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The Great Open Spaces

THE GREAT OPEN SPACES

WHEN THE CURTAINS OF NIGHT ARE PINNED BACK

WHEN THE WORK'S ALL DONE THIS FALL

AS I WALKED OUT IN THE STREETS OF LAREDO

THE DREARY BLACK HILLS

THE LONE STAR TRAIL

WHOOPEE TI YI YO, GIT ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES

THE BUFFALO SKINNERS

POOR LONESOME COWBOY

THE TENDERFOOT

LITTLE AH SID

THE KINKAIDERS

DAKOTA LAND

THE FARMER

RABBLE SOLDIER

THE TRAIL TO MEXICO

HARMONIZATION BT

Thorrald Otterstrdm
Henry Francis Parks .

Marion Lychenheim
Marion Lychenheim
Charles Farwett Edson .
Charles Farwett Edson .
Hazel Felman
Hazel Felman
Marion Lychenheim
Alfred G. Wathall . .
Alfred G. WaihaU . .
Lillian Roscdale Goodman
Hazel Felman

PAOF

25ff
260
268
264
266

270
273

274
276
27H
280
282
281
285

217

In only a few instances have I been able to discover the authorship of any song. They seem
to have sprung up as quietly and mysteriously as 'ioes the grass on the plains. All have been popular
with the range riders, several being current all the way from Texas to Montana, and quite a> long
as the old, old Chisholm Trail stretching between these states. Some of the songs the x>wboy
certainly composed; all of them he sang. Obviou.sly, a number of the most characteristic cannot
be printed for general circulation. To paraphrase slightly what Sidney Lanier said of Walt Whit-
man's poetry, they are raw collops slashed from the rump of Nature, and never mind the gristle.
Likewise some of the strong adjectives and nouns have been softened Jonahed, as George Meredith
would have said. There is, however, a Homeric quality about the cowboy's profanity and vul-
garity that pleases rather than repulses. The broad sky under which he slept, the limitless plains
over which he rode, the big, open, free life he live<l near to Nature's breast ^ taught him simplicity,
calm, directness. He spoke out plainly the impulses of his heart. But as yet so-called polite society
is not quite willing to hear.

JOHN A. LOMAX in Cowboy Songs and Ballad*.

The big ranches of the West are now being cut up into small farms. The nester has come, and
conic to stay. Gone is the buffalo, the Indian warwhoop, the free grass of the open plain; -even
the stinging lizard, the horned frog, the centipede, the prairie dog, the rattlesnake are fast dis-
appearing. Save in some of the secluded valleys of southern New Mexico, the old time round-up
is no more; the trails to Kansas and Montana have become grass-grown or lost in fields of waving
grain; the maverick steer, the regal longhorn, has been supplanted by his unpoetic but more beefy
and profitable Polled Angus, Durham, and Hereford cousins from across the seas. The changing
and romantic West of the early days lives mainly in story and song. The last figure to vanish is
the cowboy, the animating spirit of the vanishing era. He sits his horse easily as he rides through
a wide valley, enclosed by mountains, clad in the hazy purple of coining night, with his face turned
steadily down the long, long road, "the road that the sun goes down." Dauntless, reckless, as
gentle to a pure woman as King Arthur, he is truly a knight of the twentieth century, A vagrant
puff of wind shakes a corner of the crimson handkerchief knotted loosely at his throat; the thud
of his pony's feet mingling with the jingle of his spurs is borne back. 1 and as the careless, gracious,
lovable figure disappears over the divide, the breeze brings to the ears, faint and far yet cheery
still, the refrain of a cowboy song:

Whoopee ti yi, git along little dogies;

It's my misfortune and none of your own.
Whoopee ti yi, git along, little dogies;

For you know Wyoming will be your new home,

JOHN A. LOMAX hi Cowboy Song? and Ballads.

258

WHEN THE CURTAINS OF NIGHT ARE PINNED BACK

The cowboys of Colorado took a garrulous popular song of the 1870's, and kept a fragment,
the heart's essence of it. It is impressive when sung by a lone horseman silhouetted against a
distant horizon. Given anywhere with ease, feeling, control, it may leave echoes as thin and air-
hung as certain apparitions of a clear night's sky of stars. That is, it holds an honest and independ-
ent poetry. . . . Text and tune are from Jane Ogle of Rock Island, Illinois.

With deliberation

Arr. Th. O.

