III. 2. LUMBERJACKS AND TEAMSTERS
CONTENTS III. 2. Lumberjacks and Teamsters
The Little Brown Bulls.......... 224
Moosehead Lake...........226
Johnny Stiles, or the Wild Mustard River...... 228
I Came to This Country in 1865........ 231
Ox-Driving Song.........' - 233
Yo Soy de la Tierra........... . 234
III. 3. Cowboy Songs
Git Along, Little Dogies.......... 237
As I Went A-Walking One Fine Summer's Evening . . . 240
The Sporting Cowboy.......... 241
Run Along, You Little Dogies ........ 242
Texas Rangers............ 245
Diamond Joe............ 247
If He'd Be a Buckaroo.......... 249
Doney Gal............. 250
Peter Gray............. 252
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III. 2. LUMBERJACKS AND TEAMSTERS
'*And hereys good luck to the shanty boys That makes the wild 'woods ringy For they cut the fine in the wintertime And drive it in the spring.**
uAll names I "will not mention, as you may understand, There were twenty-five or thirty, all good and noble meny All working with good courage while scattered to and fro, And it was their delight y coming home at night, to see the landings grow*
* * *
It was early in the season in the sfring of '6 3, A freacher of the gosfel one morning came to me. Said hey "My jolly fellowy how would you like to go To sfend one winter pleasantly in Michigan-i-o?**
When we arrived in Saginawy in Michigan-i-o, We started for the camp, but the roads we did not knowy The dogs might laugh that our beds id ere on the snow, In the cold and frosty -morning we shivered with the cold, God grant there is no worser hell than Michigan-i-o. * Eckstorm and Smyth, Minstrelsy of Maine.
THE LITTLE BROWN BULLS
eo. No. 2265. Carl Lathrop, Mt. Pleasant, Mich., 1939. Through the courtesy of Dr. E. C. Beck, Central State Teachers College, Mt. Pleasant, Mich. Dr. Beck has an unsurpassed collection of lumberjack songs. See Ri, p. 655 Go, p. $6.
"When you get to the last of the song, you speak the words so that everyone will know the song is ended> at least I suppose that's why you do it. Anyhow, whether that is why or not, that's what all the old-time woods singers I ever heard always did.n
—Bill McBride, Mt. Pleasant, Michigan.
* In this and similar songs of "come-all-ye" character, extended tones and extended or inserted rests vary widely from stanza to stanza, both in length and in position.
I Not a thing on the river McCloskey did fear As he pulled the stick o'er the big spotted steers; They were young, quick and sound, girting eight feet and three. Said McCloskey, the Scotchman, "They're the laddies for me."
2 Bold Gordon, the Yankee, of skidding was full, As he said, "Wo-ho" to his little brown bulls, Short-legged and shaggy, girting six feet and nine.
Said McCloskey, the Scotchman, "Too light for our pine."
3 'Twas three to the thousand and our contract did call, The skidding was good for the timber was tali. McCloskey he swore that he'd make the day full And he'd skid two to one of the little brown bulls.
4 "Oh, no!" said Bold Gordon. "That you cannot do, Although we all know you're the pets of the crew 3 But mark you, my boy, you will have your hands full If you skid one more log than my little brown bulls."
5 The day was appointed and soon it drawed nigh For twenty-five dollars their fortunes to try. Each eager and anxious that morning was found As the scalers and judges appeared on the ground.
6 With a whoop and a yell came McCloskey to view, With his spotted steers, the pets of the crew,
Both chewing their cuds, "Oh, boys, keep your jaws full, For you easily can beat them, the little brown bulls."
7 Then up stepped Bold Gordon, with his pipe in his jaw, With his little brown bulls with their cuds in their mouths, And little did we think when we see them come down That a hundred and forty they could jerk around.
8 Then up spoke McCloskey, "Come strip to the skin, For I'll dig you a hole and I'll tumble you in,
I will learn a damn Yankee to face the bold Scot I'll cook you a dose and you'll get it red-hot."
9 Said Gordon to Stebbin, with blood in his eye, "Today we must conquer McCloskey or die." Then up spoke old Kennebec, "Oh, boys, never fear, For you never will be beaten by the big spotted steers."
