We've lived in the saddle and ridden trail,
Drink old Jordan, boys,
We'll go whooping and yelling, we'll all go a-helling;
Drink her to our joy.
Whoop-ee! drink that rot gut, drink that red nose,
Whenever you get to town;
Drink it straight and swig it mighty,
Till the world goes round and round!
I'd rather hear a rattler rattle,
I'd rather buck stampeding cattle,
I'd rather go to a greaser battle,
Than—
Than to—
Than to fight—
Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
I'd rather eat a pan of dope,
I'd rather ride without a rope,
I'd rather from this country lope,
Than—
Than to—
Than to fight—
Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
Come, all you old cowpunchers, a story I will tell,
And if you'll all be quiet, I sure will sing it well;
And if you boys don't like it, you sure can go to hell.
Back in the day when I was young, I knew a man named Hods;
He wasn't fit fer nothin' 'cep turnin' up the clods.
But he came west in fifty-three, behind a pair of mules,
And 'twas hard to tell between the three which was the biggest fools.
Up on the plains old Hods he got and there his trouble began.
Oh, he sure did get in trouble,—and old Hodsie wasn't no man.