“ 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 ”

“ A COWBOY RACE
A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail
When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail,
A long roll of hoofs,— and the earth is a drum!
The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!
A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;
A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;
A swift-swirling dust-cloud — a mad hurricane
Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;
Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun
The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!
J. C. Davis.
p. 132
THE HABIT
I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown ”

“ Here again, too, we may see the cowboy at work and at play; hear the jingle of his big bell spurs, the swish of his rope, the creaking of his saddle gear, the thud of thousands of hoofs on the long, long trail winding from Texas to Montana; and know something of the life that attracted from the East some of its best young blood to a work that was necessary in the winning of the West. The trails are becoming dust covered or grass grown or lost underneath the farmers' furrow ”

“ THE DESERT
'TWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul,
As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky,
The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole
For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry!
"He came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell;
And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done.
He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell,
Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop — just one." ”

“ Broncho Bill leaned at the door, watched the twirling stream.
Twenty fiends were at his heart snarling, "Kill him sure."
(Out of hell that woman came.) "I love you, Belle McClure."
Broncho Bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem.
The dance is done. Shots crack as one. The crowd shoves for the door.
p. 7 Broncho Bill is lying there and blood upon the floor.
"You've finished me; you've gambler's luck; you've won the trick and Belle.
Mine the soul that here tonight is passing down to hell.
And I must ride the trail alone. Goodbye to Belle McClure." ”

“ No more the mavericks, winding stream of horns
p. 157 To Kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songs
And cries, the pistol's sharp report,— the free,
Wild days in Texas by the Rio Grande.
And some men say when dusky night shuts down,
Dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star,
One sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plain
Hard by Mackenzie's trail; and keener ears
Have heard from deep within the bordering hills
The tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows,
The rumble of a moving wagon train,
Sometimes far echoes of a frontier song ”

“ The long trail ends today, —
The long trail ends today,
The punchers go to play
And all you weary cattle
May sleep in peace for sure,—
May sleep in peace for sure,—
Sleep, sleep for sure.
The moon can't bite you heah,
Nor punchers fright you heah. ”

“ Gaunt and grizzled, a Texas man from out of the concourse strode,
And doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle head;
The sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage glowed;
"Marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here," he said.
A hush ran over the waiting throng as the Cherubim replied:
"He that readeth the hearts of men He deemeth your challenge strange,
Though He long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not walk but ride,
Oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range!" ”

“ And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat;
The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod
Some Texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod.
With lasso, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill;
p. 177 They pass with him to history and naught their place can fill;
While he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page,—
But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage.
And oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies! ”

“ That top horse gave a snort and whirled and Bob took up the slack.
"Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "we'll hit the glory trail.
p. 34 No man has looped a lion's head and lived to drag the critter dead
Till I shall tell the tale."
'Way high up in the Mokiones that top hoss done his best,
'Mid whippin' brush and rattlin' stones from canon-floor to crest;
Up and down and round and cross Bob pounded weak and wan,
But pride still glued him to his hoss and glory spurred him on.
"Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "this glory trail is rough! ”

“ Lomax — who loves these verses and the men who first sang them — one reconstructs in imagination the appropriate figures and romantic setting.
For nothing is so romantic as life itself. None of our illusions about life is so romantic as the truth. Hence the purest realism appeals to the mature imagination more powerfully than any impossible prettiness can do. The more we know of individual and universal life, the more we are excited and stimulated. ”

“ I sat by her side and forgot, forgot;
p. 25 Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,
Forgot that the air was close oppressed,
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
In the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon;
That, once let the herd at its breath take fright,
Nothing on earth can stop their flight;
And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
That falls in front of their mad stampede!
· · · · · · ·
Was that thunder? I grasped the cord
Of my swift mustang without a word.
I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.
Away! on a hot chase down the wind! ”

“ And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,
Must come down when he says the word.
When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse
And my spurs clinch into his hide,
He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,
But wherever he goes I'll ride.
Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top,
Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,
But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel
Till he's happy to own he's broke.
For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,
And the hawse may be prince of his clan,
p. 141 But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot
And own that his boss is the man. ”

“ FOREWORD In collecting, arranging, editing, and preserving the "Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp," my friend John Lomax has performed a real service to American literature and to America. No verse is closer to the soil than this; none more realistic in the best sense of that much-abused word; none more truly interprets and expresses a part of our national life. ”

“ Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin',
All our toilets show a touch of disarray,
For we found that City life is a constant round of strife
And we aint the breed for shyin' from a fray.
p. 180
Chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with fear
And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'
For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror
When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!
We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.
From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights. ”

