay at home.
74
THE LITTLE OLD SOD SHANTY ON THE CLAIM
I am looking rather seedy now,
While holding down my claim,
And my victuals are not always served the best;
And the mice play slyly round me,
As I nestle down to sleep
In my little old sod shanty in the West.
The hinges are of leather, and the windows have no glass
While the board roof lets the howling blizzard in,
And I hear the hungry coyote
As he sneaks up through the grass
Around the little old sod shanty on my claim.
Yet I rather like the novelty of living in this way,
Though my bill of fare is always rather tame,
But I'm as happy as a clam
On this land of Uncle Sam's,
In my little old sod shanty on my claim.
But when I left my Eastern home, a bachelor so gay, To try to win my way to wealth and fame, I little thought that I'd come down to burning twisted hay In my little old sod shanty on my claim.
75
COWBOY SONG
One night as I lay on the prairie And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy
Would drift to that sweet Bye and Bye.
The trail to that bright mystic region Is narrow and dim, so they say; But the one that leads down to perdition Is staked and is blazed all the way. They say that there'll be a great roundup, Where cowboys like "dogies" will stand,
Cast out by those riders from heaven Who are posted and know every brand.
I wonder, was there ever a cowboy Prepared for the great Judgment Day, Who could say to the boss of the riders, "I'm ready to be driven away." They say he will never forsake you, That he notes every action and look, But for safety you'd better get branded And have your name in his great book. For they tell of another great owner Who is nigh overstocked, so they say, But who always makes room for the sinner Who strays from the bright narrow way. 76
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 lose '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 my boss to draw my roll,
He had figgered it 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. 77
THE DYING COWBOY
As I walked through Tom Sherman's bar-room,
Tom Sherman's bar-room on a bright summer's day,
There I spied a handsome young cowboy
All dressed in white linen as though for the grave.
Beat your drums lowly, and play your fifes slowly, Play the dead march as you bear me along, Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me, For I'm a dying cowboy and know I've done wrong. "I know by your appearance you must be a cowboy," These words he said as I came passing by,
"Come sit down beside me, and hear my sad story, I'm shot through the breast and know I must die.
"Once in my saddle I used to look handsome,
Once in my saddle I used to feel gay, I first went to drinking, then went to gambling, Got into a fight which ended my day.
"Go and tell my gray-haired mother,
Break the news gently to sister dear, But never a word of this place must you mention When a crowd gathers round you, my story to hear."
78
O BURY ME NOT ON THE LONE PRAIRIE
"0 bury me not on the lone prairie," These words came slowly and mournfully From the pallid lips of a youth who lay On his cold damp bed at the close of day. "0 bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wild coyote will howl o'er me, Where the cold wind weeps and the grasses wave; No sunbeams rest on a prairie grave." He has wasted and pined till o'er his brow Death's shades are slowly gathering now; He thought of his home with his loved ones nigh, As the cowboys gathered to see him die. Again he listened to well known words, To the wind's soft sigh and the song of birds; He thought of his home and his native bowers, Where he loved to roam in his childhood hours. "I've ever wished that when I died, My grave might be on the old hillside, Let there the place of my last rest be— 0 bury me not on the lone prairie! "O'er my slumbers a mother's prayer And a sister's tears will be mingled there; For 'tis sad to know that the heart-throb's o'er, And that its fountain will gush no more. "In my dreams I say"— but his voice failed there; And they gave no heed to his dying prayer; In a nanow grave six feet by three, They buried him there on the lone prairie. May the light winged butterfly pause to rest O'er him who sleeps Od the prairie's crest; May the Texas rose in the breezes wave O'er him who sleeps in a prairie's grave. And the cowboys now as they roam the plain,
(For they marked the spot where his bones have lain)
Fling a handful of roses over his grave,
With a prayer to him who his soul will save.
79
I WANT TO BE A COWBOY
I want to be a cowboy and with the cowboys stand, Big spurs upon my bootheels and a lasso in my hand; My hat broad brimmed and belted upon my head I'll place,
And wear my chaparajos with elegance and grace.
The first bright beam of sunlight that paints the east with red
Would call me forth to breakfast on bacon, beans, and bread;
And then upon my broncho so festive and so bold I'd rope the frisky heifer and chase the three year old. And when my work is over to Cheyenne then I'll head, Fill up on beer and whiskey and paint the damn town red.
