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 man
And you'd know there was whiskey wherever he'd land.
My hoss throwed me off at the creek called Mud,
My hoss throwed me off round the 2-U herd.
Last time I saw him he was going cross the level
A-kicking up his heels and a-runnin' like the devil.
It's cloudy in the west, a-lookin' like rain,
An' my damned old slicker's in the wagon again.
Crippled my hoss, I don't know how,
Ropin' at the horns of a 2-U cow.
We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly,
We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by.
No chaps, no slicker, and it's pourin' down rain,
An' I swear, by God, I'll never night-herd again.
Feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle,
I hung and rattled with them long-horn cattle.
Last night I was on guard and the leader broke the ranks,
I hit my horse down the shoulders and I spurred him in the flanks.