When the cur - tains of night Are pinned back by the stars, And the

beau - ti - f ul moon sweeps the sky,

I'll re-nicm-bcr you,Tx)ve,In my prayers.

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I When the curtains of night
Are pinned back by the stars,
And the beautiful moon sweeps the sky,

I'll remember you,

Love,

In my prayers.

2 When the curtains of night
Arc pinned back by the stars.
And the dew drops of heav'n kiss the rose,

I'll remember you,

Love,

In my prayers.

WHEN THE WORK'S ALL DONE THIS FALL

What the poet meant in his mention of "the short and simple annals of the poor/' is fairly well
delivered in the specific case told of here. It is a story sure of its main facts\ Radio Mack of San
Francisco, of the regular army and of western cattle ranches, communicated the tune and verses.

Arr. H. F. P.

A group of jol - ly cow - boys, dis - cus - sing plans at ease, Says

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one,*Tll tell you some-thing,boys,if you will lis-tcn,please. I am an old cow-punch-er and

hyer I'm dress'd in rags, I used to be a tough one and go on great big jags.

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260

WHEN THE WORK'S ALL DONE THIS PALL

But I have got a home, boys, a good one, you all know, Al -

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though I have not seen it since long, long a - go. I'm go - ing hack to Dix - ic once

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more to see them all, YesJ'm go-ing to see mymoth-er when the work's all done this fall.

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WHEN THE WORK'S ALL DONE THIS PALL

1 A group of jolly cowboys, discussing plans at ease,

Says one, "I'll tell you something, boys, if you will listen, please.

I am an old cow-puncher and hyer I'm dressed in rags,

I used to be a tough one and go on great big jags.

But I have got a home, boys, a good one, you all know,

Although I have not seen it since long, long ago.

I'm going back to Dixie once more to see them all,

Yes, I'm going to see my mother when the work's all done this fall.

2 "After the round-up's over and after the shipping's done,

I am going right straight home, boys, ere all my money is gone.

I have changed my ways, boys, no more will I fall;

And I am going home, boys, when the work's all done this fall.

When I left home, boys, my mother for me cried,

Begged me not to go, boys, for me she would have died;

My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me, that's all,

And with God's help I'll see her when the work's all done this fall."

3 That very night this "cowboy went out to stand his guard;
The night was dark and cloudy and storming very hard;
The cattle they got frightened and rushed in wild stampede,
The cowboy tried to head them, riding at full speed.
While riding in the darkness so loudly did he shout,
Trying his best to head them and turn the herd about,

His saddle horse did stumble and on him did fall,

The poor boy won't see his mother when the work's all done this fall.

4 His body was so mangled the boys all thought him dead,
They picked him up so gently and laid him on a bed;
He opened wide his blue eyes and looking all around

He motioned to his comrades to sit near him on the ground.

"Boys, send my mother my wages, the wages I have earned,

For I am afraid, boys, rny last steer I have turned.

I'm going to a new range, I hyear my Master's call,

And I'll not see my mother when the work's all done this fall.

5 "Bill, you may have my saddle; George, you may take my bed;
Jack may have my pistol, after I am dead.

Boys, think of me kindly when you look upon them all,

For I'll not see my mother when the work's all done this fall."

Poor Charlie was buried at sunrise, no tombstone at his head,

Nothing but a little board and this is what it said,

"Charlie died at daybreak, he died from a fall,

The boy won't see his mother when the work's all done this fall."

262

AS I -WALKED OUT IN THE STREETS OF LAREDO

A cowboy classic known in several tunes from the spaces patrolled by the Northwest Mounted
to those where the Texas Rangers keep law and order, more or less. The air is old Irish and many
of the lines are almost literally from old broadsides peddled in Dublin these years now gone.

I .walked out in La - re - do one day, I spied a poor eow-l my wrapped

up in white lin - en,Wrapped up in white lin - en and cold as the clay.

1 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 and cold as the elay.

2 "I see by your outfit that you arc 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.

3 "Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin,
lAt 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.

4 "It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing,
It was once in the saddle I used to go gay.
Twas first to drinking and then to card playing,
Got shot in the breast, I am dying today.

5 "Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin,
Get six pretty girls to carry my pall;

Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall.

6 "O beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly
And play the dead march as you carry me along,
Take me to the green valley and lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong."

7 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.