“ And the coyote howls 'round the cowboy's home,
Where the mountains are covered with chaparral frail,
And the valleys are checkered with the cattle trail,
Where the miner digs for the golden veins,
And the cowboy rides o'er the silent plains,—"
The "Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp" does not purport to be an anthology of Western verse. As its title indicates, the contents of the book are limited to attempts, more or less poetic, in translating scenes connected with the life of a cowboy. ”

“ Then warily spake the Texas man: "A petition and no complaint
We here present, if the Law allows and the Marster He thinks it fit;
We-all agree to the things that be, but we're longing for things that ain't,
So we took a vote and we made a plan and here is the plan we writ: —
"'Give us a range and our horses and ropes, open the Pearly Gate,
And turn us loose in the unfenced blue riding the sunset rounds,
Hunting each stray in the Milky Way and running the Rancho straight;
Not crowding the dogie stars too much on their way to the bedding-grounds. ”

“ Born on that small plantation, 'twas there she thought she'd die;
She never longed for pinions that she might rise and fly
To other lands far distant, where breezes fresh and cool
Would never shake and tremble from brayings of a mule. ”

“ There ain't a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd
Could switch a tail on the whole durned range 'long-side o' that little bird;
A figger plump as a prairy dog's that's feedin' on new spring grass,
An' as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin' glass.
She's got a smile that 'd raise the steam in the icyist sort o' heart,
A couple o' soul inspirin' eyes, an' the nose that keeps 'em apart
Is the cutest thing in the sassy line that ever occurred to act
As a ornament stuck on a purty face, an' that's a dead open fact. ”

“ On a hundred miles o' range,
Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
Desert ripplin' in the sun,
Mountains blue along the skyline,—
I don't envy anyone.
When my feet are in the stirrups
And my horse is on the bust;
When his hoofs are flashin' lightnin'
From a golden cloud o' dust;
And the bawlin' of the cattle
Is a-comin' down the wind,—
Oh, a finer life than ridin'
Would be mighty hard to find,
Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
Splittin' long cracks in the air,
Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,
Rootin' up the prickly pear.
I don't need no art exhibits
When the sunset does his best,
p. ”

“ 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.
p. 106
THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA
WRANGLE up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,
Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,
For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,
But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain. ”

“ A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE
I UST to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod
From an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the Cupid god,
An' I'd laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin' their breath in sighs
An' goin' around with a locoed look a-campin' inside their eyes.
I've read o' the gals that broke 'em up a-sailin' in airy flight
On angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o' the same at night,
An' a sort o' disgusted frown'd bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow,
An' I'd call 'em a lot o' sissy boys — but I'm seein' it different now. ”

“ Fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk
On the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock.
Yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say,
Fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay;
But I want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me
Isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree.
Every bone I got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if
I had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff
From a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,—
'Taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit. ”

“ An' jes a-raisin' merry hell because he couldn't git
The same to swing down low so's he could nab a-holt of it,
An' I'm a-feelin' that-a-way, locoed I reckon, wuss
Than that same kid, though maybe not a-makin' sich a fuss,—
A-goin' round with achin' eyes a-hankerin' fer a peach
That's hangin' on the beauty tree, too high fer me to reach.
I'm jes a rider of the range, plumb rough an' on-refined,
An' wild an' keerless in my ways, like others of my kind;
A reckless cuss in leather chaps, an' tanned an' blackened so
You'd think I wuz a Greaser from the plains of Mexico. ”

“ With Saturn's rings for our home corral and the Dipper our water hole.
"'Here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long gone by,
And our singing it doesn't fit in up here though we tried it for old time's sake;
Our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that's why
We ask you, Marster, to turn us loose — just give us an even break!'"
Then the Lord He spake to the Cherubim, and this was His kindly word:
"He that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go;
Turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd ”

“ When y'u grows, little varmint, little boy,
Y'u'll be ridin' a hoss by yo' fathah's side
With yo' gun and yo' spurs and yo' howstrong pride.
Will y'u think of yo' home when the world rolls wide?
Will y'u wish for yo' mothah, little boy?
When y'u love in yo' manhood, little boy,—
When y'u dream of a girl who is angel fair,—
When the stars are her eyes and the wind is her hair,—
When the sun is her smile and yo' heaven's there,—
Will y'u care for yo' mothah, little boy?
Pocock in "Curley."
p. 89
A COWBOY SONG ”

“ 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.
p. 104
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 ”

“ 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 ”

“ Only such cowboys as are in desperate need of employment ever become sheep-herders.
p. 162
A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL
YES, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range,
Mighty queerish, too, I tell you,— sich a racket fer a change;
From a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps
To the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps.
Never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand
O' humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land
Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed.
Actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede. ”