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Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads
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Rich as a king, and he wouldn't be bigger
Fur a pitchin' hoss and a lame old nigger,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Ole Abe kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger,
'Til he bust hisself 'bout a lame old nigger,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Old Jeff swears he'll sew him together
With powder and shot instead of leather,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Kin cuss an' fight an' hold or free 'em,
But I know them mavericks when I see 'em,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
SILVER JACK[7 - A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.]
I was on the drive in eighty
Working under Silver Jack,
Which the same is now in Jackson
And ain't soon expected back,
And there was a fellow 'mongst us
By the name of Robert Waite;
Kind of cute and smart and tonguey
Guess he was a graduate.
He could talk on any subject
From the Bible down to Hoyle,
And his words flowed out so easy,
Just as smooth and slick as oil,
He was what they call a skeptic,
And he loved to sit and weave
Hifalutin' words together
Tellin' what he didn't believe.
One day we all were sittin' round
Smokin' nigger head tobacco
And hearing Bob expound;
Hell, he said, was all a humbug,
And he made it plain as day
That the Bible was a fable;
And we lowed it looked that way.
Miracles and such like
Were too rank for him to stand,
And as for him they called the Savior
He was just a common man.
"You're a liar," someone shouted,
"And you've got to take it back."
Then everybody started,—
'Twas the words of Silver Jack.
And he cracked his fists together
And he stacked his duds and cried,
"'Twas in that thar religion
That my mother lived and died;
And though I haven't always
Used the Lord exactly right,
Yet when I hear a chump abuse him
He's got to eat his words or fight."
Now, this Bob he weren't no coward
And he answered bold and free:
"Stack your duds and cut your capers,
For there ain't no flies on me."
And they fit for forty minutes
And the crowd would whoop and cheer
When Jack spit up a tooth or two,
Or when Bobby lost an ear.
But at last Jack got him under
And he slugged him onct or twict,
And straightway Bob admitted
The divinity of Christ.
But Jack kept reasoning with him
Till the poor cuss gave a yell
And lowed he'd been mistaken
In his views concerning hell.
Then the fierce encounter ended
And they riz up from the ground
And someone brought a bottle out
And kindly passed it round.
And we drank to Bob's religion
In a cheerful sort o' way,
But the spread of infidelity
Was checked in camp that day.
THE COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS BALL[8 - This poem, one of the best in Larry Chittenden's Ranch Verses, published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. I have heard it in New Mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,—always as a song. None of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.]
Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow,
Where the cattle are a-browzin' and the Spanish ponies grow;
Where the Northers come a-whistlin' from beyond the Neutral Strip;
And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as though they had the grip;
Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark,
And the mockin' birds are singin' to the lovely medder lark;
Where the 'possum and the badger and the rattlesnakes abound,
And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound;
Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams,
While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams;
Fur a pitchin' hoss and a lame old nigger,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Ole Abe kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger,
'Til he bust hisself 'bout a lame old nigger,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Old Jeff swears he'll sew him together
With powder and shot instead of leather,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
Kin cuss an' fight an' hold or free 'em,
But I know them mavericks when I see 'em,—
Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.
SILVER JACK[7 - A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.]
I was on the drive in eighty
Working under Silver Jack,
Which the same is now in Jackson
And ain't soon expected back,
And there was a fellow 'mongst us
By the name of Robert Waite;
Kind of cute and smart and tonguey
Guess he was a graduate.
He could talk on any subject
From the Bible down to Hoyle,
And his words flowed out so easy,
Just as smooth and slick as oil,
He was what they call a skeptic,
And he loved to sit and weave
Hifalutin' words together
Tellin' what he didn't believe.
One day we all were sittin' round
Smokin' nigger head tobacco
And hearing Bob expound;
Hell, he said, was all a humbug,
And he made it plain as day
That the Bible was a fable;
And we lowed it looked that way.
Miracles and such like
Were too rank for him to stand,
And as for him they called the Savior
He was just a common man.
"You're a liar," someone shouted,
"And you've got to take it back."
Then everybody started,—
'Twas the words of Silver Jack.
And he cracked his fists together
And he stacked his duds and cried,
"'Twas in that thar religion
That my mother lived and died;
And though I haven't always
Used the Lord exactly right,
Yet when I hear a chump abuse him
He's got to eat his words or fight."
Now, this Bob he weren't no coward
And he answered bold and free:
"Stack your duds and cut your capers,
For there ain't no flies on me."
And they fit for forty minutes
And the crowd would whoop and cheer
When Jack spit up a tooth or two,
Or when Bobby lost an ear.
But at last Jack got him under
And he slugged him onct or twict,
And straightway Bob admitted
The divinity of Christ.
But Jack kept reasoning with him
Till the poor cuss gave a yell
And lowed he'd been mistaken
In his views concerning hell.
Then the fierce encounter ended
And they riz up from the ground
And someone brought a bottle out
And kindly passed it round.
And we drank to Bob's religion
In a cheerful sort o' way,
But the spread of infidelity
Was checked in camp that day.
THE COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS BALL[8 - This poem, one of the best in Larry Chittenden's Ranch Verses, published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. I have heard it in New Mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,—always as a song. None of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.]
Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow,
Where the cattle are a-browzin' and the Spanish ponies grow;
Where the Northers come a-whistlin' from beyond the Neutral Strip;
And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as though they had the grip;
Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark,
And the mockin' birds are singin' to the lovely medder lark;
Where the 'possum and the badger and the rattlesnakes abound,
And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound;
Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams,
While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams;
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Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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