I'll gallop through the front streets with many a
frightfull yell; I'll rope the slant old heathen and yank them straight
to hell.
80
WHOOPEE TI YI YO, GIT ALONG LITTLE DOGIES
As I walked out one morning for pleasure,
I spied a cow-puncher all riding alone;
His hat was throwed back and his spurs was a-jingling,
As he approached me a-singin' this song.
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies, It's your misfortune, and none of my own, Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies, For you know Wyoming will be your new home. Early in the spring we round up the dogies, Mark and brand and bob off their tails; Round up our horses, load up the chuck-wagon, Then throw the dogies upon the trail. It's whooping and yelling and driving the dogies; Oh, how I wish you would go on; It's whooping and punching and go on little dogies, For you know Wyoming will be your new home.
Some boys goes up the trail for pleasure, But that's where you get it most awfully wrong; For you haven't any idea the trouble they gave us While we go driving them along. When the night comes on and we hold them on the
bedground, These little dogies that roll on so slow; Roll up the herd and cut out the strays, And roll the little dogies that never rolled before. Your mother she was raised way down in Texas, , Where the jimson weed and sand-burrs grow; Now we'll fill you up on prickly pear and cholla Till you are ready for the trail to Idaho. Oh you'll be soup for Uncle Sam's Injuns; "It's beef, heap beef," I hear them cry. Git along, git along, git along little dogies, You're going to be beef steers by and by. 81
CHEYENNE BOYS
Come all you pretty girls and listen to my noise, I'll tell you not to marry the Cheyenne boys, For if you do a portion it will be; Cold butter milk and Johnnie cake is all you'll see. Cold butter milk and Johnnie cake is all you'll see. They'll take you down to a sandy hill,
Take you down contrary to your will;
Put you down in some lonesome place,
And that's just the way with the Cheyenne race,
And that's just the way with the Cheyenne race.
When they go to church I'll tell you what they wear,
An old gray coat all covered with hair,
An old gray coat all torn down,
A stove-pipe hat more rim than crown,
A stove-pipe hat more rim than crown.
When they go in, down they set, Take out their handerchief and wipe off the sweat, Look at all the pretty girls and then begin to laugh, And roll around their eyes like a dying calf, And roll around their eyes like a dying calf. 82
BREAKING IN A TENDERFOOT
'Twas then I thought I'd have some fun, And see how cowpunching was done; So when the roundups had begun I tackled a cattle king. Says he, "My foreman's here in town; He stops at Dyer's, his name's Brown." We started for the ranch next day; The foreman jollied me all the way, "Cowpunching was only play."
"'Twas just like drifting with the tide," All I'd have to do was to ride; But that old sinner, how he lied,
0 didn't he have his gall!
They saddled me up on an old gray hack, With a great big "set-fast" on his back, And padded him up with a gunny sack, They used my bedding all.
First he was up and then he was down, Jumped up in the air and turned around, And when at last I hit the ground,
1 had an awful fall.
They picked me up and carried me in, And rubbed me down with a rolling pin, "That's the way we all begin, You've done well," says Brown. "If by tomorrow you don't die, We'll give you another horse to try." "O won't you let me walk?" says I. Says Brown, "Yes, into town." They gave me charge of the cawy herd, And told me not to work too hard, That all I had to do was guard, Those cattle from gettin' away. I had three hundred and sixty head, And I sometimes wished that I was dead; Sometimes my horse would fall, And I'd go on like a cannon ball. So before you go cowpunching, Kiss your wife, Get a heavy insurance on your life,
Then cut your throat with a carving knife,
This is the only way.
83
STARVING TO DEATH ON A GOVERNMENT CLAIM Frank Baker's my name, and a bachelor I am. I'm keeping old batch on an elegant plan, You'll find me out west in the county of Lane, A-starving to death on a government claim. My house is constructed of natural soil, The walls are erected according to Hoyle, The roof has no pitch, but is level and plain, And I never get wet till it happens to rain. Hurrah for Lane county, the land of the free, The home of the grasshopper, bed-bug, and flea, I'll holler its praises, and sing of its fame, While starving to death on a government claim. How happy I am as I crawl into bed,
The rattlesnakes rattling a tune at my head,
While the gay little centipede, so void of all fear,
Crawls over my neck, and into my ear;
And the gay little bed-bug so cheerful and bright,
He keeps me a-going two-thirds of the night.
