THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES / 00 Khymes from the Kangeland Under the Sunny Blue Skies of the Western Plains, Mountains and Foothills; OR Following the Long-Homed Steer on the Trail, Over the Range, in the Stampede and the Roundup. A Book of Western Verses Small Edition By WESLEY BEGGS Or, as he is better known in the West: The Cowboy Poet AUTHOR OF "Away Out West Behind the Bars, or, The Shadows of the Great Stone Corral at Deer Lodge, Montana.* In two volumes; each one complete in itself. BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED Illustrations by Frank L. Philips Engravings by Cocks-Clark Engraving Co. 1912 The Ea&wood-Kirchner Printing Company DENVER, COLORADO Copyright, 1912, by Wesley Beggs All Rights Reserved ?s To my zvife and iny children, To the Frontier man, To the Pioneer man, to the Cowman and Cowboys; To all who have traveled the great Trails of the West, and the South, Reaching up to the great Range Land; This Book is Sincerely, Respectfully and Affectionately Dedicated by the Author. CONTENTS PAGE Explanation g A Talk With My Readers 11 Go to It, Old Bronk, I Have Called You 19 The Merry Old Roundup Gives the Best Exhibitions of All 21 Twenty Years Ago 23 Oh ! Those Days in North Dakota 27 The Bucking Broncho 33 The Cowboy s Last Ride 35 The Cow Girl 37 A Talk With an Old Friend 38 Leaving Deer Lodge Prison 40 A Stampede in Texas 44 The Work of a Bad Cowboy 46 The Work of a Good Cowboy 46 Go Chum With the Geysers Awhile 47 To My Indian Friends 50 When Your Hull Begins to Roll 51 They Sent Me Right Over the Road 52 A Hunk of That Old Pumpkin Pie 57 In the Bad-Lands 59 He Was Going Some for a Preacher 60 Hurrah for Old Montana 62 Lines to a Prisoner 65 A Lonely Grave Out West 66 Verses to the Warden of Prison 67 That Old Sheepherder Man 68 In Jail at Big Timber, Montana 7 To Ride Away Out West (Song) 72 The Gems of Old Montana 76 The Indian Story of Custer s Last Battle 77 We Have Them All at Deer Lodge 81 The Lone Cabin on Bridger Creek 84 When the Bronk Begins to Bawl 85 How Are You Fixed for Straw ? 87 The Old Slop Mule at Deer Lodge 90 Malugian at Great Falls, Goes to the Circus 93 On Mt. Powell, Montana 97 The Boys at Billings 98 vi. PAGE Farewell, Titanic, Proud Ship of the Sea 100 The Knot That Hands Have Tied 101 The Old Stockade Corral i 2 In Those Old Roundup Da ys ( Song) 105 Down at the Alamo ( Song) 108 The Cowboy s Song to His Herd no The Rustler Gets the Blame m Getting My Old Calf Pants Washed -.112 Early Days of the Cherokee Strip I! 3 Stolen Shoe Strings 1 16 Naming the Baby 121 Tar Daubers of Shady Bend 124 A Stampede in North Dakota * 2 5 When Lillie Roundup Throws Her Rope 129 Montana, the Gem of the West 132 Drifting Around 135 The Wife That I Loved So Well (Song) ..136 A Happy Home I 4 I Darkies Leaving Oklahoma ( Song) 144 That Bronk Will Throw His Rider Away out in Beulah Land (Song) 146 The Land That I Love (Song) 148 Home on the Rangeland 151 The Locoed Sheep ( Song) 152 The Cowboy s Last Retreat 153 Farewell to Montana, the Gem of the West 156 Oklahoma, Meaning Beautiful Land (Song) 158 Flanigan s Pancake 160 Give Me the Woman Who Loves the Fresh Air 162 On the Bellefouche Far Away 164 When Lovina Was My Sweetheart So Many Years Ago (Song). 167 Leaving the Old Farm for the City 170 The Horrors of a Prison Cell 174 Just To Be a Rancher s Wife 178 Far From My Happy Home (Song) 180 To the Cranky Freight Agent 183 Farewell to My Saddle and Rope 185 The Morning Glory Hills 188 To the Public 191 ILLUSTRATIONS. Frontispiece The Author Facing Title Page "I ll ride you, old bronk, to your death" 20 "And I ll ride your bronk for dough" 34 "When the steer s a flying circus" 50 "A mother s son is sleeping here" 66 Bridger Creek Falls 76 The Old Stockade Corral 102 "My eyes have viewed the roundup camp" 107 "And they ran for nearly forty miles through country rough and strange" 126 "And some girl will find a landing when the bronk begins to bawl" 146 The Old Stockade Ranch Buildings 156 The Cowboy 168 Rock House on Bridger 188 AUTHOR S PREFACE OR EXPLANATION. I do not suppose anyone has ever written a book without first having reasons for so doing. So I have reasons why this one should make its ap pearance. I do not claim but little merit for these poems. Consequently, I have no apologies to make to the public. I will say very few of them have ever been published. Quite a number have been written and handed around among the boys. Now, I leave out many of the Cowboy phrases, or slang words, believing the book will be better and a more useful book without them. There s verses here that s brimming full, And some that s not so flush; But not a word to cause your cheeks To mantle with a blush. A TALK WITH MY READERS I have often picked up a book with no illustrations and no pictures of the author, and I have thought how much better and interesting it would have been with a few illustrations and a correct picture of the author. When we read of a person we would like to know how they look. Whether tall or short, and where they were born and under what conditions and surroundings they grew up to manhood or womanhood. So, in giving this book to the world you will find quite a number of illustrations; also a correct picture of the author. They will enable you to know me better and to get better ac quainted with me. Also the conditions under which these pieces were written. I was born in Franklin County, Ohio, twelve miles from the city of Columbus, the capital of the state. My father was from the north of Ireland, born in Bally Carry, County of Antrim. My mother was of Irish descent, born in Guernsey County, Ohio. My pa rents came to that part of the state in an early day. They were pioneers when Ohio was, or at least that part of the state was, a vast wilderness, nothing but timber and water. My parents tried to raise their children, or fam ily, well, which consisted of four children, two girls and two boys, I being the oldest boy. My parents were good and kind to their children. Mother was a very tender hearted, compassionate, sympathetic woman. They had come to that part of Ohio in an early day and had strug gled with poverty and hardships such as is common to a new country. It was here, in a little log cabin with a great big fireplace, I was born. My earliest recollections are a few apple trees growing near the house and a corn field, which came up near the cabin, and a little patch of clover where the pigs and calves and the colts were kept. When I was small, a mere child, I had a severe at tack of fever and it settled in my heart and left it in a bad condition. And when I grew large enough to work it soon began to trouble me considerable. Father took me to old Dr. Waggenhalls, one of the best physicians in the city of Columbus, and upon making an examina tion of my heart found it in a bad condition. He told father he thought he could help me some, but could not cure me, as I was incurable. This was very sad news to father, as I was the oldest boy and he had hoped t would be a great help to him. He wished that it might not be true and he sincerely hoped it was not. So, to satisfy himself, he took me to another eminent physician in the city. But he said the same as the other one did. Dr. Waggenhalls gave me medicine enough to last a couple of weeks and at the end of that time I was to see him again. This time my mother went with me. After some little time the doctor said the medicine had done all he expected it to do. Then mother said : "Doc tor, can you cure my boy?" He answered her, "I can not, he is incurable, though he may live to be quite old by taking good care of himself." This was too much for mother to hear she wept bitterly. The doctor said : "Your boy must live an out-of-door life. It is no use to send him to school, an education will do him no good, confinement in a schoolroom or any other room, will only kill him. An open air life, feeding or caring for stock, is the best thing he can do." Now, I want to say if all the doctors in the world were as honest as old Dr. Waggenhalls I would have more faith in doctors than I have. However, I took the doctor s medicine for one year and was not allowed to take any violent exercise or do any hard work, and as I grew to he bigger and stronger my heart did not bother me so much. But I never went to school but little, and my education in the schoolroom amounts to almost noth ing, though I did go to school some, as I will tell you by and by what a hard whipping I got. When I got to be about fifteen years old I was helping to build fence, making rails, swinging the cradle in the harvest fields Also the old-fashioned reap hook or sickle. One season father, brother and I reaped eleven days, our wheat was blown down flat to the ground. But in this way we were able to save it all. I had learned that to the west of us lay the great plains of the Western world and the rocky-ribbed old mountains loomed up in all their grand eur and greatness, and I longed to g"o and see them. I thought of the West, I dreamed of the West, and often imagined how beautiful the great plains must be and what a contrast from the heavy timbered country. All I then knew of the world was around my childhood home and I thought that it was grand. I would look at the glistening stars and wonder if they looked the same in the Far West as they did there. I have often stood at the gate in front of the house when the golden sun was beginning to sink behind the Western hills and wondered if I would ever see the great plains and the mighty mountains that were far to the west of us. So you see I am a Western man, and now for nearly twenty- seven years I have been from that land that gave me birth. But today as I sit penning these words there comes to me a longing to return and look once more upon the scenes of my childhood and again return to the land I love, the great West. As I think of home, father, mother, brother and sisters, and the old orchard and the meadow, and the sunny days of childhood, tears start from my eyes unbidden. And I long to look upon the old spot where I first saw and knew mother and home. But alas ! I would not find them there. Father and mother sleep in mother earth. The old cabin has rotted down and I suppose not a particle of it remains today. The old lane where I used to drive the cows to and from the pasture has been changed, the old rail fence has been replaced by a wire fence. And I suppose I would not know the old place at all nor anyone living in the neighborhood. The schoolmates have all grown up and scattered all over the world. Many of them have -been called to that bourne from whence no traveler ever returns. But such is the generation of flesh and blood, one cometh to an end and another is born. But to return to my story, I wanted to go West, but how could I leave my mother. I always loved her. But finally the time came for me to start to that land I thought so much about. It was in 1878 or 1879 I left Columbus, Ohio, for Leadville, Colorado, and while waiting for the train I met a friend who asked me where I was going. I told him to Leadville, Colorado, and he said: "You will make just a nice pot of soup for the Indians around Leadville who are on the warpath." But I was not the kind to be so easily turned back or defeated in my trip. I bought my ticket and boarded the train that was to carry me westward with a light and a happy heart. As she steamed away from the Union depot I took a long farewell to my native city and land, and as we pushed on westward through dense timber and over vast plains toward the old Rockies the scenery was immense and grand and beautiful. When we came to the great plains of Kansas what a sight greeted my eyes. Often I had pictured them beautiful, but my imagination was not strong enough to do them justice. Here was a prairie fire sweeping over the great plains and the sky was lit up by the light until it seemed that the horizon was bright with the morning sunrise, and I thought the spectacle was grand. I was now far from home, but I thought tenderly of the ones that I left behind. In one of my quiet solitudes I wrote the song that begins with this verse: XV. I left my home a wandering lad And bound to see the world, While father said, "Oh, Tommy, dear, Your wandering flag unfurled; You have a father, good and kind, A mother old and gray, Her heart will break for you, my boy, When you are far away." I dearly love the West, every part of it is dear to my heart. In many of the Western states I have slept on my blankets beneath the wide-spreading roof of the heavens while the queenly moon in her brightness sailed up and up, higher into the beautiful, clear, moonlit sky, made so beautiful by her presence. Then the stars look ing down from the arches above, like so many little golden lamps, impressed me with a desire to know more of these far-away suns ever twinkling and glowing like the bright eyes of seraphs looking down on us poor finite mortals below. Often I have heard the voice of a bird singing a few notes in the moonlight on the lone prairie. And when I camped on a creek where there was timber I could hear the soft whispering as if the trees were hold ing communion together. Oh, there is a beautiful sweet ness in a night slumber under such conditions and when awake you lay in your blankets meditating as in the de lusion of a pleasant dream. And you are apt to think all these noises that are abroad and heard everywhere in the air are the voices of angels chanting their songs to charm the ear of the sleeper who sleeps away out West, beneath the beautiful blue sky and the bright sparkling stars. Nature no sooner puts one set of children to sleep until another set comes on the stage of activity, as busy and as happy as the others. This great and wide West has charms for me which I have never found anywhere else. And I presume it is so with many others. Not long ago I read a Western story of a Western man and I think it would be well for me to relate it in connection with my Western experience. This man left his East- xvi. ern home many years ago to wend his way to the great Rocky Mountains ; gold had not yet been discovered. The great railroads had not yet pushed their way across the great plains. The greed of the white man had not yet made the trail over the mountains a very