263

THE DREARY BLACK HILLS

Honest workmen, small business men, loafers and bummers, rainbow chasers, hopers and
seekers, were in that roundhouse at Cheyenne. And one who was frozen plumb to the gills, who
was called the orphan of the Black Hills, sketched the scenery.

Air. M. L.

Slow, ea*y, gad-like

The round-house in Chcy-enne is filled ev - Vy night, With loaf-ers and bura-mers of

most ev - 'ry plight, On their backs is no clothes, in their pock - ets no bills, Each

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day they keep start-ing for the drear-y Black Hills. Don't go a-way, stay at home if you can,

THE DREARY BLACK HILLS

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Stay a- way from that cit-y they call it Cheyenne, Where the blue wa-ters roll,

man

- che Bills, They will

lift

your hair, on the drea - ry Black Hills.

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1 The roundhouse in Cheyenne is filled every night,
With loafers and bummers of most ev'ry plight,

On their backs is no clothes, in their pockets no bills,
Each day they keep starting for the dreary Black Hills.

Chorus:

Don't go away, stay at home if you can,
Stay away from that city they call it Cheyenne,
Where the blue waters roll, and Comanche Bills,
They will lift up your hair, on the dreary Black Hills.

2 I got to Cheyenne, no gold could I find,

I thought of the lunch route I'd left far behind;

Through rain, hail, and snow, frozen plumb to the gills,

They call me the orphan of the dreary Black Hills.

3 Kind friend, to conclude, my advice I'll unfold,
Don't go to the Black Hills a-hunting for gold;
Railroad speculators their pockets you'll fill
By taking a trip to those dreary Black Hills.

Last Chorus:

Don't go away, stay at home if you can,
Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne,
For old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bills
They will take off your scalp on the dreary Black Hills.
265

THE LONE STAR TRAIL

A cowboy classic of saddle and trail, ranch and range. The verses are from John Lomax of
Texas and Jay Monaghan of Wyoming. . . . The line "I got a gal, prettiest gal you ever saw," is
sometimes sung, "I went to the reservation to see my squaw." Certain versions have extended ana

lurid conversations between the cowboy and the lady.

Air. M. L.
Bravado but not braggadocio

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I start - ed on the trail on June twen - ty - third, I been punch-in' Tex - as

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cat - tie on the Lone Star trail; Sing - in* Ki yi yip - pi yap - pi

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, yap - pi yay! Sing - in* Ki yi yip - pi yap - pi y - ay! .

1 I started on the trail on June twenty-third,
I been punchin' Texas cattle on the Lone Star trail;
Singin* Ki yi yippi yappi yay, yappi yay!
Siurin* Ki yi yippi yappi yay!

THE LONE STAR TRAIL

fc It's cloudy in the west, a-lookin' like rain,

And my damned old slicker's in the wagon again;
Singin' Ki yi yippi, etc.

3 My slicker's in the wagon, and I'm gettin' mighty cold,
And these long-horned sons-o'-guns are gettin' hard to hold;

Singin' Ki yi yippi, etc.

4 I'm up in the mornin* before daylight,
And before I sleep the moon shines bright.

6 Oh it's bacon and beans 'most every day,
I'd as soon be a-eatin' prairie hay.

6 I went up to the boss to draw my roll,

He had it figgered out I was nine dollars in the hole.

7 I'll drive them cattle to the top of the hill,
I'll kiss that gal, gol darn I will.

8 My seat is in the saddle and my hand is on the horn,
I'm the best dam cowboy ever was born.

9 My hand is on the horn and my seat is in the saddle,
I'm the best dam cowboy that ever punched cattle.

10 My feet are in the stirrups and my rope is on the side,
Show me a hoss that I can't ride.

Ill herded and I hollered and I done very well,
Till the boss said, "Boys, just let 'cm go to hell."

12 Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,

So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.

13 I went up to the boss and we had a little chat,

I slapped him in the face with rny big slouch hat.

14 O the boss says to me, "I'll fire you,
Not only you, but the whole dam crew."

15 I got a gal, prettiest gal y'u ever saw,

And she lives on the bank of the Deep Cedar Draw.

16 I'll sell my outfit just as soon as I can;
I won't punch cattle for no dam man.

17 Coin* back to town to draw my money,
Coin* back home to see iny honey.

18 Well, I'll sell my saddle and I'll buy me a plow
And I'll swear begad, I'll never rope another cow.

19 With my knees in the saddle and my seat in the sky,
I'll quit punching cows in the sweet by and by.

WHOOPEE, TI YI YO, GIT ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES

This widely sung piece also has the smell of saddle leather and long reaches of level prairies in
it. It is plainly of Irish origin, connecting with the lilts and the ballads that begin, "As I was
a-walking one morning." The word "choila" is Spanish and is pronounced as if spelled "choya."
The "dogics" are the little yearling steers.