My clothes are all ragged, my language is rough, My bread is case-hardened, both solid and tough, The dough it is scattered all over the room, And the floor would get scared at the sight of a broom. The dishes are scattered all over the bed, All covered with sorghum, and government bread, Still I have a good time, and I live at my ease, On common sop sorghum, an' bacon an' cheese. How happy I am on my government claim, I've nothing to lose, I've nothing to gain, I've nothing to eat and I've nothing to wear, And nothing from nothing is honest and fair. Oh, here I am safe, so here I will stay, My money's all gone, and I can't get away, There's nothing to make a man hard and profane, Like starving to death on a government claim.
Now come on to Lane county, there's room for you all, Where the wind never ceases, and the rains never fall, Come join in our chorus to sing for its fame, You sinners that're stuck on your government claim. Now hurrah for Lane county, where the blizzards arise, The wind never ceases, and the moon never rise, Where the sun never sets, but it always remains, Till it burns us all out on our government claims. Now don't get discouraged, you poor hungry men. You're all just as free as the pig in the pen, Just stick to your homestead, and battle the fleas, And look to your Maker to send you a breeze. Hurrah for Lane county, the land of the West, Where the farmers and laborers are ever at rest; There's nothing to do but to stick and remain, And starve like a dog on a government claim. Now, all your poor sinners, I hope you will stay, And chew the hard rag till you're toothless and gray, But as for myself, I'll no longer remain, To starve like a dog on a government claim. Farewell to Lane county, farewell to the West, I'll travel back east to the girl I love best, I'll stop at Missouri and get me a wife, Then live on corn dodgers, the rest of my life. 84
THE BUFFALO SKINNERS
Come all you jolly fellows and listen to my song, There are not many verses, it will not detain you long; It's concerning some young fellows who did agree to go i And spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the
I buffalo.
It happened in Jacksboro in the spring of seventy-three, A man by the name of Crego came stepping up to me, Saying, "How do you do, young fellow, and how would
you like to go And spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the
buffalo?"
It's me being out of employment, this to Crego I did say,
"This going out on the buffalo range depends upon the pay.
But if you will pay good wages and transportation too, I think, sir, I will go with you to the range of the buffalo."
"Yes, I will pay good wages, give transportation too, Provided you will go with me and stay the summer through;
But if you should grow homesick, come back to Jacksboro,
I won't pay transportation from the range of the buffalo."
It's now our outfit was complete—seven able-bodied men,
With navy six and needle gun—our troubles did begin; Our way it was a pleasant one, the route we had to go, Until we crossed Pease River on the range of the buffalo.
It's now we've crossed Pease River, our troubles have begun.
The first damned tail I went to rip, Christ! how I cut my thumb 1
While skinning the damned old stinkers our lives wasn't a show,
For the Indians watched to pick us off while skinning the buffalo.
He fed us on such sorry truck I wished myself 'most dead,
It was old jerked beef, croton coffee, and sour bread. Pease River's as salty as hell fire, the water I could never go,—
0 God! I wished I had never come to the range of the buffalo.
Our meat it was buffalo hump and iron wedge bread, And all we had to sleep on was a buffalo robe for a.bed;
The fleas and gray-backs worked on us, 0 boys, it was not slow,
I'll tell you there's no worse hell on earth than the range of the buffalo.
Our hearts were cased with buffalo hocks, our souls
were cased with steel, And the hardships of that summer would nearly make
us reel.
While skinning the damned old stinkers our lives they had no show,
For the Indians waited to pick us off on the hills of Mexico.
The season being near over, old Crego he did say The crowd had been extravagant, was in debt to him that day,—
We coaxed him and we begged him and still it was no go —
We left old Crego's bones to bleach on the range of the buffalo.
Oh, it's now we've crossed Pease River and homeward
we are bound, No more in that hell-fired country shall we ever be
found.
Go home to our wives and sweethearts, tell others not to go,
For God's forsaken the buffalo range and the damned old buffalo.