familiar one. Traveling was attended with more or less danger in those days. This man and his partner who was trav eling with him were camped on the flat of a little stream which at that time had considerable timber on it. And about the middle of the afternoon, and much to their surprise, they were visited by an old trapper and hunter who in his wanderings discovered the smoke of their campfire. He was a weather-beaten iron man of the solitudes of nature, who had wandered away from his home in the Far East from civilization into that vast w ilderness of desolation. After talking and asking a few questions about the East he shouldered his gun and started across the plains toward a belt of timber lying dim and shadowy like a low cloud upon the distant horizon. These men who were camped on the little stream watched him for an hour or more as he trudged away over the rolling plains, growing less and less to the view, until he became like a speck in the distance and finally vanished from sight altogether. These men said there was a sort of solitude or solemn feeling stole over them as this lonely hunter wended his way back into the deep solitudes of the prairie to be alone with nature, com muning only with himself and the things that were scat tered around him by the great Creator. Yet he seemed contented and happy. There is something in some men which drives them from society, to seek the treeless plains and the deep solitudes of the wilderness and moun tains. The love of nature and the love of new adven tures a\vay from the haunts of civilization and settle ments spur them on. It is in them, they love it and it must come out, and away to the wilds they go to live a life of isolation and quiet solitude. This is the old original instinct of man you may educate him, polish xvii. him, clothe him in purple and fine linen, but still he will go off to the woods, the wilderness, and commune with new things. They cannot be contented to stay in one place, away back where people are thickly settled, but must push on westward to the frontier amid new scenes, new adventures and new dangers. This nas been my weak point. If I should call it so, my love for life amidst the solitudes of the wilderness or mountains, be yond the border of civilization, has been overpowering, these many years have found me with a home on the border. So I have spent all my life in the Far West, as a hunter, a trapper and a cowboy. I have been in nearly all the Western states and territories from Ohio and Kentucky on the East to the Sierra Nevadas and Cas cades on the West ; from the sunlit Savannahs of Texas to the British line on the North ; in Indian camps, buffalo camps, mining camps and cow camps. Now you will be better acquainted with me and understand me better as you travel with me. You will notice the pieces to ward the close of the book are of a more serious or thoughtful nature. This is because of the change which has taken place in me. By the experiences which I had passed through. From the cow range to the county jail ; from the jail to the penitentiary at Deer Lodge, Mon tana, where I served a sentence of five years. I will tell you all about this in my other book, entitled, "Away Out West Behind the Bars or the Shadows of the Great Stone Corral at Deer Lodge, Montana." I think you will find it in many ways a better book than this one. In it are my best pieces of poetry. Some of them touching and tender. I will tell you about the shadows of prison life in the Great Stone Corral at Deer Lodge ; of the men in stripes ; what kind of men that fill our jails, our prisons and our penitentiaries. I will tell you what I think of the divorce evil. And last, but not least, I tell you how you may always escape the prison cell. Both prose and poetry. Some written in camp, some in the cell. However, there are a good number of these which were written in prison. And many of these other pieces were written on the rangeland or in camp on the border. Here you ll find a few verses That were wrote on the trail. They grew in the sunshine, They were fanned by the gale. Get them and read them, And sing them if best To the tune of the saddle And the rhyme of the West. THE AUTHOR. Go to It, Old Bronk, I ve Called You. Go to it, old Bronk, I have called you ! Let the buttons roll off from my vest, For I m here on the woolly old rangeland To ride the wild bronk from the West. They say the wild Cowboy is passing, But he lingers still here on the Plains; He still wears the schapps and the Stetson, And he still holds the old bridle reins. He still loves his old occupation, And he has no desire for a change; He still loves the old chuck wagon And follows it over the range. Then, go to it, old Kid, I am to you, Let me have just a moment for breath, Till I get both my feet in the stirrups, And I ll ride you, old bronk, to your death. He still rides the grassy old rangeland, And I m sure it is no narrow scope, And he still loves to bunch up the doggies And show his great skill with the rope. So, go to it, old bronk, I am; with you, Though the water gush out of my eyes; You will find I am still on the voyage When you reach the gateway of the skies. They say the wild Cowboy is passing, But I trust it is only a dream. I know that the world s a delusion And things are not just as they seem. But go to it, old bronk, I am with you, Though the buttons roll off of my pants; I will ride you today and tomorrow, And ride you at every odd chance. 20 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND They say the wild Cowboy is passing, But I seen one not two weeks ago. He was there with both feet in the stirrups And his pockets well filled with the dough. Go to it, old bronky, I ll answer, Though the buttons roll off of my vest, For I m here on the woolly old rangeland To ride the wild bronk of the West. They say there s no more pitching horses, And this is the way they decide. But I know an outlaw out yonder Who will give them a high crooked ride. They will need both their feet in the stirrups, And then a through ticket to town ; For as sure as you are a-living That young farmer gent will come down. The Cowboys are still thick and plenty, And are monarchs of all they survey; They are still on the range of the cattle, And here they are going to stay. Then shut up on this wild speculation And give us a moment for rest, And we ll show you we re in from the rangeland To ride the wild bronks from the West. The dry farmers are all looking skeery, And some of them look pretty sick ; You know they are all looking hungry, And of course will go out pretty quick. Then around the abandoned old homestead The Cowboys quite often will meet, And enjoy a good time in their parlor From the hot burning winds and the heat. No, I don t guess the wild Cowboy is passing, He still lingers here on the plains; "/ // Ride You, Old Hronk, to Your Death. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 21 He still wears the schapps and the Stetson, And he still holds the old bridle reins. Then go to it, old bronk, I have called you, Though the buttons drop off of my vest, I am here on the woolly old rangeland To ride the wild bronk of the West. The Merry Old Round-Up Gives the Best Exhibition of All. Great exhibitions on the rangeland, In the spring, the summer and fall, But the ones on the merry old round-up Are the best exhibitions of all. See them go high, and go crooked ! See them sidestep, and sunfish, and fall! Ah ! Yes, the merry old round-up Gives the best exhibitions of all. See the wrangler come in with the bronchos, Such beautiful, swift- footed beasts; Men have traveled a distance to see them They have come all the way from the East. And they all, from the least to the greatest, With their stock of unlimited gall, Have declared that the merry old round-up Gives the best exhibitions of all. They may show you the sights of the city, And take you along- down the row; You may pass through the door of the opera, And may pass through the door of the show. But follow the merry old round-up Through the cold frosty mornings of fall. 22 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND And you ll find that the bronk and the Cowboy Gives the best exhibitions of all. The Wild West Show isn t in it, To me they are sorry and tame; But here on the woolly old rangeland We have them nerved up for the game. Then see them go high, and go crooked, Hear the groan, the moan and the bawl. Ah! Yes, the merry old round-up Gives the best exhibitions of all. Hear the echoing call of the Cowgirl, As her wild broncho pierces the wind; See her off in the race with the others It s a cinch she has no\v got them skinned. See them off for the old chuck wagon, Hear the roar, the yip and the call ; I tell you the merry old round-up Gives the best exhibitions of all. See them gather around the chuck wagon And exhibit the skill of their luck; For the cook has a feast, great and plenty, To grace a good Cowpuncher s pluck. You will find them all brave, noble fellows, With a stock of unlimited gall, Which gives to the merry old round-up The best exhibitions of all. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 23 Twenty Years Ago. I took a ride today, old Parcl, Where I rode years ago ; I gazed upon the landscape there, When it lay deep with snow. I want to say there s been a change, The feed was once immense ; From here each way a hundred miles You could not find a fence. Some twenty years ago, old Pard, The land was full of game ; Many of them not very wild, And some were really tame. The deer, the elk, the antelope, Together there did roam ; It truly was a Paradise, And it their native home. Some twenty years ago, old Pard, The grass stood waving high ; But go and look at it today, If it don t make you cry. The rotten sheep has eaten it As bare as my old boots, And still they have them there today A-eating out the roots. The long-horned steer is gone, old Pard, But very few remain ; They crowded in their stinking sheep And drove them off the range. If I had a thousand bronks, old Pard, I know I couldn t sleep Until I would stampede them Right through a band of sheep. And then I d keep them going, I would never let them stop. 24 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Till every sheep was under And the bronchos were on top. J would run them up the valley And would chase them from the hills, And despoil the old range robbers Till every one was still. The owners, too, you know, old Pard, I would give a chance to sail At the end of a strong old picket line Tied to a broncho s tail. And when I d freed the range of them, Then I would strut and crow, And the grass would grow, I know again, As twenty years ago. These herders with their sheep, old Pard, And low depicted mien, Have eaten off every blade of grass And every weed between. Not long will they keep herding sheep Upon these Western plains, Until the reach their home corral, The asylum for insane. The Sheepman and the Cattleman Have had a dreadful muss, But the sheep have got the range, old Pard, So it ain t no use to fuss. ,Go round them sheep and bring them in, The range is dry and bare, You know, old Pard, I hate to see Those robbers starving there. The noble Red Man, too, old Pard, They drove him far away, And still they keep on driving him A little more each day. They took away their hunting grounds, Where the buffalo loved to roam, And drove them to another place Not fit for the Red Man s home. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 25 The white man did it all, old Pard, On him I lay the wrong- In forcing the Red Man s heritage To sing the white man s song. They cheated and deluded them, To this you say "ahem," But the devil he will deal with you As you have dealt with them. Not very far from here, old Pard, The Indian Nation lie. All decked with lovely foliage Beneath a sunlit sky. And there among the sun-kissed hills The Indians are corraled. Caught in the white man s round-up And drove to a fare-you-well. Everything we see around The white man s hands have made; They have mutilated Nature, And you know they have, old Pard. They have gathered in the mountains, And have fenced the rivers, too; They slaughtered all our buffalo, And well you know it s true. The railroads spoiled our hunting grounds And split them wide in two ; The buffalo, deer and antelope From it then quickly flew. Then came the pale-faced hunter As hard as he could ride, And slaughtered them by thousands Just for their horns and hide. A few old rotten bones, old Pard, Is all that now remains Of that vast herd of buffalo That covered all our plains. 26 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND It really makes me sad, old Pard, To think it must be so, That the Red Man and the buffalo Must both together go. I have seen the fairest valleys Spoiled by the white man s hands, And Nature was mutilated Till it wasn t very grand. One would start to plowing, And another digging a well, And one a-building a cabin, And in it all would dwell. They would put a fence around it, Fence half the road at that, And in their old sod shanty Would live as poor as bats. The one cow on a picket line, Their horses on a rope, And soon they d be too thin and poor To really make good soap. No more the scouts upon the plains Old Sitting Bull will spy; No more his canvas tepee Will light the evening sky. No more the Western rovers His wrinkled face shall see, For the great Sioux Chief, you know, Was killed at Wounded Knee. Gone are the elk and antelope. Now very few remain ; Gone are the savage Red Men From off the Western plain. Gone are the shaggy buffalo That roamed about so free From the sunny plains of Texas To each far-off spreading sea. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 27 Oh! Those Days in North Dakota. Away up in North Dakota, in the year of eighty-three, When big game it was plentiful, oh, that was the place to be; Away up in that country the skies are fair and blue, And money, too, was plentiful, but our neighbors they were few. I am thinking now of Dickinson, my old-time stamping ground, And a better town than Dickinson I m sure could not be found ; The joints were throwed wide open and no sheriff had his say, In those days up in Dakota near the Bad Lands far away. I have traveled many thousand miles, but never yet have found A place just to my notion as the North Dakota ground; Her prairies were so beautiful, out-spreading far and wide, Where the curlews and the plovers in the wavy grass could hide. Her washouts and her coolies are something great and grand In the little Missouri country where the Killdeer moun tains stand. Oh, those days in North Dakota, where the skies are fair and blue, When big game it was plentiful and the hunters brave and true. Talk about the graceful antelope, they truly did abound In the North Dakota country where the cannon ball is found ; 28 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND I have seen them bunched together, four hundred in a band, A-roaming hither thither in this glorious good old land. If you want to take a trip, my boys, in land want to invest, Just figure with a hunter who has lived a life out West, When the joints were all throwecl open and no sheriff had his say, In the North Dakota country, near the Bad Lands far away. With a roving disposition that would never let me rest I drifted for my fortune in the undeveloped West; I learned to set the beaver trap when earth lay white with snow, And when the fur was sold or shipped I d pocket up the dough. Oh, for those bright days back again when the buffalo used to roam Across the dreary old Bad Lands so close around our home ; Oh, those days in North Dakota, where the skies are fair and blue, When big game it was plentiful and our neighbors they were few. It seems that camping nowadays ain t what it used to be In the camp on Old Heart river in the year of eighty- three ; The very recollection of that buffalo steer and fries Brings a heaving at my bosom, and the water to my eyes. With a cup of good hot coffee in the morning, don t you know, The way that we would relish it, indeed, it was not slow : I would like to live that life again, where the skies are fair and blue, When big game it was plentiful and the hunters brave and true. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 29 Oh, you who live in cities where your theaters are so slow, With your prima donna round-ups, how little that you know ; Just go and seek some lovely place in a far secluded spot, Where Nature s tumbling over, it s the place you long have sought. Your youthful days will then return ; you ll feel them as of yore, When you wandered through the meadow field far from your cabin door ; I am sure you ll look more beautiful when the bloom of health returns, By romping round with Nature midst the flowers and the ferns. Oh, I love to romp with Nature away from folks and noise, With Nature just a-hugging me; oh, my, it gives me joy; Then I feel that I am happy and can write a better rhyme, So I d like to be a-living out with Nature all the time. I wish that I could always look out from the misty haze Upon that wild, wild country where I spent such happy days; Where the joints were all throwed open and no sheriff had his say, In that North Dakota country, near the Bad Lands far away. There was Charley Tear, an old friend, I want to speak of him; He was not built like old Dutch John, but he was tall and slim. Charley, do you remember the northern lights so bright, How the stars would shine and sparkle like great electric lights ? Do you remember Mrs. Smith, how badly she was scared, She thought the judgment day had come and she was not prepared? 30 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Oh, those days in North Dakota, when the moon was ;full and bright, When the stars would shine and sparkle like great elec tric lights. And there s the Cowboy Artist, too, he s one I do esteem, Some of his paintings almost speak, so true to life they seem ; He paints those twisting Western bronks away up in the air, And a rider on his back with quirt a-fanning of him there. They are so very true to life, the bronk a-coming high, You see an exhibition between the earth and sky ; Long may he live to use the brush, immortal be his name, Like glittering gold to live and shine on the firmament of fame. Yes, Russell is a whole-souled man who meets you with a smile. Who treats you as a friend, indeed, in true good Western style. Montana is his dwelling place and Great Falls is his home, And I give to him my best regards with a handshake all my own. Death-on-the-Trail, another friend, a hunter, too, and scout, He was an old-time frontier man who knew well all the route ; He now lies deep in Mother Earth, a-sleeping way out West, My sympathy won t wake him up, .nor rob him of his rest. There s Harry Snow, another friend, in Oklahoma s land, An Oklahoma boomer, too, whose path and trail has scanned. There sunlit fields of golden grain and vineyards do abound, A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 31 And where the apple, peach and plum on every ranch is found. Harry G., my old-time friend, is wife and children well? May peace and joy and happiness within your household dwell ; May sun-kissed cheeks and love-lit hearts give you their greatest share And guide you to that morning star that shines away up there. There s Morgan Frank, a. friend of mine, an old-time honored friend, I have not heard from Frank for years, his life may had its end ; He had a great big Western heart that beat his bosom warm, A true child of the Western plains, of blizzard and of storm, And in the Black Hill s early day he was away up there A-hunting elk and buffalo, likewise the deer and bear. If he is dead, sweet be his rest; pray don t disturb him now, And may the Coming King with love place laurels on his brow. Oh, there s a host of old-time friends, I reach to them my hand, And some day I shall make a trip to that good old glorious land. I now look back on happier days and see the old-time faces, And sit with you, and talk with you, in old familiar places. And I often feel my heart rise up like a flapjack in my throat To give me a reprover of a letter I never wrote And sent to old-time honored friends, where skies are fair and blue, Where big game once was plentiful and the hunters brave and true. 32 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Now some of these old pioneers lay with the silent dead, Their great big hearts beat warm and true until their breath had fled; And in the city of the dead there lies the last remains Of men as brave as ever lived or trod the Western plains. And you, oh cherished frontier men, a-sleeping way out West, With Western plains a-hugging you close to their loving breast, Give thanks to the Redeemer man, you sleep where skies are blue, Where tender hearts still think of you and men are brave and true. Now the antelope and buffalo gone, oh, what a mighty change, And most of the old-time pioneers have gone across the range ; Away across the Great Divide, beyond the peaks of snow, To a land where they cannot return, but where we all must go. Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how you used to do When big game it was plentiful and the hunters brave and true ? But they are gone, sweet be their sleep, please don t disturb them now, And may the Coming King with love place laurels on their brows. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 33 The Bucking Broncho, Dickinson, North Dakota. There was a bronk in Dickinson Which weighed a thousand pounds, And a harder pitching broncho In the world could not be found. They knew they had a pitcher And hard they tried to show That not a man in Dickinson Could ride him for the dough. But the woolly West has riders, And I w r ant you all to know, They will ride your bucking broncho In a way that won t be slow. One day there came to Dickinson A Texas boy, Monroe, "Put up," he said, "some money, "And I ll ride your bronk for dough. Then the dollars they were counted, And soon the fun begun, And Monroe, the Texas puncher, Took a trip toward the sun. When they led out Mr. Broncho, They called him Fare-You-Well, Monroe soon took the saddle With a wild Comanche yell. Talk about your pitching- bronchos It surely was a sight To see him yonder in the air A-turning left and right. Yet still Monroe stayed with him, And raked him flank and hip; He fanned him lively with his quirt And urged another trip. To the north side and the south side, And all about the town, 34 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND He rode that pitching broncho Like a double- jointed clown. It was plain that Western outlaw Had done his level best, And that reckless Texas puncher Was there to stand the test. When he could not throw his rider, Then he tossed around his head, To pull him from the saddle seat And stamp him there till dead. But as he threw around his head He met that fearful spur, That rowled him up that old jawbone With blood and hair and fur. Then all about the town, my boys, He played another tune It was not a floradora Nor the ragtime of a coon But it was real old pitching, boys, Backed up by nerve and grit, But Bill was in the saddle sure To ride him, till he quit. To the east side and the west side, Then all about the town, He rode that pitching broncho Till he squarely rode him down. Then he sprung from out the saddle And landed on his feet, While the people loud were cheering Till they shook the very street. If you have a furious pitcher That has never yet been rode Call on that Texas puncher, He has never yet been throwed. So here s to that old-time rider, Long may he live to ride, And find the trail to the home corral Across the Great Divide. And I ll Rid-c Your Bronk for Dough. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 35 The Cowboy s Last Ride. A young Cowboy rose early one morning And saddled his bronk for a ride, He hit the high hills and the valleys With Jimmy, his Pard, by his side. It was out on the Little Missouri, Where they went to look after some strays, And where the old mountains of Killdeer Loomed up a short distance away. They had left their camp early that morning, With their hearts very buoyant and gay ; They left like two bright, happy children Who were brimful and over with play. They rode the high hills and the valleys, But never a stray could they find; They searched the deep coolies and washouts, Where many a cowtrail did wind. At noon they struck an old cowcamp And stopped to fill up on some chop, For the Cowmen are always big-hearted And will give you the best in the shop. And when they had eaten their dinner They started again on the range, But a cloud rolling up from cloudland Said the weather had took on a change. So they took from behind their old saddles A slicker to keep themselves dry, A protection from rain, wind or weather, No matter how hard it may try. But it happened, as it sometimes does, That the wind blew the rain all away 36 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND And the boys still rode the prairie A-trying to look up the strays. But just as the sun was a-setting A saloon and store cabin they struck. "If we can t find the strays," said Jimmy, "We have found quite a rich streak of luck." So up they rode to the store cabin And unsaddled their bronks for the night, And a great big smoking hot supper Filled the boys with a happy delight. After supper they went to card playing And shuffled away until late, And for wild, reckless, careless Cowpunchers Could play at a pretty good rate. They had at the cabin strong whisky, And it got all the boys in a row, For Jimmy and Bill were no cowards, But would fight like an old Texas cow. They had that night at the cabin A couple of pretty tough girls; Card playing, bad women and whisky Soon got the boys heads all awhirl. The fracas then started in earnest And they pulled out their old forty-five, And Billy was shot through the body And never would go back alive. A sad, sad day when Cowpunchers Took Billy away to his rest; They stuck up a board for a headstone And planted a rose on his breast. Card playing, bad women and whisky Has often led Cowboys astray, And then their handy six-shooter Would put someone out of the way. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 37 Quite often we talked of young Billy, Who was shot in a low, drunken fight, Who early left camp in the morning, But never went back there at night. There we planted young Billy next morning, While the tears quite tenderly fell, And we left him to sleep in the bosom Of the West that he loved so well. The raindrop kissed the lily By the morning glory vine, And the lily kissed the ivy And the ivy kissed the pine. All were sweet and lovely Like a cloudless summer day, For the golden sun was setting And her jewels were at play. The Cowgirl. When Western winds would move the air Her tresses dark would flow, And fall upon her bosom fair Like shadows over snow. 38 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND A Talk with an Old Friend. One day when I was roving on the foothills of the West I met young Henry Grammer, with spurs and schapps was dressed, And as we talked together of hardships on the way His mind went back to Texas and these words to me did say: "I would rather live in Texas than any place on earth, For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. "I have been said to be a ranger upon her sunlit plains, And though I m far from there today her memory still remains ; I have spread my old tarpaulin so often on her lawn, But now I sigh to think of them, for those bright days are gone, And I would rather live in Texas than any place on earth, For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. "T was on her wide prairies where the long-horned cattle ranged, But now the grass is all eat out, their feeding ground has changed ; So I left my sunny southland to ride upon the Platte, Where the punchers are good rustlers and the cattle always fat ; But she cannot beat old Texas, she s the best place on the earth, For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. "I have been up in Montana, away up on the line, Where the winter sun is waiting for the summer sun to shine ; Where the spring and fall and summer is but one long winter day And the aurora borealis brighten up the milky way; So I would rather live in Texas than any place on earth, For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 39 "I have been in Colorado, and I think she s mighty grand, Where the little streams are busy washing down her -golden sand, And away up in Wyoming where the Devil s Tower stands, And it surely is a wonder if there s any in the