Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads - Various

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wild tide.

      Utah's voice controlled the round-up. "Lay still, little Varro," he cried.

      His only hope was to raise her, to catch her at full speed,

      And oft-times he had been known to catch the trail rope off his steed.

      His pony reached the maiden with a firm and steady bound;

      Utah swung out from the saddle to catch her from the ground.

      He swung out from the saddle, I thought her safe from harm,

      As he swung in his saddle to raise her in his arm.

      But the cinches of his saddle had not been felt before,

      And his back cinch snapt asunder and he fell by the side of Varro.

      He picked up the blanket and swung it over his head

      And started across the prairie; "Lay still, little Varro," he said.

      Well, he got the stampede turned and saved little Varro, his friend.

      Then he turned to face the cattle and meet his fatal end.

      His six-shooter from his pocket, from the scabbard he quickly drew,—

      He was bound to die defended as all young cowboys do.

      His six-shooter flashed like lightning, the report rang loud and clear;

      As the cattle rushed in and killed him he dropped the leading steer.

      And when we broke the circle where Utah's body lay,

      With many a wound and bruise his young life ebbed away.

      "And in some future morning," I heard the preacher say,

      "I hope we'll all meet Utah at the round-up far away."

      Then we wrapped him in a blanket sent by his little friend,

      And it was that very red blanket that brought him to his end.

      THE BULL-WHACKER

      I'm a lonely bull-whacker

      On the Red Cloud line,

      I can lick any son of a gun

      That will yoke an ox of mine.

      And if I can catch him,

      You bet I will or try,

      I'd lick him with an ox-bow,—

      Root hog or die.

      It's out on the road

      With a very heavy load,

      With a very awkward team

      And a very muddy road,

      You may whip and you may holler,

      But if you cuss it's on the sly;

      Then whack the cattle on, boys,—

      Root hog or die.

      It's out on the road

      These sights are to be seen,

      The antelope and buffalo,

      The prairie all so green,—

      The antelope and buffalo,

      The rabbit jumps so high;

      It's whack the cattle on, boys,—

      Root hog or die.

      It's every day at twelve

      There's something for to do;

      And if there's nothing else,

      There's a pony for to shoe;

      I'll throw him down,

      And still I'll make him lie;

      Little pig, big pig,

      Root hog or die.

      Now perhaps you'd like to know

      What we have to eat,

      A little piece of bread

      And a little dirty meat,

      A little black coffee,

      And whiskey on the sly;

      It's whack the cattle on, boys,—

      Root hog or die.

      There's hard old times on Bitter Creek

      That never can be beat,

      It was root hog or die

      Under every wagon sheet;

      We cleaned up all the Indians,

      Drank all the alkali,

      And it's whack the cattle on, boys,—

      Root hog or die.

      There was good old times in Salt Lake

      That never can pass by,

      It was there I first spied

      My China girl called Wi.

      She could smile, she could chuckle,

      She could roll her hog eye;

      Then it's whack the cattle on, boys,—

      Root hog or die.

      Oh, I'm going home

      Bull-whacking for to spurn,

      I ain't got a nickel,

      And I don't give a dern.

      'Tis when I meet a pretty girl,

      You bet I will or try,

      I'll make her my little wife,—

      Root hog or die.

      THE "METIS" SONG OF THE BUFFALO HUNTERS

By Robideau

      Hurrah for the buffalo hunters!

      Hurrah for the cart brigade!

      That creak along on its winding way,

      While we dance and sing and play.

      Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade!

      Hurrah for the Pembinah hunters!

      Hurrah for its cart brigade!

      For with horse and gun we roll along

      O'er mountain and hill and plain.

      Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade!

      We whipped the Sioux and scalped them too,

      While on the western plain,

      And rode away on our homeward way

      With none to say us nay,—

      Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! Hurrah!

      Mon ami, mon ami, hurrah for our black-haired girls!

      That braved the Sioux and fought them too,

      While on Montana's plains.

      We'll hold them true and love them too,

      While on the trail of the Pembinah, hurrah!

      Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade of Pembinah!

      We have the skins and the meat so sweet.

      And we'll sit by the fire in the lodge so neat,

      While the wind blows cold and the snow is deep.

      Then roll in our robes and laugh as we sleep.

      Hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! Hurrah!

      Hurrah! Hurrah!

      THE COWBOY'S LAMENT

      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 as cold as the clay.

      "Oh,

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