85
THE KINKAIDER'S SONG
You ask what place I like the best, The sand hills, O the old sand hills; The place Kinkaiders make their home And prairie chickens freely roam. Chorus (for first and second verses):
In all Nebraska's wide domain 'Tis the place we long to see again; The sand hills are the very best, She is queen of all the rest. The corn we raise is our delight, The melons, too, are out of sight. Potatoes grown are extra fine And can't be beat in any clime. The peaceful cows in pastures dream And furnish us with golden cream, So I shall keep my Kinkaid home And never far away shall roam. Chorus (third verse):
Then let us all with hearts sincere Thank him for what has brought us here, And for the homestead law he made, This noble Moses P. Kinkaid.
86
DAKOTA LAND
We've reached the land of desert sweet, Where nothing grows for man to eat. The wind it blows with feverish heat Across the plains so hard to beat. 0 Dakota land, sweet Dakota land, As on thy fiery soil I stand 1 look across the plains
And wonder why it never rains, Till Gabriel blows his trumpet sound And says the rain's just gone around. We have no wheat, we have no oats, We have no corn to feed our shoats; Our chickens are so very poor They beg for crumbs outside the door. Our horses are of broncho race; Starvation stares them in the face. We do not live, we only stay; We are too poor to get away. 87
THE DREARY BLACK HILLS
Now friends if you'll listen to a horrible tale
It's getting quite dreary and it's getting quite stale,
I gave up my trade selling Ayers' Patent Pills To go and hunt gold in the dreary Black Hills. Stay away, I say, stay away if you can Far from that city they call Cheyenne, Where the blue waters roll and Comanche Bill Will take off your scalp, boys, in those dreary Black Hills. Now, friends, if you'll listen to a story untold Don't go to the Black Hills a-digging for gold; For the railroad speculators their pockets will fill, While taking you a round trip to the dreary Black Hills. I went to the Black Hills, no gold could I find. I thought of the free land I'd left far behind; Through rain, snow, and hail, boys, froze up to the gills, They called me the orphan of the dreary Black Hills. The round house at Cheyenne is filled every night With loafers and beggars of every kind of sight; On their backs there's no clothes, boys, in their pockets no bills. And they'll take off your scalp in those dreary Black Hills. 88
JOE BOWERS
My name it is Joe Bowers, I've got a brother Ike; I come from Old Missouri, It's all the way from Pike. I'll tell you how I came here, And how I came to roam, And leave my good old mammy, So far away from home. There was a gal in our town, Her name was Sally Black; I asked her for to marry me, She said it was a whack. Says she to me, "Joe Bowers, Before we hitch for life You ought to have a little home To keep your little wife." Says I to her, "Dear Sally! All for your own dear sake, I'm off to California To try to raise a stake." Says she to me, "Joe Bowers, You are the man to win, Here's a kiss to bind the bargain," And she threw a dozen in. When I got to this country I hadn't nary red. I had such wolfish feelings, I almost wished I'as dead. But when I thought of Sally It made those feelings git,
And raised the hopes of Bowers—
I wish I had 'em yet.
And so I went to mining, Put in my biggest licks; Come down upon the boulders Like a thousand of bricks. I labored late and early, In rain an' sun an' snow, I was working for my Sally— 'Twas all the same to Joe. One day I got a letter, 'Twas from my brother Ike; It came from Old Missouri, And all the way from Pike. It was the darndest letter That ever I did see, And brought the darndest news That was ever brought to me. It said that Sal was false to me—
It made me cuss and swear—
How she'd went and married a butcher,
And the butcher had red hair;
And, whether 'twas gal or boy
The letter never said,
But that Sally had a baby,
And the baby's head was red!
89
IN THE SUMMER OF SIXTY
In the summer of sixty as you very well know The excitement at Pike's Peak was then all the go; Many went there with fortunes and spent what they had And came back flat-busted and looking quite sad.
■
'Twas then I heard farming was a very fine branch, So I spent most of my money in buying a ranch, And when I got to it with sorrow and shame I found a big miner had jumped my fine claim. So I bought a revolver and swore I'd lay low The very next fellow that treated me so; I then went to Denver and cut quite a dash And took extra pains to show off my cash. With a fine span of horses, my wife by my side, I drove through the streets with my hat on one side; As we were agoin' past the old "Denver Hall" Sweet music came out that did charm us all. Says I, "Let's go in and see what's the muss For I feel right now like having a fuss." There were tables strung over the hall, Some was a-whirling a wheel with a ball.