10 The sun had gone down, when the foreman did say, "Turn out, boys, turn out, youVe enough for the day, We've scaled them and counted them, each man to his team And it's well do we know now which one tips the beam."
11 After supper was over, McCloskey appeared, With a belt ready-made for his big spotted steers, To form it he'd torn up his best Mackinaw
For he swore he'd conduct it according to law.
12 Then up spoke the scaler, "Hold on you, awhile, For your big spotted steers are behind just one mile. You've skidded one hundred and ten and no more And the bulls have you beaten by ten and a score."
13 The shanty did ring and McCloskey did swear As he tore up by handfuls his long yellow hair; Says he to Bold Gordon, "My colors I pull,
So, here, take the belt for your little brown bulls."
14 Here's health to Bold Gordon and Kennebec John; The biggest day's work on the river they've done. So fill up your glasses, boys, fill them up full
We will drink to the health of the little brown bulls.
MOOSEHEAD LAKE
B. No. 3714.. Elmer George, North Montpelier, Vt., 1939. Printed by permission of Helen Hartness Flanders. See Cr, p. 265 j Gra, p. 60.
"I learned this song from a feller by the name of Brant Breaux that I lumbered on Sterling Mountain with. I think I got the whole of it> or most °f *h from him. I donyt know as Pve heard any one else sing it.yy
i In fourteen hundred and ninety-two Bant Breaux and George Elliot they started a crew. They were jolly good fellows as ever you saw. And they landed us safely upon Moosehead Lake, Lovely fa-de-little-aro, sing tooral all day.
2 It's upon the Northwest Carry we met with the boss, And then we got on a spree,
We built him a storehouse and likewise a camp,
Lost one of our bold woodsmen all on that wild tramp,
Lovely fa-de-little-aro, sing tooral all day.
3 He hired a man from Bangor, Maine,
To swamp in our crew, Bill Williams by name, And when he got there, "Pm a chopper," said he, 'Bout the best he could do was to lodge every tree. Lovely fa-de-little-aro, sing tooral all day.
4 About five in the morning the cook would sing out, "Come, bullies, come, bullies, come, bullies, turn out." Oh, some would not mind him and back they would lay. Then it's "Jesus £L Christ, will you lay there all day!" Lovely fa-de-little-aro, sing tooral all day.
About twelve in the morn the cook would sing out, "All hands for the cook shack. Come, bullies, turn out." And when you get there divil a bit do you see But the dirty old cook and his lousy cookie. Lovely fa-de-little-aro, sing tooral all day.
Sunday afternoon the boss, he would say, "Your axes to grind, for there's no time to play, For next Monday morning, to the woods you must go, And forty-five spruce every day you must throw." Lovely fa-de-little-aro, sing tooral all day.
About six in the evening to the camps we'd all steer, "Sideboard the grindstone," was all you could hear, "Sideboard the grindstone," for the turns they'd all fight, And keep the damned old grindstone a-furling all night." Lovely fa-de-little-aro, sing tooral all day.
i Come, ail you true boys from the river, Come and listen to me for a while. And I will relate you the story Of my true friend and chum, Johnny Stiles.
2 We were camped on the wild Mustard River Down by the old reservoir dam; One morn as we rose from our blankets On the rocks there we spied a big jam.
3 As soon as we'd eaten our breakfast, We pulled for the head of the jam, While two of our boys took the pole trail, For to flood from the reservoir dam.
4 The water came rushing and howling; With peaveys and pike poles we tried, Till at last we gave space in the middle And right quickly from there she did fly.
5 While a-riding her into dead water His foot it got caught in the jam; He never once squealed till in under, For he always had plenty of sand.
6 Five hours we worked at hard labor
Till the sweat from my brow it did pour 5 We dragged his dead body from in under, But it didn't look like Johnny any more.
7 He was scratched from his heels to his middle And his head was cut off in the jam;
We buried him down by the river
Where the larks and the whippoorwills sang.
I CAME TO THIS COUNTRY IN 1865
B. No. 1548. Tune and first four stanzas from Jimmy Morris, Hazard, Ky.$ stanza 6 from Shoemaker's Mountain Minstrelsy of Pennsylvania. See Ri, p. 132; Cox, p. 4045 Ga.2, p. 407.
Eighteen miles of rocky road, Sixteen miles of sand; If I ever travel this road againy Pll be a married man.
