I'VE busted bronchos off and on
Since first I struck their trail,
And you bet I savvy bronchos
From nostrils down to tail;
But I struck one on Powder River,
And say, hands, he was the first
And only living broncho
That your servant couldn't burst.
He was a no-count buckskin,
Wasn't worth two-bits to keep,
Had a black stripe down his backbone,
And was woolly like a sheep.
That hoss wasn't built to tread the earth;
He took natural to the air;
And every time he went aloft
He tried to leave me there.
He went so high above the earth
Lights from Jerusalem shone.
Right thar we parted company
And he came down alone.
I hit terra firma,
The buckskin's heels struck free,
And brought a bunch of stars along
To dance in front of me.
[p. 103]
I'm not a-riding airships
Nor an electric flying beast;
Ain't got no rich relation
A-waitin' me back East;
So I'll sell my chaps and saddle,
My spurs can lay and rust;
For there's now and then a digger
That a buster cannot bust.
Anonymous.
THE OL' COW HAWSE
WHEN it comes to saddle hawses, there's a difference in steeds:
There is fancy-gaited critters that will suit some feller's needs;
There is nags high-bred an' tony, with a smooth an' shiny skin,
That will capture all the races that you want to run 'em in.
But fer one that never tires; one that's faithful, tried and true;
One that allus is a "stayer" when you want to slam him through,
There is but one breed o' critters that I ever came across
That will allus stand the racket: 'tis the
Ol'
Cow
Hawse
No, he ain't so much fer beauty, fer he's scrubby an' he's rough,
An' his temper's sort o' sassy, but you bet he's good enough!
Fer he'll take the trail o' mornin's, be it up or be it down,
[p. 105] On the range a-huntin' cattle or a-lopin' into town,
An' he'll leave the miles behind him, an' he'll never sweat a hair,
'Cuz he's a willin' critter when he's goin' anywhere.
Oh, your thoroughbred at runnin' in a race may be the boss,
But fer all day ridin' lemme have the
Ol'
Cow
Hawse
When my soul seeks peace and quiet on the home ranch of the blest,
Where no storms or stampedes bother, an' the trails are trails o' rest,
When my brand has been inspected an' pronounced to be O K,
An' the boss has looked me over an' has told me I kin stay,
Oh, I'm hopin' when I'm lopin' off across that blessed range
That I won't be in a saddle on a critter new an' strange,
But I'm prayin' every minnit that up there I'll ride across
That big heaven range o' glory on an
Ol'
Cow
Hawse
E. A. Brinninstool.