Some playin' cards and some shakin' dice
And lots of half dollars that looked very nice;
I finally strayed to a table at last
Where all the poor suckers did seem to stick fast.
And there stood a man with cards in his hand, And these were the words which he did command, "Now, gents, the winning card is the ace, I guess you will know it if I show you its face." One cprner turned down, it's plain to be seen, I looked at that fellow and thought he was green, Yes I looked at that feller and thought he was green, One corner turned down, 'twas so plain to be seen. So I bet all my money and lo and behold! 'Twas a tray-spot of clubs and he took all my gold. Then I went home and crawled into bed And the divil a word to my wife ever said. 'Twas early next morning I felt for my purse Biting my hps to keep down a curse; Yes, 'twas early next morning as the sun did rise You might have seen with your two blessed eyes, In an ox wagon, 'twas me and my wife
Goin' down the Platte river for death or for life.
90
THE DYING CALIFORNIAN
Lay up nearer, brother, nearer
For my limbs are growing cold, And thy presence seemeth dearer
When thine arms around me fold. I am dying, brother, dying,
Soon you'll miss me in your berth, And my form will soon be lying
'Neath the ocean's briny surf.
Harken, brother, closely harken.
I have something I would say, Ere the vale my visions darken
And I go from hence away. I am going, surely going,
For my hope in God is strong, I am willing, brother, knowing
That he doeth nothing wrong.
Tell my father when you greet him
That in death I prayed for him, Prayed that I might one day meet him
In a world that is free from sin. Tell my mother God assist her
Now that she is growing old, Tell her child would glad have kissed her
When his lips grew pale and cold.
0 my children, heaven bless them,
They were all my life to me, Would I could once more caress them Ere I sink beneath the sea. Listen, brother, catch each whisper, 'Tis my wife I speak of now, Tell, 0 tell her how I missed her
When the fever burned my brow.
Tell her she must kiss my children
Like the kiss I last impressed. Hold them as when last I held them
Folded closely to my breast. Give them early to their maker,
Putting all their trust in God, And he never will forsake them
For he said so in his word.
Tell my sister when I remember
Every kindly parting word, And my heart has been kept tender With the thought this memory stirred. 'Twas for them I crossed the ocean—
What my hopes were I'll not tell; And I've gained an orphan's portion,
Yet he doeth all things well.
Tell them I never reach that haven Where I sought the "precious dust,"
But I've gained a port called Heaven Where the gold will never rust. Hark, I hear my Saviour speaking, 'Tis his voice I know so well. When I am gone, 0 don't be weeping. Brother, here is my last farewell.
He whispered, "Come out in the moonlight, I've something to say to you, Kate." We wandered way down in the bushes, 'Neath the tall old hawthorne tree, 0, mother, I wonder if any were Ever so happy as we! And, mother, to him I am dearer
Than all in this wide world beside. He told me so, out in the moonlight, i He called me his darling, his bride.
And soon they will gather wild flowers,
To twine in my long braided hair; Then Willie will come in the evening
And smile when he sees me so fair.
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NOTES:
73. Texas Ranoebs. Text obtained from Mrs. Eliza Shelman of Hansen's Ferry, Washington, in 1908. It was learned by her in Nodaway County, Missouri, in her childhood.
74. The Little Old Sod Shanty On My Claim. Text obtained from Lillian Gear Boswell of Wheatland. Wyoming, 1914. This is an adaptation of the popular negro or psuedo-negro song "The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane," by Will S. Hays. According to A. J. Leach, the historian of Antelope County, Nebraska, the words were printed on the backs of cards with the instructions that they were to be sung to the melody of "The Little Old Log Cabin." On the front of the cards were pictures of a sod shanty. See Modern Language Notes, January, 1918. Mr. F. W. Schaupp of Lincoln, Nebraska, says that the adaptation was made by a Nebraskan of his acquaintance, Emery Miller, when he was holding down a Nebraska claim in the eighties. Most texts of the song come from the Central Western region. It still has no little currency.
75. Cobowy Sonq. Obtained by Frances Francis of Cheyenne from Winthrop Condict of Saratoga, Wyoming, in 1911. It is built upon the religious song, In the Sweet By and By. Mr. Lomax prints a slightly different text, The Cowboy's Dream in Cowboy Songs, p. 18. N. H. Thorpe, Songs of the Cowboys (p. 40) ascribes the authoiship to the "father of Captain Roberts, of the Texas Rangers." His copy was given to him by Wait Rogers in 1898.
