III. 3. COWBOY SONGS
CONTENTS: 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. 3. COWBOY SONGS
a Every time you build a fence" said the oldy grizzled cowpuncher, "you cut a cowboy's throaty for how can a cowboy sing when his life' is passing away?"
* * *
In 1907 Andy Adams, the author of the best story of the cattle trail ever written, said:
"There is such a thing as cowboy music. It is a hybrid between the weird-ness of an Indian cry and the croon of the black mammy. It expresses the open, the prairiey the immutable desert"
I'll tell St. Peter that I knout
A cowboy's soul ain't zuhite as snow,
But in that far-off cattle land
Me sometimes acted like a man.
1. Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round,
You have wandered and tramped all over the ground,
Oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow,
And don't forever be on the go—
Oh, move slow, dogies, move slow.
2 I have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, too,
But to keep you together, that's what I can't do,
My horse is leg-weary and I'm awful tired,
But if I let you get away I'm sure to get fired—
Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up.
3 Oh, say, little dogies, when you goin? to lay down
And quit this forever siftin' around?
My limbs are weary, my seat is sore;
Oh, lay down, dogies, like you've laid before—
Lay down, little dogies, lay down.
4 Oh, lay still, dogies, since you have laid down,
Stretch away out on the big open ground,
Snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild sound
That will all go away when the day rolls round—
Lay still, little dogies, lay still.*
[* Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads, pp. 60-61 (revised and enlarged ed., New York, Macmillan, 1938). ]
GIT ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES*
[* See Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads, pp. 4-7 (Macmillan, 1938).]
The old blind man shuffled along beside me, clasping his guitar as I guided him over the rough places in our path. We were headed for the trees that fringed the West Fork of the Trinity River near Forth Worth, Texas. Often I stumbled, for I was carrying a heavy Edison recording machine. They built them strong in 1908.
Out on a busy corner near the cattle pens of the Stockyards I had found my companion that morning twanging his guitar while he sang doleful ditties and listened for the ring of quarters in his tin cup.
"I don't know any cowboy songs," he had explained to me. "But lead me home to lunch. My wife can sing you a bookful."
We found her out behind a covered truck, a forerunner of the trailer, seated in front of a gayly colored tent. She wore a gypsy costume, richly brocaded, and she had used paint and powder with skillful discretion on a face naturally comely. While I chatted with her, the old man disappeared into the tent. In a few minutes, out he came. Gone were the round, humped shoulders, the white hair, the shambling gait, the tottering figure. Before me stood a handsome, dark-eyed man, alert and athletic. He made no explanation. He was a perfect faker.
"My wife shakes down the saps who like to hold her hand while she reads their fortunes in the stars. All the self-righteous fools go away from my tin cup happy, marking down one more good deed on their passports to heaven. We aim to please our customers, and I think we do."
Thus the faker rambled on while a smiling Negro man served delicious food and a bottle of wine. Later on through the long Texas afternoon, amid the cheerful talk, the faker lady, in a voice untamed and natural and free as a bird's, would sing us songs of the road. She and her family for generations back had lived as gypsies.
"This lady," said the faker, "who has joined her fortunes with mine, and passes as my wife, travels with me now from Miami, Florida, to San Diego, California. We belong to that fringe of human society who take life the easiest way. We toil not, neither do we spin, yet none of Sharon's daughters was clad as she or slept more sweetly." Raising a tent flap he showed me rich purple hangings, thick-Persian rugs, a divan spread with soft silken covers, amazing magnificence. "With our burros, Abednego and Sennacherib, to pull our covered wagon, we travel as we like. Our rackets roll in the money." He lay flat on his back on the mesquite grass, puffing a cigar, as he gazed at the white patches of clouds that swept across the rich azure of a Texas sky.
I glanced curiously at Abednego and Sennacherib as they munched their alfalfa. They seemed as old as the pyramids and as solemn as a pair of Aztec idols—which they, indeed, resembled. They seemed to talk to each other with their ears. Fastened loosely to the great bony heads, these absurdly long appendages moved constantly in a fashion that astonished and fascinated me. And here close by sat this pearl of a woman, dressed like a princess, strumming her guitar and singing the songs of gypsy life.
She despised the clumsy horn fastened to my recording machine, and I caught few of the tuftes. I remember that she sang me the first blues that I had ever heard, moving me almost to tears; and a pathetic ballad of a factory girl, who got splinters in her toes. Many and many another she sang that, unhappily, are gone with the Texas wind.
Finally came the tune of Whoofee-ti-yi-yo, git along, little dogies} Itys your misfortune and none of my own. I had never before heard it.