land; Yet I would rather live in Texas than any place on earth, For it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. "I have rode in Oklahoma, the land you used to roam, Four hundred miles of sunlit plains, a thousand more from home; I have watched the little doggies grow up to great big steers, But now the farmer with his fence has met the changing years. So there is no place like Texas, she s the best place on the earth, And it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. "I have rode the Osage country, where the Indians ride and shoot, And where the bucking broncho beats an airship on a toot; Where they all jump high and crooked like Oklahoma Dick, And the man that keeps the saddle is the one that s pretty slick. That s the way they do in Texas, twist and flop o er all the earth, And it was the state of Texas that gave to me my birth. "At Oklahoma City, in the bucking contest there, I rode them high and crooked and I won their money fair. At old Fort Worth and Denison, and also Guthrie, too, In riding and roping took first prize when all were through. Soon I ll go back to Texas, take my old tarpaulin bed, And stay in the state of Texas where I was born and bred." 40 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Leaving Deer Lodge Prison. I had gone into the office to dress and put on my fine suit of clothes which the Deer Lodge prison fur nishes to everyone who leaves that institution of crime, when in come Dan Tewey, the deputy warden. Speak ing to the office man, he says : "Where s all this writ ing Beggs has been doing?" I spoke up. "It is here in my pete (or box). Do you want to examine it?" "Cer tainly I do. It all has to be read." I unlocked the pete and laid out my writings. With a look of amazement and surprise, he asked: "Is that all writing that was done here ?" "Certainly," says I. "How long have you been at it?" "Ever since I have been here." "Well, you will have to leave it here so it can be read." "Oh, no. I don t do that." "I can t read that in a month." "I can t help that; I can read it in less time." "Why did you not bring this writing to the office so it could all be read?" "Because that was not my business." "Well, you will have to go out without it." "Well, I will not." (He goes to the phone.) "Mr. Conley, I can t read all this writing Beggs has in a month." Conley "Read it, read it, if it takes two months." Tewey "You will have to go and leave it here." "But I tell you I will not go and leave it here. I am in no hurry at all. I have spent five years here. I can spend another month, all right. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 41 "You must go." "But I don t go until my writings go with me." Tewey picks up a piece and begins to read : "Come, look across the old cow range, I rode it years ago, Before the range was all fenced up And Cowboys had a show. Now, as we look we view the sight As through a hazy mist, For just as far as eye can see These fences do exist." Tewey "Oh, that isn t bad. It is all right. "Certainly it is," says I. Tewey turns over a few pages and reads again. (Written on Mt. Pisgah, Cripple Creek, Colo.) Although I stand on Pisgah heights I see no promised land, But Cripple Creek, the mining camp Lies off to my right hand." "I don t see anything wrong with this writing." "Certainly you don t. I knew what to write and what not to write." Tewey turns a few more pages and reads : "This takes me back to childhood, And it makes the teardrop start To find these prison guards so wise, And I am not so smart." Tewey "Well, you will have to leave it. It has all to be examined." "But I have told you I would not leave it. And I mean it, too. I am in no hurry." Tewey turns a few more pages and reads : 42 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND "THE OLD CALF PANTS WASHED." "I send yon in my old calf pants, The only ones I got. For three long 1 months I ve cherished them Until they got the rot. I hate to send them in, you know, They are so smooth and slick ; They cover my long limbering shanks Whereon the calves do lick." Tewey "Well, it is no use in talking. You must go." "But I am here to tell you I don t go/ Tewey still keeps turning some pages, then reads : "Pick them up tenderly, up from their lair, Written quite splendidly, handle with care. Just give them a notice and pass them quick by ; You can t bluff the donkey, it s no use to try. "Here stands a guard, hero without any brains, He picks up a package, looks long and retains. Just then a sensation passes over his skin, He draws a long breath and at once pitches in. "Your nerves are not steady, your optic not good, I see you are shaking, I thought that you would. But, pardner, be careful as you search the resort, For it s not at all subject to this kind of sport." Tewey shuts up box, saying : "You must leave them, I tell you, and go. "No, sir. I will not go. Do you hear it? Take me inside, for I will never leave here until I have all my writing." "We will send them all to von." A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 43 "I will save you all that trouble. Take me inside. I am in no hurry. I am attached to the place. I have an interest here. Take me inside." "Well, take them; and go, and you have only a few minutes until train time." "Oh, I can make it." So I pulled off my old prison suit. A guard searched them. I put on my new ones, and they were dandies. A guard went with me to the depot, and with my gate money $5.00 bought me a ticket to Butte. So now I am here at the depot, And I hear that the train is some late. I think if the trainmen don t hurry My clothes will soon go out of date. Well, those clothes began to fall apart before I got to Bozeman. A $2.50 suit and the state pays Conley $25.00 for the suit. There is grafting in the prisons In a hundred different ways, And the system of the grafters Is a graft that always pays. (Bring on another prisoner) While the mills of the gods Grinds out another toll. 44 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND A Stampede in Texas. We started from Mobeetie up to the northern range With a lively bunch of cattle and a boss called Jim Ma Lange ; We all were good old Cowboys who loved to ride and roam Along that great old cattle trail so many miles from home. We traveled on and on that day and bedded for the night On the sunny plains of Texas, it was a lovely sight ; A jollier band of Cowboys you never well could find, To each other we were loyal, to a stranger we were kind. We early left that bedding ground just at the break of day, We traveled o er the sunlit plains all dressed in Nature s way; And listened to the Western winds and songs of the curlew, And whiled away the hour of noon where sweet wild flowers grew. Boys, it was a lovely evening when we pulled into camp, The mocking birds were singing where we hung our signal lamp; But from the west there came a cloud as black as raven night, And we boys made things all ready for a ride before daylight. Soon our cattle they grew frisky and at once began to go Right back to Mobeetie with a gait that wasn t slow; The rain it fell in torrents and the lightning freely flashed, Every Cowboy on his broncho to the front he boldly dashed. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES -15 The stampede it was sudden, every steer was on the fly, Their heads were lifted upwards and their tails were lifted high ; They leaped, they ran across the plains for forty miles or more, And such another stampede I never saw before. Every boy soon got the saddle, every bronk was on the fly, Everything was total darkness, not a star was in the sky ; We followed them till morning, every bronk was at his best, We determined not to leave them while a heart beat in our breast. We finally stopped those frightened steers and brought them to a stand Just as the morning sun arose upon that Western land ; Many a steer that night lay dead and many a broncho bled, And one of our noble boys that night lay numbered with the dead. No more he ll saddle up his bronk beneath that sunlit sky, No more he ll hear the clinking hoofs of cattle on the fly; No more he ll ride at breakneck speed across the track less plains, A surging host of cattle wild trod over his remains. Come all you good old Cowboys, I look to you with pride, Who herd the long-horned cattle and the Western bron cho ride; Here s health to you, my jolly boys, who roam the Western wilds, And luck to all the frontier men who love our good old style. 46 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Work of a Bad Cowboy. Put on the blanket and saddle, Start them up with a whoop and a yell; Persuade them, tempt them and shove them To the depth of a real human hell. Go gather them in from the midnight, Go hurry them out of their bed, Go show them the glass, sparkling goblet, Go show them the wine that is red. The Work of a Good Cowboy. Go tell them the death cruel serpent For a moment is taking a nap, To arouse in the glow of the morning And hurry them on through the gap. Go put on the schapps and the Stetson, Go heed the loud call of His word, For a million today is a-drifting And straying away from the herd. Go search the deep coolies and washouts, Where they gather resigned to their fate; Go hurry them out to the windbreak On the trail of the old home gate. Go nail lip the bars at the bog-hole, And feed the young calves from a pan, For the whole drunken tribe of creation Will break in every night if they can. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 47 Go Chum with the Geysers Awhile. You no doubt have heard of the Yellowstone Park, The great Wonderland of the world ; This great Wonderland, the pride of the West, Has its flaglets of beauty unfurled. The greatest of wonders in the Yellowstone Park Are the wonderful mammoth hot springs; Here deep-heated water pours vapor and steam While the waste away \vater most beautifully sings. There is ravishing beauty in the Yellowstone Park, For Nature has done her work well; The mountains and hilltops, rivers and rills, With beauty enchanting doth swell. There s canyons of beauty in the Yellowstone Park, Outshining the jewels of queen; Where sapphires of beauty are hidden from sight, With beautiful diamonds between. There s the Yellowstone Canyon in that great Wonder land, Where beautiful loveliness flash ; Where swift, angry water with froth and with foam The walls of their prison house lash. Oh, that Yellowstone Canyon, the gem of the Park, With wonderful wisdom was made; And flowers, sweet flowers, surrounded with ferns, Grows there in the dark cedar shade. Oh, that canyon so deep, so awful, so grand, That the brain of the human soul reels; And as they look down in the deep, dizzy gorge, The hand of solemnity feels. 48 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND There are beautiful streams in the Yellowstone Park That tumble through mountains of snow ; That plunge over cataracts rugged and rough, With never a stop in their flow. A beautiful sight in the Yellowstone Park Are the geysers when seen in their play ; The Giant, Old Faithful, Artemesia, The Fan, Are awful and grand in their way. You will surely feel weaker in your effort of strength When the Fire Hole and the Hell Hole you see, And think when these wonders their swaddling bands burst, Oh, where will humanity be? The transcendant beauty of the Yellowstone Park Bedazzles the far-seeing eye ; Where the blankets of beauty over Nature is spread And the hand of the Master is nigh. No beauty in city, in the village or town With the Yellowstone Park can compete; Here rivers and creeks, rivulets and rills, In mystified beauty doth sleep. There is something inspiring in the Yellowstone Park That fills with a silent delight ; And when I reflect on such picturesque scenes My trouble and sorrow takes flight. The natural scenery in the Yellowstone Park Is lovely, majestic and grand ; Such scenery I love, it fills with delight, For it is of no mortal man s hand. It is surely great pleasure in the Yellowstone Park Your canvas to spread on the green, And spend the swift hours in laughter and song, And talking of what you have seen. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 49 Then life in its beauty will kiss your pale cheeks, And drive from your soul all its care ; Give a hearty, stout look with a sweet, cheerful smile, As you breathe in the pure scented air. It is here in their beauty the geysers do spout And toss up their silvery spray, And gleam in the light of the brilliant old sun Like showers of jewels at play. That woe-begone look that mantles your face You will scare far away with a smile If you will but come to this great Wonderland And chum with the geysers awhile. Where Nature, with beautiful garments are decked, And the geysers do spout at their best; Where the Angel of Peace plants the flowers of love, To bloom on the trail of the West. So pack up clothing, your hammock and tent And away to this Wonderland go, To look on the ravishing beauty of earth, Spread here for poor mortals below. Come, roll up your blankets and gather your wraps And take a glad look at the pile, And hit the old trail to this great Wonderland And chum with the geysers awhile. 