LITMIR.BIZ

      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 here I'm dressed in rags,

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

      "But I've 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.

      "After the round-ups are over and after the shipping is 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 work is 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."

      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.

      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 mother my wages, the wages I have earned,

      For I'm afraid, boys, my last steer I have turned.

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

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

      "Fred, you take my saddle; George, you take my bed;

      Bill, you take my pistol after I am dead,

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

      For I'll not see my mother when work is 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,

      And he'll not see his mother when the work's all done this fall."

      I'll sing you a song, though it may be a sad one,

      Of trials and troubles and where they first begun;

      I left my dear kindred, my friends, and my home,

      Across the wild deserts and mountains to roam.

      I crossed the Missouri and joined a large train

      Which bore us over mountain and valley and plain;

      And often of evenings out hunting we'd go

      To shoot the fleet antelope and wild buffalo.

      We heard of Sioux Indians all out on the plains

      A-killing poor drivers and burning their trains,—

      A-killing poor drivers with arrows and bow,

      When captured by Indians no mercy they show.

      We traveled three weeks till we came to the Platte

      And pitched out our tents at the end of the flat,

      We spread down our blankets on the green grassy ground,

      While our horses and mules were grazing around.

      While taking refreshment we heard a low yell,

      The whoop of Sioux Indians coming up from the dell;

      We sprang to our rifles with a flash in each eye,

      "Boys," says our brave leader, "we'll fight till we die."

      They made a bold dash and came near to our train

      And the arrows fell around us like hail and like rain,

      But with our long rifles we fed them cold lead

      Till many a brave warrior around us lay dead.

      We shot their bold chief at the head of his band.

      He died like a warrior with a gun in his hand.

      When they saw their bold chief lying dead in his gore,

      They whooped and they yelled and we saw them no more.

      With our small band,—there were just twenty-four,—

      And the Sioux Indians there were five hundred or more,—

      We fought them with courage; we spoke not a word,

      Till the end of the battle was all that was heard.

      We hitched up our horses and we started our train;

      Three more bloody battles this trip on the plain;

      And in our last battle three of our brave boys fell,

      And we left them to rest in a green, shady dell.

      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

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