"To me," she said, "that's the loveliest of all cowboy songs. Like others, its rhythm comes from the movement of a horse. It is not the roisterous, hell-for-leather, wild gallop of 'The Old Chisholm Trail,' nor the slow easy canter of 'Goodby Old Paint.' You mustn't frighten the dogies. They get nervous in crowds. Lope around them gently in the darkness as you sing about punching them along to their new home in Wyoming. They'll sleep the night through and never have a bad dream."
This is the story of the first recording of this now famous cowboy tune. The gypsy woman's song has been sung over the air thousands of times, and we wonder whether she chuckled somewhere in a gypsy tent when Billy Hill's almost notorious "The Last Roundup" was on the air every day and night.
In the meantime we have recorded two tunes which show that, Whoopee-ti-yi-yo" has wandered as far afield and disguised itself as subtly as any gypsy.
—Adventures of a Ballad Hunter
AS I WENT A-WALKING ONE FINE SUMMER'S EVENING
No. 244.4. Mose Bellaire, Sec. 12, Baraga, Mich., 1938. Learned in the Canadian lumber woods twenty or more years ago. Also recorded in Vermont from a Yankee basketmaker, Jonathan Moses (No. 3703B2). See Lo.i, pp. 4 ff.
I As I went a-walking one fine summer's evening, To review the green fields as I strolled along, I spied an old man in a sad lamentation, He was rocking the cradle and this was his song.
Chorus:
"For it's cOh, no, baby, lie easy,
For indeed your own daddy shall never be known,'
For he's weeping and he's wailing and he's rocking the cradle, And pleasing the baby and the child not his own.
2 "When I first fell in love with your innocent mother, Like an old fool that was left with a wife,
But through all mistakes and through my misfortunes, For Pm born to be plagued in the days of my life.
3 "When evening comes on she's off to some party, She will leave me to sing and to rock all alone j But the innocent baby she'll call me her daddy, But it's little she knows I'm never so.
4 "Now come all you young men if you want to get married, I pray you take warning and leave women alone,
For by the Lord Harry, if you ever get married, You'll be rocking the cradle and the child not your own."
THE SPORTING COWBOY
db. Paramount 3006B. Ace. on guitar and sung by Watts and Wilson. See Cox, p. 125 Lo.i, p. 254.
i When I was a cowboy I learned to throw the line, I learned to pocket money and not to dress so fine, Went out on the prairie, to learn to rob and steal, When I robbed a cowboy, how happy did I feel!
2 For working Pm not able and begginJ is too low, Stealin' is so dreadful, to jail I must go; Yonder comes the jailer, his jury to come today, Who knows that I am guilty, Pm bound to go that way.
3 I saw the jailer coming, about eleven o'clock, Hands full of jail keys, them doors to unlock.
"Cheer up, cheer up, you prisoner," I heard the jury say— Pm bound to Dallas County for ten long years to stay.
4 I wore my broad and summeralls, my hoss and saddle was fine, When I spied those pretty girls, you bet I called them mine, Spotted 'em all for beauty, oh, Lord, it was in vain,
Pm bound to Dallas County to wear the ball and chain.
5 Saw my darling coming, ten dollars in her hand. "Give it to the cowboy, 'tis all that I command, Give it to the cowboy, remember olden times,
So he won't forget his darling he's left so far behind."
RUN ALONG, YOU LITTLE DOGIES
B. No. 1849. Francis Sullivan, architect, Washington, D.C., 1938.
Frank M. Sullivan, architect of Washington, D.C., learned this version of "Git Along, Little Dogies," on an Idaho dude ranch in 1910. The tune is closely related to and probably derived from the ballad, "As I Went a-Walkm' One Fine Summer's Evening," printed above. Mr, Sullivan told us that the cowboys in Idaho used the song as a cattle lullaby.
Chorus i:
Hush-ie ciola, little baby, lie easy, Who's your real father may never be known, Oh, it's weeping, wailing, rocking the cradle And tending a baby that's none of your own.
2 When spring comes along, we round up the dogies, We stick on their brands and we bob off their tails. Pick out the strays, then the herd is inspected
And then the next day we go on the trail.
Chorus 2:
Singing hoop—pi-o-hoop! run along, you little dogies, For Montana will be your new home, Oh, it's whooping, swearing, driving the dogies, It's our misfortune we ever did roam.
3 Oh, it's worst in the night just after a roundup When dogies are grazing from the herd all around, You have no idea of the trouble they give us,
To the boys who are holding them on the bed ground.