50 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND To My Indian Friends. God made you, my brother, in His own perfect way, And on no reservation compelled you to stay ; But through the wide world you could rove at your ease, Could ride, or could walk, or could go as you please. As free as the wind o er the plains of the West Was freedom implanted to thrive in your breast; To be a free Indian, to think or to talk, To travel or to stop, to ride or to walk. But on no reservation He compelled you to stay, To shorten your years or to sadden your day; But He made you as free as the dove on her nest, To love and to cherish the seed in your breast. But I see you corralled, and it s here you must stay Till your form becomes bent and your hair becomes gray. The round-up has caught you and gathered you in For greed and for profit, for your scalp and your skin. Your buffaloes are gone, now no more to be seen, Those huge shaggy fellows that once fed on the green ; The white man he did it, no blame lies on you, He went to the slaughter, to slay and pursue. Your wigwams are scattered, your braves are all gone, Like the elk and the bear, like the deer and the fawn ; Gone are Red Men from the plains of the West, Who were brave, true and loyal to the core of their breast. "W hen the Steer s a Flying Circus- A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 51 When Your Hull* Begins to Roll. I said that I could ride him And would show them that I could, But the way I m pulling leather Looks as though I won t make good. Many other riders found They could not reach the goal When the steer became a circus And their hull began to roll. It is surely recreation, In a frantic sort of way, To saddle up a long-horned steer, If on him you can stay. It s a cinch he ll come a-jumping, And you ll find the badger hole, When the steer s a flying circus And your hull begins to roll. Talk about your broncho busting, But a steer will take the prize, \Vhen he s way up yonder rolling. Water gushing from your eyes. When he s forty leagues from landing, And all tied up in a knot, The steer will be a winner And will drop you on the spot. I don t begrudge the jackpot. Nor the wager on the side, But admire the long-horned Texas That put up the hardest ride. You may find yourself far-reaching, But you cannot reach the goal, When the steer becomes a circus And your hull begins to roll. *"Hull," old saddle. 52 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND They Sent Me Right Over the Road. My home now is here in prison, They lock me up tight every night ; Hard work and no payday a-coming, I never can think it just right. It is here I worry till morning, And get up without any rest; For I feel the barbed arrow of sorrow A-piercing deep into my breast. Oh, why am I here in this prison, Locked up in this cold house of stone? Oh, why am I here serving sentence? Oh, why am I not at my home ? I have there a wife in her sorrow, Who is bearing her burden of grief. Oh, I would that I only could lift it And bring back the smiles of relief. It would grieve my old father and mother. Were both of them living today, To think that I shut my eyes tightly And wandered so far from the way. But the seed of transgression is certain, And I m reaping the crop that I sowed ; And serving my time here in prison, For they sent me right over the road. As I think of the home of my childhood My heart with its memories are filled. But gone like the buds of my childhood, Or roses that once were distilled. But I see her tonight in clear vision, Dear mother, and the love she bestowed. Oh, the burden of grief would be heavy If she knew the wild seed that I sowed. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 53 My clear wife, I dearly have loved her, And courted the smiles of her face, And why am I now taken from her And locked up in this cold, horrid place? My children they sadly do miss me, No papa to climb on his knee ; Oh, the burden is heavy, dear children, The burden on you and on me. Now will you, my dear ones, forget me, And banish me out of your mind, Because I was put into prison When sinful and selfish and blind? The hues of the rainbow have faded, Its lustre no more can I see ; Oh, could I but feel the great fullness And be what I once used to be. I realize now in my blindness That my happiness greatly is marred, And I ve proved it right here in the prison That the way of the transgressor is hard. And here I am sitting with stripes on A-reaping the crop that I sowed, And must harvest it all here in prison, For they sent me right over the road. Despair greets me early each morning, And loneliness stands by my side; Such cellmates as these are not pleasant, But yet they forever abide. My sorrow seems deeper and fiercer Than the waves of the angry old sea, As I think of my long, dreary sentence And wonder how long till I m free. My sadness is sickening and painful, And the burden is heavy to bear, As I think of my friends who have left me And none of sorrow will share. 54 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND In a cold, damp cell of a prison Is where I must smother my shame, While the great high wall that surrounds me Throws the shadow and blot on my name. Oh, could I but see you, dear children. And fondle you long on my knee, And circle my arms well around you, Oh, you don t know how happy I d be. You can breathe the pure air of the mountains And your troubles to each other tell, But I am distressed and forsaken, And alone in this dreary old cell. My home and my w r ife and my children I love as no other can love, And although a poor convict in prison Ask God to look down from above To protect and keep them together Ajnd not let them go far astray. Those sweet little blossoms of childhood That are sad and so lonely today. This great cruel wall of this prison Stands high between you and me, And it brings me no tidings of freedom, And no message from those who are free. There s no rainbow of promise reflected By this cruel and revengeful old wall, But its strength is sufficient for greatness And its greatness sufficient for all. * My trouble, indeed, is distressing, And my spirit is heavy and sore ; It seems that the balance is tipping And will not bear up any more. But I trustingly look to the Master, I know He is loving and kind; I will ask Him to strengthen and lead me And not let me falter behind. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 55 It seems all my friends have forsook me, With bitterness, loathing and scorn, And away in the silent night watches I ask why I ever was born ? This still makes my punishment greater, As I feel the distress and the pain, And I wish I was out in the moonlight, And I wish I was out in the rain. The shadows fall darkly, my loved ones, Not a ray where it lingers and rests ; Xo day star of brightness revealing The love that is hid in my breast. Oh, why don t you value the living, While yet the Great Reaper is stayed ? Oh. why don t you help up the fallen Before his short life is decayed? You all used to write to me often When I was away from the home, But now you have nearly quit writing And likely you all will disown ; And never again call me father, Nor listen to w 7 hat I ve to say, Because I am here in the prison And branded a criminal today. My wife seems to turn the cold shoulder, Not wishing to hear my sad tale ; Oh, God! Have love and have mercy When the wife of my bosom doth fail. So long we have both walked together, Our joys and our sorrows were one, Our hands and our hearts both united In the happy, sweet race as we run. Oh, that my dear wife would stay with me And speak a kind word to me now ; How the curtains would lift from my eyelids And the furrows go back from my brow. 56 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Oh, why did you tell me you loved me When the roses of youth were so bright? Oh, why do you shun and disown me Because I m a prisoner tonight? I know there s a great gushing fountain Opened up for the lost and the low ; I know that the blood of the Savior Can wash me as white as the snow. Long have I hoped and have waited, But no love in your letters I see ; Now Jesus has come to the rescue And has saved a poor sinner like me. My hope now in Jesus is centered, To anchor in the haven of rest; He will wash from the stain of the prison, For He s planted His peace in my breast. So sound it in town and in city And send it far out on the sea, That God in His love and His mercy Has saved a poor sinner like me. But I feel that my health is a-breaking, My cheeks are all sunken and pale; So write me a good, loving letter And send it today in the mail. May the Father of Mercy give comfort And protect all the path that I trod, And bring me out safe from this prison To walk on His green, grassy sod. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 57 A Hunk of That Old Pumpkin Pie. (Song.) I have wandered so far in my rovings, And hard have I tried to forget The joys and charms of my childhood, But I cannot I have not as yet. I cannot forget the old homestead. No matter how hard I may try ; I cannot forget that dear mother. Nor the taste of that great pumpkin pie. My goodness, how plain I can see it, Just one solid inch in the pan ; So yellow, so rich and so golden. With a "Come, eat it all, if you can." Today in my gloom and my sadness, I fancy I m back there to roam Around the old garden and homestead, In the joys of my sweet boyhood home. Let the scenes of my childhood uncover, And the mist from my eyes roll away, Till I fancy I see that log cabin Where no shadow of trouble could play. In the shade of that old apple orchard My soul with enrapture doth swell, And I see the old moss-covered bucket From which I would drink at the well. Yes, I see myself there eating peaches And storing the apples away, And picking some ripe, juicy cherries, Wishing always that summer would stay. 58 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND Then after the cows in the evening, To hurry them home on the fly, Then into the kitchen and cupboard For a hunk of that old pumpkin pie. Then up in the morning quite early, To milk and to plant out some seed; And then off to school at my lessons. To cipher, to study and read. When noon hoar came I was waiting And started right off on the fly To locate that little tin bucket For a hunk of that old pumpkin pie. Then show me the cheery old fireplace Where father and mother would sit, Surrounded with happy, bright children In a home which contentment had fit. Gone are the days of my childhood, Gone are the ones I loved dear ; Yet often in dreamland I meet them And fancy them standing quite near. Now hurry I must in my fancy, Till I meet with that old pumpkin pie : Oh, my, how I truly did prize it, Both pleasing to taste and to eye. Then give me a hope of the future, And teach me a piece of a rhyme. And my heart overflowing with music Will measure away at the time. Then tenderly point to the pathway And guide me away from the wrong. And let me press forward in duty. Surrounded with childhood and song. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 59 So I ll gather the flowers of childhood And plant them to grow in my soul, To fill it with joy and with sweetness? While the waves of adversity roll. Yet a heavy, sad feeling comes o er me, And you know I have almost to cry, As I fancy I see in that cupboard A hunk of that old pumpkin pie. In the Bad Lands. I used to love to ramble in the dreary old Bad Lands, With my lasso on my saddle-horn and my rifle in my hand; I was a Western hunter and my rifle aim was true, I could chase the nimble antelope and round them up for you. I had a buffalo pony and he seemed to love my gun, And although he wasn t very fast he knew how it was done; For riding or for chasing was as fine as in the land, If I was in the saddle and the rein was in my hand. The other day while hunting away of f on the flat I saw a nimble antelope and flagged him with my hat ; I shot that noble creature and packed him into camp, But to kill a graceful antelope I ll vow I am a scamp. 60 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND He Was Going Some for a Preacher. I put my hat upon my head and walked out for a stroll, The night was light, the moon was bright, the air was crisp and cold; I walked out to a stylish church in the western part of town, The preacher was dressed up so fine he could not well sit down. The preacher was a gifted one, not timid, weak or shy, But waded in with all his might to make good angels cry ; His language was most perfect, too, and faultless was his coat, So stood he there upon the floor and praised the Lord by note. The sky was clear and cold that night and showed no sign of storm, But he could preach of hell so hot it sure would keep you warm; Of all the men I have ever heard portraying the wicked s lot With all their gifted eloquence could paint a hell so hot. He said there was a lake of fire, a seething, burning hell, Where wicked men and children, too, forever more would dwell; He preached eternal seething flames and hurled them through the room, In burning coals and fiery flames he cried the sinners doom. Eternal and eternally the circling flames would roll, To torture and torment the lost, the weak and helpless soul; As I sat there a-thinking some, what would they do for him? The devil was rejoicing with a most becoming grin. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 61 He said they always would exist within that burning flame, Ten thousand times ten thousand years to torture just the same ; With cries of pain ascending up through all the countless years, A cruel God, a heartless wretch, would have his time of tears. He did not preach the love of God, nor from the Bible read, But talked of fearful punishment dealt out to the wicked dead; All through the vast eternity while circling years shall roll The flames of hell will surge and throb upon the wicked soul. That gifted preacher, too, may here depart depart from me, The heathen and the harlot shall enter before thee ; You have not taught the love of God, but spite, revenge and hate, While the people for salvation did hunger, long and wait. I think the worst men that we have are preachers worldly wise, For when they see the simple truth they turn away their eyes; They ll stamp the floor and make a fuss and preach eter nal fire, And then the fair and supper comes to pay the preacher s hire. 62 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Hurrah for Old Montana Twenty Years Ago. (Song.) I want to tell you, Pardner, You ride a shaky horse When you leave dear old Montana And strike out another course. It is the one great rangeland That now is up to date, Where the long-horned steer is feeding In the Golden Treasure State. CHORUS : Then hurrah for old Montana, And hurrah for you and me ! For I m here in old Montana, And it s here I want to be! You may go down to Texas, Where the morning glory vine Is a-twisting and a-twining Round the cypress and the pine. But the doggies they get ticky, And they die upon the spot; There they pine away in summer, And the winter s just as hot. CHORUS : Then hurrah for old Montana, And hurrah for you and me! For I m here in old Montana, And it s here I want to be ! You can t drive up to Kansas On the old Dodge City trail; There s a hundred thousand fences And a free delivery mail. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 63 It is chickens and it s turkeys. And it s scrawny, weavily wheat, And the farmer with his whiskers Is the only one you meet. CHORUS : Then hurrah for old Montana, And hurrah for you and me ! For I m here in old Montana, Just where I want to be ! You may go to Colorado, But you cannot get a show; In the summer it is drouthy, In the winter it is snow. And the only place that s open, Where a Cowboy now can rest, Is the range of old Montana, The fair jewel of the West. CHORUS : Then hurrah for old Montana, And hurrah for you and me ! For I m here in old Montana, And it s here I want to be! You may go east to Nebraska, But she hasn t got the stuff; She s divided, cut and quartered, Every sandhill, smooth or rough. They have plenty of protection And they re asking none of us, And they re reaping now this harvest Of feathers and of fuss. CHORUS : Then hurrah for old Montana, And hurrah for you and me! For I m here in old Montana, And it s here I want to be! 64 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Yes, I ll stay in old Montana, Where the grass is rich and sweet, And where Nature is enchanting And tumbling round your feet. It s the only range that s open, Where a puncher now can rest, Is the range of old Montana, The fair gem of all the West. CHORUS : Then hurrah for old Montana, And hurrah for you and me ! For I m he.re in old Montana, And it s here I want to be ! There s no place like Montana, She s the Bingen on the Rhine; She s a-dancing and a-prancing, And a-coming up the line. She s a-standing like a warrior, With a crown upon her head, And unwilling to be numbered With the dying and the dead. CHORUS : Then hurrah for old Montana, And hurrah for you and me ! For I m here in old Montana, And it s here I want to be! If you want to stay in Texas I am sure you have the right, But if you go to Nebraska I will bid you all goodnight. But when you lay me out to rest, Beyond this Great Divide, Plant me in old Montana, That s sunny, lone and wide. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 65 CHORUS : Then hurrah for old Montana, And hurrah for you and me ! For I m here in old Montana, And it s here I want to be! Lines to a Prisoner. Look up, my brother, do not fear To face the withering blast, For grated doors with iron bars Will open wide at last. These dark and cruel prison walls Will try to blot our name ; A convict, too, so I am told, Is shadowed deep in shame. But prison doors and clanking chains Do seldom reach the spot, But leave behind a lasting sting Which cannot be forgot. So let us now a lesson learn From those who wear the chain, And try to act a soldier s part And try to feel his pain. May he who made the brilliant sun, The golden stars to shine, Just man your heart with firm resolve To bear and not repine. 66 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND A Lonely Grave Out West. Away out on the high divide between the Yellow stone and the Stillwater rivers lies sleeping in Mother Earth the remains of a young boy about 14 or 15 years old, who was killed by the Indians in the early days of Montana. I fixed up his grave with stone and wrote the following verses and put them on his headstone : A lonely grave, a sacred spot, On the old Jim Bridger trail ; A mother s son is sleeping here In death so cold and pale. A boy of rather tender years To roam so far away, Out in the wild and woolly West, Where Indians kill and slay. The Red Man knows his resting place. Their arrows reached the mark, And here he lies now deep in dust, In house that s cold and dark. He died alone away out West, No friends to weep around ; The Indians in their thirst for blood Soon shot him to the ground. Next day the father, in his grief, Laid his dead boy to rest ; To sleep in old Montana soil, The gem of all the West. Not in the city of the dead He fills a yawning grave; But a lonely one away out West, Where Western winds do rave. fttt "A Mother s Son is Sleeping Hen A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 67 No flowers to decorate his grave, No history writes his fame; But I will place a bouquet there In honor of his name. Now should you pass this lonely grave, Let tender thoughts appear; For you shall sleep some day in dust As he who slumbers here. We ll leave him here in his repose, Unconscious of his rest; To sleep in old Montana soil, The flower of the W-est. To the Warden, Deer Lodge. Would it be against the prison rules To send these verses home ? I d like for wife to call to mind The fields we used to roam. Please grant this small request to me, And send them down the line, And you shall have the kind regards Of this frail heart of mine. I have with you a small account, So charge the same to me ; Unjust indeed would be the thought To have it charged to thee. 68 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND That Old Sheepherder Man. I want to tell you where I ve been, And what I ve seen today, Away out West upon the range Where cattle used to stay. I saw a band of sheep, old Pard, I saw the herder, too, Come driving in his stinking sheep, Just like all herders do. It nearly took my breath away, I had to stop awhile ; And then that crazy herder man Began to start a smile. I could not well control my bronk, And he began to pitch. And fired that old sheepherder man Right down into the ditch. Old Rattler still kept going high, The sheep began to scare ; The shepherd dog began to w T ork Upon his master s hair. The way he pulled his master round Showed well the dog was game ; You bet he towed this herder man Till he was good and tame. You ought to have seen this herder man In mud and water deep, A-prancing and a-dancing round As crazy as his sheep. I left him there unto his fate, With all his fuss and roar, And never saw a herder man Turned wrong side out before. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 69 I went next day back to this place, The birds began to sing, The cattle feeding on the hills Was a delightful thing. But sheep and herder they were gone, H ad went across the bridge Beyond the rocky point divide Across the stony ridge. And now the range looks good to me, No sheep nor herder there, And cattle on a thousand hills. The glorious rangeland share. Say sheepman, listen now to me. Please do not come about, For if you do my bucking bronk Will put you all to rout. I hate a little fenced-up range Where sheepmen fuss and fight, But where it s big and wild and free Therein I take delight. A thousand miles across a flat Gives room to go and come, And joy to meet the puncher boys When they are scattered some. So now I ll picket out my horse Beneath the Western sky. Where stinking sheep and herders, too, Have bid the range goodbye. And here beside this old cowtrail I ll ride and laugh and grin, But do not want those farmer gents To come and fence me in. 70 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Written in the County Jail at Big Timber, Montana. (Song.) Come all you Sweet Grass County boys, Come listen to my rhyme ; We re laying in Big Timber jail Because accused of crime. We re laying in Big Timber jail, And surely feel the curse. But in our hearts we re thankful, boys, That things ain t any worse. This jail outfit s the laziest gang That e er creation reared ; They re rather small of caliber. Their conscience hard and seared. One fire a day is what we get, In weather hot or cold, Cause the sheriff is too lazy, boys. And the jailer is too old. Jake Lyons is the turnkey man. He carries grub and such ; He s willing to do all he can, But that, you, know, ain t much. He comes down every morning late. Stands up and walks around. As if he s looking for a wife And can t find one in town. When Jake comes from the boarding house With hot coffee in the can, We re mighty glad to know, my boys, That Tucker is the man Who sends us such good things to eat, And not stuck up, you know, Shall some day wear a golden crown In a way that won t be slow. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 71 Now Jake, our jailer s, out of town, I think he s gone to Nye ; Of course it made us all feel bad, While Jim began to cry. And while he s gone we mourn for him, The pie and cake don t come; We wish that he would hurry back So he can bring us some. I hear he s gone a-fishing, boys, Way up to Hawkes Hole, A-tantalizing minnows there With his long old fishing pole. But Jake will soon be back again, When fishing days are o er, And bring us lots of pie and cake, As he has done before. Now while he s gone we re feeling bad, The work is never done, And we have a kick a-coming, boys, As to how this jail is run. We hear that Jake is back again, And we re thankful, too, for that, For when we get a streak of lean We ll get a streak of fat. Say, won t you kill the fatted calf And bring us some to eat? W 7 ith ham and eggs along the side T would be a perfect treat. A pullet, too, with yellow legs, A turkey good and ripe, Would suit us poor old jailbirds, With partridge, quail and snipe. Although we re in this lonely cell For right we will contend ; Don t strike us with your fishing pole Until we are condemned. 72 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND And when we get our liberty We won t forget our rhyme, Nor we won t forget our turnkey man In the good old summer time. We won t forget our neighbor boys For their friendship in the past And taking just another chance, We hope it still may last. And when we swim old Jordan stream, Cross o er the Great Divide, We hope to see friend Tucker there A-standing by our side. To Ride Away Out West. (Song.) Come all you rambling Cowboys and a story I will tell. Before I leave old Sweet Grass to go to the pen to dwell. I have no ill-bred feelings well pent up in my breast, But a handshake for true-hearted men who ride away out West. I was born and raised in the Buckeye state and never came to shame Till I left my dear old homestead to ride upon the range; One day I got in trouble, boys, and it was very queer, They brought a bill against me for killing Rhine s steer. I used to love to hunt and trap out in the Western wilds, O er barren plains and mountain haunts I ve roamed for many miles ; The graceful antelope and deer I used to get with ease Could rope the wildest broncho and ride him where I pleased. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 73 It s away down in the nation, boys, T know well all the trail. And away across Wyoming, the land of storm and hail ; With a roving disposition, that would never let me rest, I wandered to Montana, boys, to roam out in the West. These old Montana roundups I think will take the prize, They ll call you in the morning with the starlight in the sky; They will start you on a circle full forty miles away, And you are mighty lucky if you get two meals a day. It s here I met a Southern boy, from the old Texas state, A Cowboy by profession, which I will now relate; He had settled on a little home, with his dear wife and child. To follow the long-horned steer around in the Montana wilds. T was on a cold December day, just a little after noon, We rounded up a bunch of steers and rounded them quite soon ; We drove them to a coolie, a beef to kill that day, But Jim he made a blundering shot to only wound a stray. The sheriff and his deputy just happened to be near, And in a very little while to us they did appear; And when they both before us stood I never shall forget The feelings at that moment, boys, revives within me yet. They took us to Big Timber jail and there behind the bars For nearly four long dreary months we never roamed afar; So now we are in shackles, boys, I m willing to admit, They say that we are guilty, but they haven t proved it yet. 74 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND They put our bonds so very high we could not meet the sum, And one who could fill all demands would sure be going some; Thirty-six hundred, I am told, is just a little queer To bond a man behind the bars for killing of a steer. The sheriff and his deputy they did not do us right. They said I was an outlaw and I would always fight ; They said to take a hundred men and stand them line in line, And let them pick a fighting man they d pick Beggs every time. Of course, a bad report like this may send me o er the road, And drive me to a prison pen when no resistance showed ; But if I have to wear the stripes and make a prison hand You ll never hear me fret or \vhine I still shall be a man. You ought to have seen that jury, boys, sheepherders I express, A-pacing up to the jury seats in their Norwegian dress; While each one had his mind made up, the seed already sowed, To turn the old-time Cowboy down and send him o er the road. But there was Lawyer Barbour, a man of low degree, Who stood before that jury, boys, to stamp his hate on me; And there was R. R. Purcell, who I cannot well forget, He was the blackest of them all I think I hear him yet. Thus spread the great R. R. Purcell like a cyclone o er the skies, He made the courtroom ring aloud with falsehoods and with lies ; A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 75 Out spoke this shallow-hearted cur, his language freely flowed, "Now all you noble jury boys, come send them o er the road." He said up at the old stockade I had no house nor hut, I had no barn or fences made and hence no gate to shut ; This was the great R. R. Purcell, who in Helena resides, Enough, my boys, to shock my heart and I sought my blush to hide. The foreman of my jury, boys, Louis Guthrie was his name, A sheepman with the wool all on and both hands in the game; He said he was a juryman and to court he sure would go To send them to a prison pen in a way to not be slow. The jury quickly hastened, boys, its verdict for to give, They thought the old-time Cowboy was hardly fit to live ; That jury found me guilty, boys, Judge Henry sentenced me To labor hard for five long years in the penitentiary. The sheepmen and the cattlemen have had a dreadful time And human gore has freely flowed throughout this West ern clime; But the sheep have got the range today, the herder s got the grippe, Just as they had long years ago away down in the Strip. 