Arr. C. F. E.

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As I was a - walk - ing one

morn - ing for pleas - ure, I saw a cow-punch- er come rid - ing a - lone. His

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hat was throwed back and his spurs was a - jing - ling, And as he ap-proached he was

sing -ing this song: Whoo-pee, ti yi yo, git a - long, lit - tie dog- ies! It's

268

WHOOPEE, TI YI YO, GIT ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES

your mis -

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long lit - tie dog - ies, For you know Wy - o - ming will be your new home!

1 As I was a-walking one morning for pleasure,
I saw a cowpuncher come riding alone.

His hat was throwed back and his spurs was a-jingling,
And as he approached he was singing this song:

Refrain:

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!

2 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 up on the trail :
Whoopee, ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, etc.

3 It's whooping and yelling and driving the dogies;
how I wish they would go on!

It's whooping and punching and go on little dogies,
For you know Wyoming will be your new home:
Whoopee, ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, etc.

WHOOPEE, TI YI YO, GIT ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES

4 When the night comes on we herd 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:

Whoopee, ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, etc.

5 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:
Whoopee, ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, etc.

6 Oh, you'll be soup for Uncle Sam's Injuns;
It's "beef, heap beef," I hear them cry.
Git along, git along, little dogies,
You're going to be beef steers by and by.
Whoopee, ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, etc.

THE BUFFALO SKINNERS

This is one of the magnificent finds of John Lomax for American folk song lore. It is the frame-
work of a big, sweeping novel of real life, condensed into a few telling stanzas. It is of the years
when outfits of men went onto the Great Plains and killed buffalo for the hides. The carcasses were
skinned by thousands and left on the open prairies for the crows and buzzards to pick to the bone.
We may hunt for a harder sardonic than that of Crego telling the men they had been "extravagant"
and were in debt to him. They killed him; it is told as casually and as frankly as the doing of the
bloody deed and their immediate forgetfulncss about it except as one of many passing difficulties of
that summer. Lomax speaks of this piece as having in its language a "Homeric quality." Its
words are blunt, direct, odorous, plain and made-to-hand, having the sound to some American ears
that the Greek language of Homer had for the Greeks of that time.

Arr. C. F. E.

'Twas in the town of Jacks - bo - ro in the spring of seven - ty - three, A

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THE BUFFALO SKINNERS

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man by the name of Cre - go . . came step - ping up to me,

Say - ing.

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spend one sum - mer pleas- ant - ly jo the range of the buf - fa - lo?"

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1 'Twas in the town of 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?"

2 "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."

3 "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."

271

THE BUFFALO SKINNERS

4 It's now our outfit was complete seven able-bodied men,
With navy six and needle gun our troubles did begin;
Our way il was a pleasant one, the route we had to go,
Until we crossed Pease River on the range of the buffalo.

5 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!
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 chuck 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
O God! I wished I had never come to the range of the buffalo.

7 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, O boys, it was not slow,

I'll tell you there's no worse hell on earth than the range of the buffalo.

8 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.

10 Oli, it's now we've crossed Pease River and homeward we are bound,
No more in that hell-fired country shall ever we 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.

POOR LONESOME COWBOY

An atmospheric sketch from Charles J. Finger, of Fayetteville, Arkansas, editor of "All's Well,"
and author of "Tales from Silver Lands" and other books. It is a species of Cowboy blues, the
range rider's moan. Finger says, " It is strangely like a song I heard among the Argentine gauchos

No tengo padre, no tengo madrc;
No hermana, no hcrmano;
O no! no! O no!

Which may be translated, "I have no father, I have no mother, nor brother, nor sister, and so on."
. . . The first verse here may be used as a chorus for all succeeding verses.

Arr. H. P.
Sad, and worse than sad /TN

I'm a poor lone -some cow-boy, I'm a poor lone -some cow-boy, I'm a

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poor lone - some cow - boy, And a long way from home.

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1 I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,
I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,
I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,
And a long way from home.

2 I ain't got no father,
I ain't got no father,
I ain't got no father,

To buy the clothes I wear.