4 Oh, some think we go on the trail for pleasure But I can tell them that they are dead wrong, If I ever got any fun out of trailing,
I'd have no reason for singing my song.
Tom Hight and I spent two happy days together in an Oklahoma City hotel. Tom was made happier, as I am sure I was, by the added presence of two quart bottles of rye which he consulted frequently between songs. Tom knew more cowboy melodies than any other person I have ever found.
"Ever since I was a boy," said Tom, "I have been a singing fool. I could sing down any man in our cow camp in the Panhandle. When the fellers backed me against the neighboring camp, I won. They challenged the whole damn Panhandle. The champeens of each camp met at a central point and we lifted up our heads like a pack of coyotes, only we lifted 'em one at a time. The rules was that each man was to sing in turn, one after the other, round and round. The man that sung the last song, he won the prize. It took us mighty near all night to get sung out. The other fellows
couldn't sing no more, because they didn't know no more songs. But I was ready with the last one and had more roped and ready. Of course you couldn't use no books and no writing. I was mighty proud of being the champeen singer of the Texas Panhandle. My cowboy friends gave me a pair of silver-mounted spurs for a prize with my name engraved on them."
—Adventures of a Ballad Hunter
TEXAS RANGERS
d\ f'$. No. 1561. Tune and first stanza, Pauline Farris, Gladys Wilder, Dora Lewis, and Reda West, Liberty, Ky., 1937. Other stanzas, L0.2, p. 359. See Cox, p. 362} FL2, p. 226$ Be, p. 336.
He leaves unflowed his furrow} he leaves his books unread For a life of tented freedom, by the lure of danger led. No more he}ll go a-ranging> the savage to affright; He has heard his last war-whoop and fought his last fight.
i Come all you Texas Rangers, wherever you may be, A story I will tell you which happened unto me. My name is nothing extry, the truth to you I'll tell, I am a Texas Ranger, so, ladies, fare you well.
2 It was at the age of sixteen that I joined the jolly band, We marched from San Antonio down to the Rio Grande. Our captain he informed us, perhaps he thought it right, "Before we reach the station, boys, you'll surely have to fight."
3 And when the bugle sounded our captain gave command,
aTo arms, to arms," he shouted, "and by your horses stand." I saw the smoke ascending, it seemed to reach the sky; The first thought that struck me, my time had come to die.
4 I saw the Indians coming, I heard them give the yell; My feelings at that moment, no tongue can ever tell.
I saw the glittering lances, their arrows round me flew, And all my strength it left me, and all my courage too.
5 We fought full nine hours before the strife was o'er, The like of dead and wounded I never saw before.
And when the sun was rising and the Indians they had fled, We loaded up our rifles and counted up our dead.
6 And all of us were wounded, our noble captain slain, And the sun was shining sadly across the bloody plain. Sixteen as brave Rangers as ever roamed the West
Were buried by their comrades with arrows in their breast.
7 'Twas then I thought of Mother, who to me in tears did say, "To you they are all strangers, with me you had better stay." I thought that she was childish, the best she did not know; My mind was fixed on ranging, and I was bound to go.
8 Perhaps you have a mother, likewise a sister too,
And maybe so a sweetheart to weep and mourn for you; If that be your situation, although you'd like to roam, I'd advise you by experience, you had better stay at home.
9 I have seen the fruits of rambling, I know its hardships well $ I have crossed the Rocky Mountains, rode down the streets of hell ; I have been in the great Southwest where the wild Apaches roam, And 1 tell you from experience you had better stay at home.
DIAMOND JOE *
d. No. 537. J. B. Dillingham, Austin, Texas, 1935. See Lo.i, p. 65; Od.2, p, 130.
"Diamond Joe was a Texas cattleman,-the story goes, so rich that he was said to wear diamonds for his vest buttons. I learned this song years ago," says J. B. Dillingham, for fifty years a conductor on Houston and Texas Central trains running out of Austin.
1 Old Diamond Joe was a rich old jay, With lots of cowboys in his pay 3 He rode the range with his cowboy band, And many a mav'rick got his brand.
* Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads, pp. 6$—66 (New York: MacmiUan, 193S)
Chorus:
Roll on, boys, roll, don't you roll so slow; Roll on, boys, roll, don't you roll so slow. Ki-o-ho-ho, ki-o-ho-ho, You roll like cattle never rolled before.
2 I am a pore cowboy, Pve got no home, Pm here today and tomorrow Pm gone; Pve got no folks, Pm forced to roam, Where I hang my hat is home, sweet home.