76. The Old Chisholm Trail. Text from Lomax's Cowboy Songs, p. 58. See also Thorpe, Songs of the Cowboys, p. 109.
77. The Dying Cowboy. Text secured by Lillian Gear Boswell of Wheatland, Wyoming, in 1914. Brought from Illinois to Wyoming. This is an adaptation of an Irish song. The Unfortunate Rake, dating from the eighteenth century. The traces of a military funeral remaining in the chorus of some texts are somewhat incongruous in a cowboy song. For the history of the song see Phillips Barry, Journal of American Folk-Lore, vol. 24, p. 341. The Dying Cowboy is widely current in the Western states. Adaptation credited by N. H. Thorpe, Songs of the Cowboys (p. 41), to Troy Hale, Battle Creek, Nevada.
78. Bory Me Not On The Lone Prairie. Also known as The Dying Cowboy. Text obtained by Mabel Conrad Sullivan from Mrs. John Leslie of Stanford, Montana, in 1915. An adaptation of the once popular song Ocean Burial, words by W. H. Saunders, music by G. N. Allen. Credited by N. H. Thorpe, Songs of the Cowboys (p. 62), to H. Clemons, Deadwood, Dakota, 1872.
79. I Want To Be A Cowboy. Text secured by Frances Francis of Cheyenne as sung in Wyoming about 1885. It is an adaptation of the religious song I Want to Be an Angel.
80. Whoopee Ti Yi Yo, Git Along Little Dogieb. Text from J. A. Lomax's Cowboy's Songs, p. 87.
81. Cheyenne Boys. Text as sung by Mrs. Jeanetta Gear of Junction, Wyoming, in 1914. This piece is widely current, with various local adaptations. Compare Mississippi Girls, Lomax, Cowboy Songs, p. 108, Arizona Boys and Girls, Thorpe, Songs of the Cowboys, p. 1.
82. Breaking In A Tenderfoot. Text obtained from Frances Francis of Cheyenne in 1911. Thought by her to have been locally composed near Cheyenne. Compare The Horse Wrangler, Lomax, p. 136. N. H. Thorpe (p. 146) Bays the author was Yank Hitson, Denver, Colorado, 1889.
83. Starving To Death On A Government Claim. Text obtained by Vivian Cleaver Cleveland at Hot Springs, South Dakota, in 1914. Compare Greer County, Lomax, p. 278.
84. The Buffalo Skinners. Text from Lomax'l Cowboy Songs, p. 158.
85. Kinkaider'b Sono. Text obtained from Mies Harriet Cook, of Gem, Nebraska, in 1915. A homesteader's song popular in the Nebraska sandhill regions. Sung at picnics, reunions, and the like to the tune of My Maryland. Moses P. Kinkaid was congressman of the Sixth Congressional District, 1903-1919. He was the introducer of a bill for 640-acre homesteads known as the "Kinkaid Homestead Law."
86. Dakota Land. Text obtained from Lillian Gear Boswell of Wheatland, Wyoming, in 1914. This piece has for its model and is sung to the melody of the religious song Beulah Land.
87. The Dreary Black Hills. Text obtained from Harry Gear of Junction, Wyoming, in 1914.
88. Joe Bowers. This version was obtained in 1915 from Mr. Francis Withee of Stella, Nebraska, who heard it sung many times when a freighter in 1862-65 on the Denver-Nebraska City trail. It was a freighter's favorite. The song is supposed to be sung by a Missourian in California about 1849-51. It was in existence as early as 1854.
89. In The Summer Of Sixty. Text obtained from Frances Francis of Cheyenne, Wyoming, in 1911.
90. The Dying Californian. Version secured by L. C. Wimberly as written in a manuscript book from Iowa in 1856. This song has wide currency, usually in somewhat shortened form. It is known also as "The Dying Brother's Farewell," "The Dying Brother's Request," and "The Brother's Request."
91. The Pretty Mohea. Obtained by Mabel Conrad Sullivan from Mrs. John Leslie of Stanford, Montana, 1914. In many texts of this song the name "Mohea" passes into " Maumee," "The Pretty Maumee."