8 I ain't got no mother,
I ain't got no mother,
I ain't g -t no mother,
To mend the clothes I wear.

4 I ain't got no sister,
I ain't got no sister,
I ain't got no sister,

To go and play with me.

5 I ain't got no brother,
I ain't got no brother,
I ain't got no brother,

To drive the steers with me.

6 I ain't got no sweetheart,
I ain't got no sweetheart,
I ain't got no sweetheart,
To sit and talk with me.

273

THE TENDERFOOT

A plain tale that has gravity and persuasion and belongs in the realistic school of narrative.
We may laugh, as bystanders usually do, when somebody else's mortal frame and personal dignity
are kicked around as with this tenderfoot. Text and tune are as sung by Norman Byrne of the
University of Oregon, and as he learned it in Alberta, Canada.

Arr. H. F.

One day I thought I'd have some fun, And see how punch -ing cows was done; So

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when tlie round - up had be - gun I tack - led the cat - tie king.

Says

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he, "My fore -man's gone to town, He's in a sa-loon and his name is Brown; If

274

THE TENDERFOOT

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you see him he'll take you down/* Says I, '* That's just the thing." .

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1 One day I thought I'd have some fun,
And see how punching cows was done;
So when the roundup had begun

I tackled the cattle king.
Says he, "My foreman's gone to town,
He's in a saloon and his name is Brown;
If you see him he'll take you down."
Says I, "That's just the thing."

2 We started out to the ranch next day.
Brown talked to me most all the way.
Says, "Punching cows is nothing but play,
It is no work at all."

Oh jimminy krissmas, how lie lied!
He had a hell of a lot of gall,
He put me in charge of the cavvy hole,
Says Brown, "Don't work too hard."

3 Sometimes those cattle would make a break
And across the prairie they would take,
Just like they was running for a stake.

To them it was nothing but play.
Sometimes they would stumble and fall,
Sometimes you couldn't head 'em at all,
And we'd shoot on like a cannonball
Till the ground came in our way.

4 They saddled me up an old gray hack
With a great big scat fast on his back.
They padded him down with gunny sack
And with my bedding too.

When I got on him he left the ground,
Went up in the air and circled around
And when I came down I busted the ground.
I got a terrible fall.

5 They picked me up and carried mo in
And rubbed me down with a picket pin.
Says, "That's the way they all begin."
"You're doing fine," says Brown.
"To-morrow morning if you don't die
I'll give you another hoss to try."
Says I, 4 'Oh can't 1 walk? ..."

Says Brown, "Yep, back to town."

6 I've travelled up, I've travelled down,
I've travelled this wide* world all around,
I've lived in city, I've lived in town;
I've got this much to say :

Before you go to punching cows, [your life,
Go kiss your wife, get a heavy insurance upon
And shoot yourself with a butcher knife,
For that is the easiest way.

27$

LITTLE AH SID

A popular song, a black-face minstrel ballad, a favorite among chuck wagon cooks on the Chis-
holm Trail, as I am told by one of the cooks who had been a minstrel. From West Coast cities it
traveled to gold diggings and cattle ranges.

Arr. M. L.

-++* H^-tr * K * LI- F

Lit - tie Ah Sid was a Chi - nese kid, A neat lit - tie cuss, I de -

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With eyes full of fun, And a nose that be - gun

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Way up in the roofs of his hair.

Ki - yee ki - yay, ki -

f : ,. * "

276

LITTLE AH SID

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yip - pi ki - yay, Ki -

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Sang

lit- tie Ah Sid, this Ch - i - nese kid, As he played the long sum-mer day.

1 Little Ah Sid was a Chinese kid,
A neat little cuss, I declare,
With eyes full of fun,

And a nose that begun

W r ay up in the roots of his hair.

Refrain:

"Ki-yce ki-yay, ki-yippi ki-yay,
Ki-yippi ki-yippi ki-yay,"
Sang little Ah Sid, this Chinese kid,
As he played the long summer day.

2 So jolly and fat was this innocent brat,
As he played in the long summer day,
And he braided his cue

Like papa used to

In Chinaland far away.

3 Once on a lawn that Ah Sid played on,
A bumble-bee flew in the spring.
"Ah, Mellicee bullifly!"

Cried he, winking his eye,

"Me ketch urn arid pull off urn wing."

