It was on a restful evening, after supper was over and the last rays of the sun were sinking; the men were lounging about in the most comfortable positions they could find; the talk had died down to a monosyllable now and then. Matt, the broncho buster, broke the silence: "Frank, give us the 'Grass of Uncle Sam'; you're the only feller that can remember words and tune both."
And Frank, obliging as always, without any excuses or palavering, sang the following in a good strong baritone:
THE GRASS OF UNCLE SAM.
Now, people of the Eastern towns,
It's little that you know
About the Western prairies:
Where the beef you eat does grow;
Where the horses they run wild
With the mountain-sheep and ram;
And the cow-boy sleeps contented
On the grass of Uncle Sam.
We go out onto the round-up
To brand the sucking calf.
The stranger gets the bucking horse
(You bet then we all laugh).
He flings his arms towards the sky,
His legs get in a jam;
He turns a flying somersault
On the grass of Uncle Sam.
The angry bull takes after us
With blood in both his eyes;
We run, but when his back is turned
He gets a big surprise.
Our ropes jerk out his legs behind
And he goes down kerslam!
We drag the fighting out of him
On the grass of Uncle Sam.