"Tell us how it happened any way John," Bud Perkins said. "Give us the story of it."
"Go on John. Sing about the cowboy," Peter Slater coaxed.
"It iss a teffle of a good song, that," chuckled Tonald.
"Well," John began, clearing his throat, "here it's for you. I've ruined me voice drivin' oxen though, but here's the song."
It was a song of the plains, weird and wistful, with an uncouth plaintiveness that fascinated these lonely hill-dwellers.
As I was a-walkin' one beautiful morning,
As I was a-walkin' one morning in May,
I saw a poor cowboy rolled up in his blanket,
Rolled up in his blanket as cold as the clay!
The listener would naturally suppose that the cowboy was dead in his blanket that lovely May morning; but that idea had to be abandoned as the song went on, because the cowboy was very much alive in the succeeding verses, when—
Round the bar bummin' where bullets were hummin'
He snuffed out the candle to show why he come!
Then his way of giving directions for his funeral was somewhat out of the usual procedure but no one seemed to notice these little discrepancies—
Beat the drum slowly boys, beat the drum lowly boys,
Beat the dead march as we hurry along.
To show that ye love me, boys, write up above me, boys,
"Here lies a poor cowboy who knows he done wrong."