4 And then with his cap he hit it a rap,
This innocent bumbley bee,

And he put its remains
In the seat of his janes
For a pocket there had this Chinee.

5 Now little Ah Sid was only a kid;
How could you exjxjet him to guess
What kind of a bug

He was holding so snug

In the folds of his loose-fitting dress.

6 "Ki-yee ki-yay, ki-yippi ki-yay,"
As he hurriedly rose from the spot,
" Ki-yee ki-yam,

Um Mellican man,

Urn bullifly velly dam hot!"

377

THE KINKAIDERS

These verses, from the Edwin Ford Piper collection of pioneer songs at the University of Iowa*
go to a melody based on Maryland, My Maryland, which in turn is based on the German song,
O Tanneribaurn, which in turn derived from an old Italian melody, Vittoria. The phrase "out of
sight" in the late 1880's was slang indicating excellence or superfine quality. Homesteaders in the
Nebraska sandhills sang this at old settlers* picnics, at reunions, and political gatherings. Moses P.
Kinkaid, Congressman from the Sixth District, 1903-1919, introduced a bill for 640-acre homesteads
and was hailed as a benefactor of the .sandhill region.

Arr. A. G. W.

You ask what place I like the !>cst, The sandhills, O the old sandhills; The

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place Kiri-kaid - ers make tlicir home, And prai - rie chick - ens free - ly roam.

-==3=

KKKRAIN

Iii all Ne-bras - ka's wide domain 'Tis the place we long to see a -gain; The

278

THE KINKAIDERS

J. J J J |-JL_J_J

sand hills are the ver - y best, She is the queen of all the rest.

1 You ask what place I like the best,
The sand hills, the old sand hills;
The plaee Kinkaiders make their home,
And prairie ehiekens freely roam.

Chorus:

In all Nebraska's wide domain
'Tis the place we long to see again;
The sand hills are the very best,
She is the queen of all the rest.

2 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.

8 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:

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.

DAKOTA LAND

Older nations have had peasant revolts and agrarian movements and parties. The United States
has had its Greenback, Populist, Nonpartisan League and Farm Bloc movements, all of them
western, and in part representative of strugglers in semi-arid areas where so often "the rain's just
gone around." A poet of those strugglers, Edwin Ford Piper, in "Barbed Wire and Wayfarers/*
uses their lingo:

Run, you M stiff-kneed grasshopper,
You spiral-spirted jackrabbit, you!
A-ho, whoopee!

Brown's Hotel we're bound to see,
Swing them girls at the dance party,
One-and-twcrity on a moonlight spree
A- ho, whoopee!
Whoa, Zebe, whoa!
Whoa, 'till I hitch you, whoa!

In a piece on "The Drought," he tells how

On the whitening grass,

With bright and helpless eyes, a meadow lark
Sits open-beaked and des{x?rately mute.
The thin, brown wheat that was too short to cut
Stands in the field; the feeble corn, breast high,
Shows yellowed leaf and tassel.

And from Piper's song collection we have a psalm of a desolate people, " Dakota Land," with an air
somewhat after the gospel hymn, "Beulah Land."

Arr. A. G. W.

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We've reached the land of des - rrt sweet, Where noth - ing grows for man to eat, The

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wind it blows with fev - 'rish heat A - cross the plains so hard to l>eat.

DAKOTA LAND

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O Da - ko - ta land, sweet Da - ko - ta land, As on thy fier - y

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soil Island, I look a- cross the plains, And won-derwhy it ncv - er

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rains, Till (ia - briel blows his truin-pctsound,And says the rain's just gone a -round.

r-T-- J -

1 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 l>eat.

Refrain:

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.

2 We've reached the land of hills and stones
Where all is strewn with buffalo bones.

buffalo bones, bleached buffalo bones,

1 seem to hear your sighs and rnoans.

3 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.

4 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.

281

THE FARMER

Fragments of this were heard in Illinois in the early 1890*8. S. K Barlow, a Galesburg milk-
man who used to be a fiddler at country dances near Galva, sang it for me as we washed eight- and
two-gallon delivery cans and quart-measure cups on winter afternoons. W. W. Delaney said,

"As near as I remember that song came out in the 1860's, just after the war."

AIT. L. R. G.

When the farm - er comes to town, With his wag - on bro - ken down, O, the

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farm - er is the man who feeds them all! If you'll on - ly look and see, I . .

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think you will a - gree That the farm - er is the man who feeds them all. . .

