THE COWBOY
HE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,
And leggins of fancy fringed leather;
He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots,
And he's happy in all kinds of weather;
He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course,
For oh, he can ride like the devil;
He is old for his years and he always appears
Like a fellow who's lived on the level;
He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look
Of a man that to fear is a stranger;
Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve
For his wild life of duty and danger.
He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet,
And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it;
He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear
At the rate of two-forty a minute;
His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West,
Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;
Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks,
But his knowledge is not got from your scholars;
He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,
And he hates and despises a coward;
Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kind
Though he'll fight till by death overpowered.
[p. 128] Hence I say unto you,— give the cowboy his due
And be kind, my friends, to his folly;
For he's generous and brave though he may not behave
Like your dudes, who are so melancholy.
Anonymous.
BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT
WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,
'Tis said — an' we know who 'tis —
"Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch,
An' uses us in his biz."
Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss,
An' you'd sure admit that's right,
If you happened — an' unbeknown to us —
Around, of a Sunday night.
Th' week-day manners is stowed away,
Th' jokes an' the card games halts,
When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to play
A toon — an' it ain't no waltz.
It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight,
It delves through th' toughest crust,
It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight,
Till we've got ter sing — er bust!
With pipin' treble the kid starts in,
An' Hell! how that kid kin sing!
"Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin,"
He leads, an' the rafters ring;
"Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,"
We shouts it with force an' vim;
[p. 130] "Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"—
That's puttin' it up to Him!
We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z,
But many a time an' oft
When ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me,"
Our hearts gets kinder soft.
An' we makes some promises there an' then
Which we keeps — till we goes to bed,—
That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men
What ain't no saints, as I said.
Percival Combes.