Refrain:
They started as a thieving line
In eighteen hundred and forty-nine;
All opposition they defy,
So the people must root hog or die.
You're crowded in with Chinamen,
As fattening hogs are in a pen;
And what will more a man provoke
Is musty plug tobacco smoke.
The ladies are compelled to sit
With dresses in tobacco spit;
The gentlemen don't seem to care,
But talk on politics and swear.
The dust is deep in summer time,
The mountains very hard to climb,
And drivers often stop and yell,
"Get out, all hands, and push up hill."
The drivers, when they feel inclined,
Will have you walking on behind,
And on your shoulders lug a pole
To help them out some muddy hole.
They promise when your fare you pay,
"You'll have to walk but half the way";
Then add aside, with cunning laugh,
"You'll have to push the other half."
My country, 'tis of thee,
Land where things used to be
So cheap, we croak.
Land of the mavericks,
Land of the puncher's tricks,
Thy culture-inroad pricks
The hide of this peeler-bloke.
Some of the punchers swear
That what they eat and wear
Takes all their calves.
Others vow that they
Eat only once a day
Jerked beef and prairie hay
Washed down with tallow salves.
These salty-dogs[14] but crave
To pull them out the grave
Just one Kiowa spur.
They know they still will dine
On flesh and beef the time;
But give us, Lord divine,
One "hen-fruit stir."[15]