THE FARMER

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The farm - er is the man, Tin- farm - er is the man,

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Buys on cred-it till the fall; Then they take him by the hand, And they

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lead him to the land, And the merch-ant i> the man who gets it all. . .

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1 Wlien the farmer comes to town,
With his wagon broken down,
O, the farmer is the man who feeds them all!
If you'll only look and see,
I think you will agree

The doctor hangs around

While the blacksmith heats his iron,

0, the farmer is the man who feeds them all!

The preacher and the cook

Go strolling by the brook,

That the farmer is the man who feeds them all. And the farmer is the man who feeds them all.

Refrain:

The farmer is the man,
The farmer is the man,
Buys on credit till the fall;
Then they take him by the hand,
And they lead him to the land,
And the merchant is the man who gets it all.

283

Refrain:

The farmer is the man,
The farmer is the man,
Buys on credit till the fall.
Tho' his family comes to town,
With a wagon broken down,
0, the fanner is the man who feeds them all!

RABBLE SOLDIER

This also travels under the names of "O Molly" and "My Horses Ain't Hungry." John
Lomax gives a version called "Jack O' Diamonds," with one chorus going

If the ocean was whiskey, and I was a duck,
I'd dive to the bottom to get one sweet sup;
But the ocean ain't whiskey, and I ain't a duck,
So I'll play Jack O' Diamonds and then we'll get drunk.
O Baby, O Baby, I've told you before,
Do make me a pallet, I'll lie on the floor.

Texts and tunes are related to southern mountain songs, to old English and Scotch ballads, blends
of "Old Smokey," "Clinch Mountain," "Skew Ball," "Rebel Soldier," "I'm a Poor Troubled
Soldier."

LIUlngly Arr. H. F.

I've ram-bled and gam-bled all mymon-ey a - way, And it's with the rab-ble

ar - my, O Mol - ly, I'll stay; I'll think of you, Mol - ly, you

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caused me to roam, I'm an old rab~- ble sol - dier and Dix -ie's my home.

RABBLE SOLDIER

1 I've rambled and gambled all my money away,
And it's with the rabble army, O Molly, I'll stay;
I'll think of you, Molly, you caused me to roam,
I'm an old rabble soldier and Dixie's my home.

2 I'll build me a castle on a mountain so high,

Where the bluebirds and white doves can't hear my cry;
Your parents are against me, they say I'm too jxx>r,
They say I'm not worthy to enter your door.

3 My horses ain't hungry, they won't eat your hay,
Farewell, little darling, I'll be on my way;

As sure as the dew falls upon the green corn,
Last night I was with her, to-night she is gone.

THE TRAIL TO MEXICO

We have this'mixture of plain facts and romantic language from an informal gathering of news-
paper workers in Fort Worth, Texas, when tune and text were made known by Jake Zeitlin, Frank
Wolfe, and an oil driller. It is a cow trail classic, to be delivered earnestly like a witness who
knows his names and dates and as though everybody knows who A. J. Stinson is. . . . "Get the
hang of the tune and all the lines are easy to pucker in."

It was in the mer - ry month of May When I start-ed for Tex - as far

a -

way, I left my dar- ling girl be- hind; She said her heart was on - ly mine.

1 It was in the merry month of May
When I started for Texas far away,
I left my darling girl behind;

She said her heart was only mine.

2 O it was when I embraced her in my arms,
I thought she had ten thousand charms;
Her caresses were soft, her kisses were sweet,
Saying, "We'll get married next time we meet.**

8 It was in the year of 'eighty-three
That A. J. Stinson hired me;
He says, "Young man, I want you to go
And follow this herd into Mexico."

285

THE TRAIL TO MEXICO

4 Well, it was early in the year

When I started out to drive those steers;
Through sleet and snow 'twas a lonesome go
As the herd rolled on into Mexico.

5 When I arrived in Mexico

I wanted to see my girl hut I could not go;

So I wrote a letter to my dear

But not a word for years did I hear.

6 Well, I started back to my once loved home,
Inquired for the girl I had called my own;
They said she had married a richer life,
Therefore, wild cowboy, seek another wife.

7 "O bucldie, O buddie, please stay at home,
Don't forever be on the roam.

There is many a girl more true than I,
So pray don't go where the bullets fly."

8 "O curse your gold and your silver too.
God pity a girl that won't prove true.
I'll travel west where the bullets fly.
I'll stay on the trail till the day I die."

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