Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp Part 12

(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.) Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw."_ _Charles Badger Clark._

THE COWBOY'S DANCE SONG

YOU can't expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks In etiquettish manner in aristocratic ranks When he's always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe At the rattling rancher dances where much etiquet don't go.

You can bet I set them laughing in quite an excited way, A-giving of their squinters an astonished sort of play, When I happened into Denver and was asked to take a prance In the smooth and easy mazes of a high-toned dance.

When I got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white, And the dudes togged out in wrappings that were simply out of sight, Tell you what, I was embarra.s.sed, and somehow I couldn't keep From feeling like a burro in a pretty flock of sheep.

Every step I made was awkward and I blushed a fiery red Like the princ.i.p.al adornment of a turkey gobbler's head.

The ladies said 'twas seldom that they had had the chance To see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance.

I cut me out a heifer from a bunch of pretty girls And yanked her to the center to dance the dreamy whirls.

She laid her head upon my bosom in a loving sort of way And we drifted into heaven as the band began to play.

I could feel my neck a-burning from her nose's breathing heat, And she do-ce-doed around me, half the time upon my feet; She peered up in my blinkers with a soul-dissolving glance Quite conducive to the pleasures of a high-toned dance.

Every nerve just got a-dancing to the music of delight As I hugged the little sagehen uncomfortably tight; But she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes Seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise.

She snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way, And I hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play,-- Tell you what the joys of heaven ain't a cussed circ.u.mstance To the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance.

When they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare, Every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear.

I fetched a cowboy whoop and started in to rag, And cut her with my trotters till the floor began to sag; Swung my pardner till she got sea-sick and rushed for a seat; I balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat.-- Tell you what, I shook the creases from my go-to-meeting pants When I put the cowboy tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs on that high-toned dance.

_James Barton Adams._

THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL

WAY out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow, Where the cattle are "a-browzin'" and the Spanish ponies grow; Where the Norther "comes a-whistlin'" from beyond the Neutral strip And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as if they had "the Grip"; Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark, And the mocking-birds are singin' to the lovely "medder lark"; Where the 'possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes abound, And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound; Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call-- It was there that I attended "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."

The town was Anson City, old Jones's county seat, Where they raise Polled Angus cattle, and waving whiskered wheat; Where the air is soft and "bammy," an' dry an' full of health, And the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth; Where they print the _Texas Western_, that Hec. McCann supplies, With news and yarns and stories, of most amazin' size; Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger," on knowin' tender feet, And Democracy's triumphant, and mighty hard to beat; Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap from Lamar, Who "used to be the sheriff, back East, in Paris, sah!"

'Twas there, I say, at Anson, with the lively "Widder Wall,"

That I went to that reception, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."

The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles; The ladies--"kinder scatterin'"--had gathered in for miles.

And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well, 'Twas got for the occasion at "The Morning Star Hotel."

The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, And a "viol come imported," by stage from Abilene.

The room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls, And candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls.

The "wimmin folks" looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed, Till their leader commenced yellin': "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede."

The music started sighin' and a-wailin' through the hall, As a kind of introduction to "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."

The leader was a fellow that came from Swenson's Ranch, They called him "Windy Billy," from "little Dead-man's Branch."

His rig was "kinder keerless," big spurs and high-heeled boots; He had the reputation that comes when "fellers shoots."

His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain's height; His feet were animated, an' a _mighty movin' sight_, When he commenced to holler, "Neow, fellers, stake yer pen!

Lock horns to all them heifers, an' russle 'em like men.

Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an' let 'em go, Climb the grape vine round 'em--all hands do-ce-do!

And Mavericks, jine the round-up--Jest skip her waterfall,"

Huh! hit wuz gittin' happy, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"

The boys were tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat, That old ba.s.s viol's music _just got there with both feet_.

That wailin' frisky fiddle, I never shall forget; And Windy kept a singin'--I think I hear him yet-- "O Xes, chase your squirrels, an' cut 'em to one side, Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride, Doc. Hollis down the middle, an' twine the ladies' chain, Varn Andrews pen the fillies in big T. Diamond's train.

All pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an' change, 'Big Boston' lead the trail herd, through little Pitchfork's range.

Purr round yer gentle p.u.s.s.ies, neow rope 'em! Balance all!"

Huh! hit wuz gittin' active--"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"

The dust riz fast an' furious, we all just galloped round, Till the scenery got so giddy, that Z Bar d.i.c.k was downed.

We buckled to our partners, an' told 'em to hold on, Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.

Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir 'ee!

That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me.

I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill, Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill.

McAllister ain't nowhere! when Windy leads the show, I've seen 'em both in harness, an' so I sorter know-- Oh, Bill, I sha'n't forget yer, and I'll oftentimes recall, That lively-gaited sworray--"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."

_Larry Chittenden in_ "_Ranch Verses."_

A DANCE AT THE RANCH

FROM every point they gaily come, the broncho's unshod feet Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat; The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind-- Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind.

The das.h.i.+ng cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones, Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers, And pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears.

Within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly gathered throng Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song; The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain.

The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and sc.r.a.pe of bow, Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low; Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret Until their ears are greeted with the warning words, "All set!

S'lute yer pardners! Let 'er go!

Balance all an' do-ce-do!

Swing yer girls an' run away!

Right an' left an' gents sashay!

Gents to right an' swing or cheat!

On to next gal an' repeat!

Balance next an' don't be shy!

Swing yer pard an' swing 'er high!

Bunch the gals an' circle round!

Whack yer feet until they bound!

Form a basket! Break away!

Swing an' kiss an' all git gay!

Al'man left an' balance all!

Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall!

Swing yer op'sites! Swing agin!

Kiss the sagehens if you kin!"

An' thus the merry dance went on till morning's struggling light In lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night, And broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes.

The cowboys to the ranges speed to "work" the lowing herds, The girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds, And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree They had that night at Jackson's ranch down on the Owyhee.

_Anonymous._