3 If I was as rich as Diamond Joe,
Pd work today and Pd work no mo';
For they work me so hard and they pay so slow
I don't give a durn if I work or no.
4 I left my gal in a Texas shack, And told her I was a-coming back; But I lost at cards, then got in jail,
Then found myself on the Chisholm Trail.
5 Pll stay with the herd till they reach the end, Then I'll draw my time and blow it in; Just one more spree and one more jail,
Then Pll head right back on the lonesome trail.
6 Pll cross old Red at the Texas line,
And head straight back to that gal of mine; Pll sit in the shade and sing my song, And watch the herds as they move along.
7 When my summons come to leave this world, Pll say good-by to my little girl;
I'll fold my hands when I have to go, And say farewell to Diamond Joe.
IF HE'D BE A BUCKAROO
F. No. 1635. Ace. on guitar and sung by Blaine Stubblefield, Washington, D.C., 1938.
r If he'd be a buckaroo by his -trade Pd have him a hondoo ready-made, And if he throws his turns on right He can stretch my hondoo every night.
Chorus:
With his ring ting tinny, And his ring ting hay, With his ring ting tinny, And his ring ting ho.
2 If he'd be a preacher by his trade, Fd have him a pulpit ready-made, And I'd hold fast to his snubbing post While he goes at me with his Holy Ghost.
3 If he'd be a sheepherder by his trade, I'd have him corrals all ready-made, And when he goes to separate Then he can use my dodging gate.
4 If he'd be a sailor by his trade Pd have him a ship all ready-made; With him to row and me to steer We'd bring a cargo once a year.
DONEY GAL
/ to c. No. 542. Text rearranged. Mrs. Louise Henson, San Antonio, Texas, 1937. See Lo.i, p. 8; Od.2, p. 129. See also No. 887.
"One time my uncle came to see us folks on our ranch in Oklahoma. When he got ready to go the rain was pouring down; but the weather didn't stop him.
uWe watched him ride over the hill headed for the roundup, singing his favorite cowboy song
"It's rain or shine, sleet or snow, Me and my Doney Gal are bound to go.
He was a good singer, too. He called his horse 'Doney Gal,3 his sweetheart. None of us ever saw him again.}>
—Mrs. Louise Henson, San Antonio, Texas.
Introductory:
r We're alone, Doney Gal, in the wind and hail, Got to drive these dogies down the trail.
Stanzas:
i We'll ride the range from sun to sun, For a cowboy's work is never done; He's up and gone at the break of day, Drivin' the dogies on their weary way.
2 It's rain or shine, sleet or snow,
Me and my Doney Gal are on the go,
Yes, rain or shine, sleet or snow,
Me and my Doney Gal are bound to go.
3 A cowboy's life is a weary thing,
For it's rope and brand and ride and sing; Yes, day or night in the rain or hail. He'll stay with his dogies out on the trail.
4 Rain or shine, sleet or snow,
Me and my Doney Gal are on the go; We travel down that lonesome trail Where a man and his horse seldom ever fail.
5 We whoop at the sun and yell through the hail, But we drive the poor dogies down the trail; And we'll laugh at the storms, the sleet and snow, When we reach the little town of San Antonio.
PETER GRAY
e. No. 2505. Frank A. Melton, Univ. of Oklahoma, Norman, Okla., 1939.
Professor Frank A. Melton of the University of Oklahoma says his father sang aPeter Gray" to him thirty years ago in Kansas, sang it soberly as a straightforward, factual account. The editors of the Harris Collection of American Poetry and Plays add, " 'Peter Gray' (1858) seems to have been, like 'Springfield Mountain,' an American ballad which proved irresistibly comic once it got on the stage." Oral transmission has brought various changes both in the words and in the music.
i Once on a time there lived a man, His name was Peter Gray, He lived way down in that air town Called Pennsylvan-i-a.
Chorus:
Blow, ye winds of morning, Blow, ye winds, heigho, Blow, ye winds of morning, Blow.
2 Now Peter fell in love all with A nice young girl j
The first three letters of her name Were Lucy Annie Pearl.
3 Just as they were gwine to wed Her father did say no,
And quin-ci-cont-ly she was sent Beyond the Ohio.
4 When Peter heard his love was lost, He knew not what to say,
He3d half a mind to jump into The Susquehan-i-a.
5 Now Peter went away out West To seek his for-ti-an,
But he was caught and scal-pi-ed By blood-i In-di-ans.
6 When Lucy heard of this bad news About poor Peter Gray,
She wep* and wep5 and wepM-ed Her dear sweet life away.