In pioneer days the teamster combined all the functions nowadays fulfilled by the fireman, the engineer, the roundhouse crew, the conductor, the express agent, the baggagemaster, and the door-to-door deliveryman. His was a proud profession and a responsible post. The man who could work a team of horses or a yoke of oxen over a wilderness road without injuring them had to have all the qualities of sensitive craftsmanship of the modern air pilot. As the song indicates, however, he had a little more leeway in his moments of relaxation.
One of the sturdiest indigenous folk songs, this ballad is said to have originated in the Green Mountains of Vermont. We have noted its occurrence in Pennsylvania, eastern Kentucky, New York, and Michigan.
i I came to this country, boys, in eighteen sixty-five, 1 thought I was most lucky to find myself alive; I harnessed up my horses, my business to pursue, I went to hauling coal like I used to do.
2 The alehouse doors was open, boys, the liquor running free, As soon as one glass emptied, another filled for me; Instead of hauling six loads, I did not haul but four,
I got so darned drunk, boys, that I couldn't hold no more.
3 I finished up my supper and went out to the barn, I saddled up the old Gray, not meanin' any harm, I rode to the gate and passed the flour mill,
I scarcely knew a thing till I come to Watson's Hill
4 I met an old acquaintance, I need not tell his name;
I asked him where he was going, and he questioned me the same. We tittled and we tattled, and at last we did agree, And he told me that night where the party was to be.
5 My father followed after me, I've often heard him say, He must have had a pilot or he'd never found the way;
He came peeping through the windows where he could spy a light, Till his hair grew all white with the frosty dews of night.
6 Now I remember the last circumstance,
Four of us young fellows got on the floor to dance, The fiddler was so jolly and his arm it was so strong, That he played the bowls of Ireland full four hours long.
7 I see the morning star, boys, we have danced enough, We'll spend one hour more in playing Kasher-cuff.*
Then we'll go home to our pleasure and we'll whistle and we'll sing, We never will be guilty of another such a thing.
8 Now come all you old women that carries the news about, Say nothing about us, we're bad enough without, Likewise you old women that likes to make a fuss,
Oh, you're just as bad as we are, perhaps a damn sight worse.
* "Paying cash to cuff."
OX-DRIVING SONG
d>. No. 2648. Herman R. Weaver, Merryville, La., 1939. See Be, p. 300.
^ The contrast between this quietly bloodthirsty song and the others in this section typifies the contrast between Northern and Southern folk music as a whole. It has a quality of dark brooding imagination that can be found nowhere in the candidly cheerful or blatantly doleful songs of the Northern pioneer. Mr. Herman Weaver of Merryville, Louisiana, says:
aI am enclosing farts of the Ox-Driving Song as remembered by me} but it is still very incomplete. My sister thinks the town of Saludio is in Missouri or Kentuckyy probably where it originated [the song). My father knew ity I thinks when he came to Texas in 18$$"
1 I pop my whip, I bring the blood, I make my leaders take the mud, We grab the wheels and turn them round, One long, long pull, we're on hard ground.
2 On the fourteenth day of October-o, I hitched my team in order-o, To drive the hills of Salud-i~o, To my rol, to my rol, to my rideo.
Chorus:
To my rol, to rol, to my rideo, To my rol, to rol, to my rideo. To my rideo, to my rudeo, To my rol, to my rol, to my rideo.
3 When I got there the hills were steep, 'Twould make any tender-hearted person weep To hear me cuss and pop my whip,
To see my oxen pull and slip.
4 When I get home I'll have revenge, I'll land my family among my friends, Pll bid adieu to the whip and line And drive no more in the wintertime.
YO SOY DE LA TIERRA
g. No. 7. Refugio Castillo, Cotulla, Texas, Feb., 1934.
The song of a carreteray or ox-driver, from northern Mexico. The sense of it seems to be: "I'm from a far country where you can't see the sunrise. Little girl, pray God that I don't die [on the road], I'm leaving now, God knows if I'll get back."
Yo soy de la tierra, Y de donde por alia, Donde por alia, Que ni el sol se mir* al salir. Jovencita, pidale a Dios Que no me vaya a morir Ya me voy a navegar, Ya me voy a navegar, Sabe Dios si volvere.