Cowboy Songs Part 11

The Cowboy (Mus. Not.)

Music by the "Kid"

All day on the prai-rie in the sad-dle I ride, Not e-ven a dog, boys, to trot by my side.

My fire I must kin-dle with chips gathered round, And boil my own cof-fee with-out be-ing ground.

I wash in a pool and I wipe on a sack, I car-ry my ward-robe all on my back.

BILL PETERS, THE STAGE DRIVER

Bill Peters was a hustler From Independence town; He warn't a college scholar Nor man of great renown, But Bill had a way o' doing things And doin' 'em up brown.

Bill driv the stage from Independence Up to the Smokey Hill; And everybody knowed him thar As Independence Bill,-- Thar warn't no feller on the route That driv with half the skill.

Bill driv four pair of horses, Same as you'd drive a team, And you'd think you was a-travelin'

On a railroad driv by steam; And he'd git thar on time, you bet, Or Bill 'u'd bust a seam.

He carried mail and pa.s.sengers, And he started on the dot, And them teams o' his'n, so they say, Was never known to trot; But they went it in a gallop And kept their axles hot.

When Bill's stage 'u'd bust a tire, Or something 'u'd break down, He'd hustle round and patch her up And start off with a bound; And the wheels o' that old shack o' his Scarce ever touched the ground.

And Bill didn't low no foolin', And when Inguns hove in sight And bullets rattled at the stage, He druv with all his might; He'd holler, "Fellers, give 'em h.e.l.l, I ain't got time to fight."

Then the way them wheels 'u'd rattle, And the way the dust 'u'd fly, You'd think a million cattle, Had stampeded and gone by; But the mail 'u'd get thar just the same, If the horses had to die.

He driv that stage for many a year Along the Smokey Hill, And a pile o' wild Comanches Did Bill Peters have to kill,-- And I reckon if he'd had good luck He'd been a drivin' still.

But he chanced one day to run agin A bullet made o' lead, Which was harder than he bargained for And now poor Bill is dead; And when they brung his body home A barrel of tears was shed.

HARD TIMES

Come listen a while and I'll sing you a song Concerning the times--it will not be long-- When everybody is striving to buy, And cheating each other, I cannot tell why,-- And it's hard, hard times.

From father to mother, from sister to brother, From cousin to cousin, they're cheating each other.

Since cheating has grown to be so much the fas.h.i.+on, I believe to my soul it will run the whole Nation,-- And it's hard, hard times.

Now there is the talker, by talking he eats, And so does the butcher by killing his meats.

He'll toss the steelyards, and weigh it right down, And swear it's just right if it lacks forty pounds,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there is the merchant, as honest, we're told.

Whatever he sells you, my friend, you are sold; Believe what I tell you, and don't be surprised To find yourself cheated half out of your eyes,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there is the lawyer you plainly will see, He will plead your case for a very large fee, He'll law you and tell you the wrong side is right, And make you believe that a black horse is white,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there is the doctor, I like to forgot, I believe to my soul he's the worst of the lot; He'll tell you he'll cure you for half you possess, And when you're buried he'll take all the rest,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there's the old bachelor, all hated with scorn, He's like an old garment all tattered and torn, The girls and the widows all toss him a sigh, And think it quite right, and so do I,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there's the young widow, coquettish and shy, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye, But when she gets married she'll cut quite a dash, She'll give him the reins and she'll handle the cash,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there's the young lady I like to have missed, And I believe to my soul she'd like to be kissed; She'll tell you she loves you with all pretence And ask you to call again some time hence,-- And it's hard, hard times.

And there's the young man, the worst of the whole.

Oh, he will tell you with all of his soul, He'll tell you he loves you and for you will die, And when he's away he will swear it's a lie,-- And it's hard, hard times.

COLE YOUNGER

Am one of a band of highwaymen, Cole Younger is my name; My crimes and depredations have brought my friends to shame; The robbing of the Northfield Bank, the same I can't deny, For now I am a prisoner, in the Stillwater jail I lie.

'Tis of a bold, high robbery, a story to you I'll tell, Of a California miner who unto us befell; We robbed him of his money and bid him go his way, For which I will be sorry until my dying day.

And then we started homeward, when brother Bob did say: "Now, Cole, we will buy fast horses and on them ride away.

We will ride to avenge our father's death and try to win the prize; We will fight those anti-guerrillas until the day we die."

And then we rode towards Texas, that good old Lone Star State, But on Nebraska's prairies the James boys we did meet; With knives, guns, and revolvers we all sat down to play, A-drinking of good whiskey to pa.s.s the time away.

A Union Pacific railway train was the next we did surprise, And the crimes done by our b.l.o.o.d.y hands bring tears into my eyes.

The engineerman and fireman killed, the conductor escaped alive, And now their bones lie mouldering beneath Nebraska's skies.

Then we saddled horses, northwestward we did go, To the G.o.d-forsaken country called Min-ne-so-te-o; I had my eye on the Northfield bank when brother Bob did say, "Now, Cole, if you undertake the job, you will surely curse the day."

But I stationed out my pickets and up to the bank did go, And there upon the counter I struck my fatal blow.

"Just hand us over your money and make no further delay, We are the famous Younger brothers, we spare no time to pray."

MISSISSIPPI GIRLS

Come, all you Mississippi girls, and listen to my noise, If you happen to go West, don't you marry those Texian boys; For if you do, your fortune will be Cold jonny-cake and beefsteak, that's all that you will see,-- Cold jonny-cake and beefsteak, that's all that you will see.

When they go courting, here's what they wear: An old leather coat, and it's all ripped and tore; And an old brown hat with the brim tore down, And a pair of dirty socks, they've worn the winter round.

When one comes in, the first thing you hear Is, "Madam, your father has killed a deer"; And the next thing they say when they sit down Is, "Madam, the jonny-cake is too d.a.m.ned brown."