76 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Gems of Old Montana. Cause we live here in Montana People really think we re tough : We are just as good as they are, We are diamonds in the rough. We are the kind of diamonds That will ease your troubled breast- The gems of old Montana, The pride of all the West. Here Montana sage is plenty, So are rattlesnakes and ticks ; Here we sell the short-horn feeder. But we sell no gilded bricks. When the weather s dry and dusty Our crops all grow the best, In the soil of old Montana, The pride of all the West. Don t leave the land of plenty. Where happiness is found, But stay here in Montana, Where they have a heap of ground. You may drive a splendid carriage, By your side a handsome wife, And board at the penitentiary A great share of your life. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 77 Indians Story of Ouster s Last Battle. The Indians story of Custer s fight has never been told in full, Nor the massacre of all his men by the braves of Sitting Bull; It was in the Big Horn country, in the year of seventy- six, On the twenty-fifth day of June, no other date we fix. Custer left Fort Abraham Lincoln in the spring of seven ty-six And with the Indians on the warpath he expected soon to mix; He had six hundred cavalry men and every one was strong, And some four hundred infantry to Custer did belong. You know it is a part of life s great mystery of fate That keeps men ever pressing on until it is too late ; From weaker ones we often hear a story deep in shame, Or from the dark night of the past a star leads forth to fame. And so it was with Custer no turning back he knew Till Death s cold silent shadows o er the Little Big Horn threw ; Brave Custer had no ironclad rule to overthrow a foe, But when in sight of the enemy he straight for them would go. We will hear the Indians story of Custer s last great fight On the Little Big Horn river, the bloody Sioux delight ; There were little chiefs and big chiefs and the braves of many moons, Rough pictures, too, of Indian life to mark the soldiers tombs. 78 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND My people, said old Sitting Bull, were starved from off their land, And driven from their hunting grounds toward the bar ren sand ; There was no game for them to hunt, no food for them to eat, Our freedom, too, was taken away bound to the white man s feet. The white man, said old Sitting Bull, had drove us far away And still they kept on pushing us and driving us each day; And then to fix and finish us they sent the boys in blue, Of course we had to fight them, and we fought the battle through. Custer came to fight us and we brought our warriors up, And we called our braves together, and we filled their bitter cup; Brave Yellow Hair had many soldiers he, too, had many guns While we had many warriors with the braves of many suns. My people they heap frightened, they did not want to die, The Father he heap angry, his wrath reach way up high ; My people were in trouble and had much talk where to go, While heap scout like the eagles followed Custer high and low. We did not want to fight them, for Custer was much brave, We did not want to torture them or send them to their grave : A BOOK OF WESTERN FERSES 79 Brave Yellow Hair a mighty chief, and he no fraid to fight, But he still keep on a-pushing us, and we did not think it right. On the twenty-fifth day of June, late in the afternoon, We saw the soldiers on the hills, and we made ready soon; Brave Yellow Hair was in the lead with frenzied terror smiled, While hard he spurred his reeking horse to reach the Injuns wild. Red Horse, a mighty Injun chief, saw Custer swiftly coming, T was then we called our warriors up, and they came fast and running; Rain-in-the-Face, a noted chief, was the one who led the braves And charged them down on Custer s crew and left them for their graves. We gave the mighty warwhoop as we rushed upon our prey, And we fought the last great battle, and we fought it there that day ; There was long and bloody fighting and many braves were killed, And the river it ran bloody where the life blood had been spilled. Here on the Little Big Horn was Custer s last great fight, Surrounded with savage redskins, on the left and on the right ; Rain-in-the-Face was in the lead to do his very best, And Gall was pushing in the rear to meet him from the west. 80 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND While Bear and Red Horse fought fearful there that day, And thick on the Little Big Horn did the dead and dying lay Red Wolf and Kicking Horse, they both fought long and well, With Sitting Bull close by their side where Custer fought and fell. With that last great battle over and hundred, too, had bled, The redskins rushed upon the scene to cut and scalp the dead; But did not touch brave Yellow Hair, they honored him with might, For he was much brave Yellow Hair, and he would al ways fight. No more will those wild savage braves ride o er the West ern plains, , For Sitting Bull at Wounded Knee now \vith the dead remains ; And now no more brave Yellow Hair on Indian trails will ride, For in eighteen hundred and seventy-six he crossed the Great Divide. Upon that bloody battlefield a costly marble stands. To mark the last long resting place of heroes great and grand ; No more they ll hear the bugle call, or yet the muffled drum, But will answer to the roll call when the judgment day has come. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 81 We Have Them All at Deer Lodge. Talk about insurance agents, With their cunning little schemes, They loom up here at Deer Lodge Like shadows over streams. We have the biggest rascals here That ever forged a check, A-boarding at this prison pen They got it in the neck. I will tell you how they do it, And they do it, too, with ease, Just as easy as a fakir man Can play his game of peas. They w r ill drive out to your dwelling With a spanking team of bays; They are grafting on a grafter s plan, A graft that always pays. "Good morning, Mr. Stebbins, I have called around to see If I could write you out today A life-long policy." And he talks so very smoothly While the other rubs it in, And they tickle the old farmer And he soon begins to grin. Now they tell a funny story And it has a funny ring. They are working on the farmer Just to do the funny thing. Now they have the farmer moving And a-coming up the stream, And the agents they are tickled Till they almost have to scream. 82 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND But they come to some conclusion, An agreement soon is reached, And the farmer is a-blooming, But he soon begins to screech. When he finds that they have worked him Well, it isn t any sport, For the agents now have got him Where the hair is rather short. They have wrote him up a policy A-covering life and death, To be payable the morning Of the day he lost his breath. Now the papers are completed And you ll hear the farmer squeal, As they lather him all over Just to shave him to the heels. Soon the children they get tickled, And their mother she did, too, And when everybody s tickled Why, it is a tickled crew. And when everybody s tickled Why, of course, it tickles you, But the agents they were tickled. And tickled through and through. Old Sorgum started laughing, And he laughed a rolling gait, And he never stopped a-laughing, So he laughed till middling late. As he thought of all the suckers Who were willing to be caught Caused a feeling at his throatway Like a flapjack when it s hot. Oh, the different kinds of people This old world can show up, The wolf in his sheep clothing And the drunkard with his cup. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES S3 We have them all at Deer Lodge, The walls are high and strong, The farmer with his whiskers And the agent with his song. They are sitting here with stripes on, A-musing on the past; They wish they hadn t done it, But the musing long will last. Oh, this world s a curious outfit, With its honey and its gall, With its cares and its caresses It s a great world after all. Now you horny-fisted farmers Let me say to you a word, If you want to keep your hay seed, Your horses and your herd, Just be a little skittish In believing all you hear, For those agents tell some whoppers And they sound a little queer. Now you old potato raisers, Who have always took the prize, A-raising big potatoes With ninety-seven eyes, Let the smart insurance agents With their cute and funny ways, Work the hills and wooded valleys Where no human maverick stays. 84 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND A Notice on the Lone Cabin on Bridger Creek. Well, boys, I have the cabin done, But the fellow isn t here; But when the grass starts on the hills I think he will appear. So I will measure off the land And set the corner stakes, And try to whistle up a tune For the ranch on Bridger Brakes. A mansard roof is very good, But a boxcar roof is better, But what s the use for either one If the weather is no wetter? Here s plenty of good water, boys, To quench your thirsty pains ; Walk over to the spring out there Or wait until it rains. Not many women folks about And things are looking glum You had better get a hustle on And get to going some. Who told you you could read this? Say, what are you about ? Only twelve miles to Whiting s store. Does your mother know you re out? A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 85 When the Bronk Begins to Bawl. It is out here in Montana, which we call the treasure state, Where we raise the bucking broncho, with the Cowboy up to date; Where the rich, nutritious grasses gives them muscle, strength and nerve To go up high and crooked and make the proper curve ; Where we have the best of riders some are short and some are tall But there s always something doing when the bronk be gins to bawl. It is out here in Montana, in the wild and woolly West, Where the bronk grows to perfection and the Cowboy s at his best ; From the murky picturesque Yellowstone away up to the line You will find those pitching bronchos and Cowboys in their prime; From mountain, plain and valley they will answer to the call To show you something funny when the bronk begins to bawl. You may gather in your punchers, you may call them all by name, And every one will answer with a record of his fame; They will tell you they are twisters from the little town of Fisk, And can ride the twisting bronchos, no matter how they twist ; But the dust cloud rolling yonder says there s going to be a squall, And some gent will find a landing when the bronk begins to bawl. 80 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND You may be a gallant rider and can turn your broncho loose While he jumps and springs and wiggles like a little mad cayuse ; You may wear your broad sombreros and your dark An gora schapps, Or your little Sunday duster, or your heavy winter wraps ; You may have a dandy outfit saddle, bridle, cinch and ail- But something will be doing when the bronk begins to bawl. When the rider goes to shaking, turning pale around the gills, Just as little Annie Sagar does with Oklahoma chills; When his grip begins to loosen and his strength begins to go There is not a bit of danger he will pocket up your dough ; When he s left the royal palace and is looking sick and small The horse will drop his baggage when the bronk begins to bawl. When the bronk has gone a-fishing somewhere up in a cloud, And is coming like a thunderbolt and feeling mighty proud, You may have a pair of rollers as large as motor wheels, With shanks as long and ugly as a fork of crooked steel ; You must be a twister twisting with a large amount of gall, For there s always something doing when the bronk be gins to bawl. It is out here in Montana, in the wild and woolly West, Where the bronk can shake a diamond or the buttons from your vest; A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 87 When you saddle up an outlaw, I would have you all to know. That safety is some distance off and danger close below ; So I warn you, gentle fellow, if you be short or tall, There s always something doing when the bronk begins to bawl. When the bronk goes off prospecting twenty feet at every jump, Skylarking way up yonder, looking for a place to dump ; When he grunts and groans and quivers like a ship caught in a storm, When his eyes are big and bulging and his breath is mighty warm ; It is then some reckless puncher will answer to his call And the saddle drop its baggage when the bronk begins to bawl. How Are You Fixed for Straw? Reuben was an odd genius in his makeup, in his talk and even in his walk. Reuben come to visit us From where he used to roam ; Boarding now at Deer Lodge, Far away from home. For Reuben swiped a saddle, And forgot to swipe the horse; Sent him up to Deer Lodge Got a year, of course. He says he took a chance once, Got a solid year; It looks mighty funny And it looks mighty queer. RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Won t take another chance. Shan t break a law ; Hello there, calfman, How are you fixed for straw ? Reuben gets up early With an easy going smile, Nothing strange about it, Only Reuben s style. In he goes to breakfast, And at once begins to chaw; Hello there, calfman. How are you fixed for straw ? He goes from the table, Using high falutin slang, Out upon the sidewalk Down he goes kerbang. Sidewalk s mighty icy, Didn t think I d fall, Just went down a-squabbling Guess I got it all. He goes to the loafing shack, Looking sorter glum ; Starts up a little game, Gets to going some. Divy to the jackpot. Something I can chaw ; Hello there, calfman. How are you fixed for straw ? Reuben goes to dinner. Slim around the girt : Comes out from dinner Looking like he s hurt. I want to trade my jackknife. A peach without a flaw ; Hello there, calfman, How are you fixed for straw? A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 89 Reuben got his nose peeled, But he can t tell how, A-playing with the greyhound Or fooling with the cow. Reuben s up against it, Just as sure as you are born ; Snow flakes and sunshine Driving up a storm. Reuben goes to breakfast, Flapjacks mighty hot; Going to fill your pockets ? Guess you better not. Reuben starts a-singing, Hurray and hurrah ; Hello there, calfman, How are you fixed for straw ? See Reuben coming With his section boss gait; He wants to get married And is looking for a mate. He has a little sweetheart Down in Arkansas ; Hello there, calfman. How are you fixed for straw? He comes from the loafing shack A-looking mighty fine, His heart a-beating tenor And his feet a-keeping time. I m going out tomorrow, And here s to you my paw; Hello there, calfman, How are you fixed for straw ? SO RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Old Slop Mule at Deer Lodge. I am a good old working mule, But my life s been very hard, For twenty years I ve hauled the slop Away from this old yard. Some years ago the stripes went off And then went on the brown; They made a trusty mule of me, To haul the slop from town. It s hard to be a little mule, And work in harness so ; The heavier is the load I have. The faster I must go. The cart is such a heavy thing. And my harness they are, too ; They have to keep my collar tight To keep from pulling through. Of drivers I have had a few, A dozen, more or less ; Jim Doodle is my driver now, A bum one, too, I guess. And when my load is tough to pull, He ll kick me hard and shout, And when the ladies come around He always bawls me out. I ve served them well for twenty years, And done the best of work; No matter how they loaded me, I never played the shirk. But now when old and stiffened up They drive me with a stick ; But I will show that Dutchman yet This mule is pretty slick. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 91 He jerks me by the bridle bit Until my mouth is sore, And when I toss my head with pain He always gives me more. The way I ll fix that Dutchman yet You need not have a doubt ; I hate to have that driver man To always bawl me out. One day to show how mean he was, He hit me with a scoop; And then I overturned the cart And spilled out all the soup. The hog warden come a-butting in And hit me with a club; Just then I sent a lifter out He landed in the tub. They loaded me with slop one day, And handled me quite rough ; I did not like to have to haul And smell that horrid stuff. I started them a-going some, A gait I couldn t stop; And run the cart into the creek And spilled out all the slop. They worked me over, too, I guess, But it was all the same; The old mule had his dander up, And he was out for game. And while they fished the old cart out, I stood so good and still ; They also got the barrels again, But had to leave the swill. But convict labor it is cheap And of the poorest grade; But I m a mule that was brought up A-hmnmer to my trade. RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND My heels can run a fanning mill, My mouth can sing a tune; I ll round that Dutch hog warden up And feed him with a spoon. I m all right now and feeling fine To knock that Dutchman out, To chase him round the opera house And hear the ladies shout. Look out for me, I m coming now, I m on the highway route; I want to meet that Dutchman now And hear him bawl me out. I ve done that Dutch hog warden up, He had it in for me; I only hit him with my breath, And made him blind, you see. Two Dutchmen left the burning deck, And both were looking wise; The old mule got his dander up And blackened both their eyes. Those Dutchmen now are very sick, And looking awful pale; They thought to make a tool of me, In this they both did fail. For if you treat a mule that way He ll practice with his feet, And just as sure as you re alive He s laying for your meat. So now I m done, I ve had my tear, And laid two Dutchmen low ; Will kindly bow my head to you, With measure, beat and slow. For some day they will haul me off Upon the boneyard route, Where all the Dutchmen in the world Will never bawl me out. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 93 Malugian at Great Falls Goes to the Cir cus and Tries to Ride a Trick Mule. Well, wife, I ve landed here at last, and the town it looks all right, The streets are wide and handsome and fills me with delight ; There s about five thousand houses, I m giving now a guess, Many of them two stories high, and some are more or less. I went out the other day, dear wife, to take in all the sights, I walked along quite proudly, too, I guess I have the right ; I walked out to the city park, and then and there I found To my perfect satisfaction that a show had come to town. So I steered right straight for the circus, and the elephant he was out, The people they went nearly wild, you ought to have heard them shout; The parade it started early, and it surely was immense, It reached from the Park hotel, dear wife, out to Lick Brindle s fence. I was bound to see the elephant, but they had stretched a rope, you see, And while looking for Mr. Elephant, Mr. Elephant he found me ; He turned me two and twenty and whirled me round and round, And left three hundred pounds of flesh just piled upon the ground. 94 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Well, the people they just hooted me, you ought to have heard them laugh, They said old Lugian s cow has broke her neck and nearly killed her calf; I tell you, dear wife, I felt the shame, I can t tell you just how, I think the people mixed me up with my old brindle cow. But soon I gathered up myself and from that scene did hie, And pulled my red bandanner out and wiped my bloody eye; I walked a furious, swaggling gait and trying hard to go. And heard the ladies laugh and say, "Old Lugian ain t so slow." Well, I crawled into the circus and I saw the merry clown, The funniest of the funny men that ever came to town ; He had a great big striped suit, spotted red and yellow, And when he would unwind himself you know I had to bellow. Roar after roar of laughter went around that circus ring, And when she d grow a little weak they d give her an other fling; The funny clown in funny dress then sung a funny song Bout his little blue-eyed sweetheart, who he called his Lucy Long. He sung it, oh, so nice, dear wife, I wish you had been there, It brought to mind old courting days, when you were young and fair; When we ran a race together and you beat me from the start, When you threw your arms around me and called me your sweetheart. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 95 Then soon they brought a mule, dear wife, into that circus ring, And asked for a man with nerve enough to ride that ornery thing ; I hollered out, "Here, I m your chap, I ve seen some mules before," Not thinking of his treacherous soul, nor of the other shore. I just jumped from off my chair and started for that mule, And heard the people laugh and say, "Malugian s an old fool ;" I took a glance around the ring and seen the hoodlums grin, Then I just scooted up my sleeves and boldly waded in. You know when I was young, dear wife, I was limber as an eel, But still there s mettle enough in me to make that critter squeal ; I said I d ride that ornery mule or learn him a new trick, And if I couldn t break him in I d make him awful sick. I landed quick upon his back, the people shouted, "Go!" The ladies clapped their hands and said, "Old Lugian ain t so slow ;" I grabbed him by his stubby tail, threw both legs round his neck, And bravely there I stayed with him like the boy on the burning deck. Hie went around that circus ring as hard as he could hump, A-making twenty feet or more at nearly every jump; Then soon he changed his method quick, but found it wouldn t work, And went up yonder thirty feet and came down with a jerk. 96 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND He made another fearful jump, my eyes rolled out afar, It seemed I almost then could see the gates that stand ajar; Then down he came all doubled up, his head between each leg, But I was still a-staying there a-playing mumblypeg. Then up again into the air he circled, churned and twist, But spurred him with my old brogans and fanned him with my fist; Then gently he descended like, and to earth again did shoot, For he had been away up there like an airship on a toot. His eyes seemed now to be of fire, his heels seemed full of danger, For he had on his back, you know, three hundred pounds of stranger; Then I soon began to wonder how he could hold out so long. And found that he was yet wound up for fifteen hours strong. He seemed to go asleep awhile, then made another lark, And flashed around that circus ring like lightning after dark; And then away from earth he went a-twisting through the skies, I said farewell, old circus ring, and wiped my weeping eyes. When we got back to the circus ring, there nothing looked the same, My pardner he had lost his tail and I soon lost my name ; The mule got back that very day with eyeballs big and wide, He landed in the circus ring, but I away outside. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 97 I gathered up myself, dear wife, the very best I could, But no doubt left some flesh and bones in the place where once I stood; For when I started off, dear wife, I did a wobbling go, Then noticed I had lost a leg and part of my big toe. Now all you Western riders, don t come up against a mule, For if you do some day you ll rue, and you will be the fool; That mule has all his meanness yet ; yes, meaner than before, While big Malugian, the old cow, will ride the mule no more. On Mount Powell, Montana. We climbed Mt. Powell s rocky slope Till on its topmost crag, We stood and looked from it afar Beyond the sagebrush sag. Away beyond this great divide Are mountains deep with snow, To water well the fruitful fields That nestle close below. It s here they rear their lofty herds Unchanged by time or fate, . Bold and defiant here they stand In this great treasure state. Whenever I leave this prison house I ll have within my breast Rich peace and love a-dwelling there That gives eternal rest. 98 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Boys at Billings. Talk about your pitching horses, Your saddles and corrals, But the Billings boys can ride them To a sweet and long farewell. It s out across the Yellowstone, Two miles from Billings flat, You ll find the Conway old corral And all the boys thereat. Jack Herford, he is in the swim, With Lowther, too, his chum, And Hayden George is twisting bronks And isn t on the bum. There is Lanky Jack, the wrangler, From somewhere in the state, He swings into the saddle And rides them all first-rate. He may pull a little leather, And the pulling not be slow, But he ll fan them with his quirt And ride them for the dough. There s Albert Caton, you all know, He saddled up a bronk, And when he got the saddle on He soon began to romp. He quickly danced an Irish jig, Then shot into the air, Turned over before he hit the ground, But landed square and fair. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 1>9 But soon again he took a start, And bucked toward the sun, He met some others coming- down, But dodged them one by one. The way he smashed that saddle up Showed well the bronk was game, But Albert kept the old hull on And rode him just the same. If you think the Billings boys can t ride Just come and watch them try, They give an exhibition free Beneath the earth and sky. There s Wesley Cagle, the old boy, You never hear him squeal, But pours the music from his throat When he puts to the steel. He rides them in a circle, Or he rides them in a line, And he plays his rolling prodders Till the bronk goes fine. There s George Clark, a Billings boy, A twister true to name; When Georgie s cinch is fastened tight No broncho gets the game. He keeps his spurs a-digging And his quirt a-keeping time, And he rides Sir Mr. Broncho Till the stars begin to shine. Goodb)^e, my boys, I ve had my say, Now I must jump the fence, For I ve wrote my paper up And found I ve just commenced. 100 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Farewell, Titanic, Proud Ship of the Sea. Gone is the great Titanic, gone to the home of the brave, Gone are the sixteen hundred, down to a watery grave ; Gone are the kind and the loving under the blue sea foam, Gone from the mansion and palace never again to roam. Husbands and wives now parting, never again to meet, Mothers and sons now drifting, never again to greet; Gone are the brave and daring, down into the deep blue sea, Gone from the home-loving circle and sad is their fate to me. Men thought this great modern vessel could never be wrecked, She was large, strong and powerful, and most beautifully decked ; In luxury, in speed and in comfort she was all that could be, But she could not contend with the troops of the sea. With scarcely a warning they sank down to their rest, Like a group of brave warriors with a star on their breast : They had heaps of great treasures, but the summons had come. Their journey now ended and their life s work was done. In no grave made with hands could those brave heroes sleep, But out with the seaweeds in the midst of the deep; With no earth to its earth, and no dust to its dust, Neath the foam of old ocean they must sleep to His trust. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 101 But of all the brave women in that ocean-tossed crew There were none quite so brave, there were none quite so true, As Mrs. Isador Straus, clinging fast to her husband till death did them part, Being true, brave and loyal to the last throb of her heart. Oh, how feeble are the genius of frail, fleeting men Gainst the forces of nature as it proved to be then; Now they rest, now they sleep neath the white-crested foam, With no clasp on their casket and no door on their tomb. Farewell, proud Titanic, farewell now to thee, Thy pride has been humbled by the troops of the sea; Farewell to thy brave in their long, dreamless sleep, To mingle with seaweeds in the trough of the deep. The Knot That Hands Have Tied. When love goes thumping through your heart, With its great sweep and swing, You are very apt to tie yourself To a most worthless thing. So, to you I come on friendly terms And ask you to restrain That current of magnetic love That s thumping through your veins. And be sure the marriage knot is made By hearts that s true and tried, For the divorce can soon undo The knots that hands have tied. No human courts will feel the pain, No human hands the stain, But there upon life s record sheet A blot will long remain. 102 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Old Stockade Corral. There s a happy time a-coming For the old stockade corral, When the calf is up a-sucking And the chickens bust the shell. When the fire is just a-popping And the coffee smoking hot, I want to tell you fellows It s a regular garden spot. The old stockade s exploding With her agriculturing wealth. The air is soft and balmy, Very dry and full of health. But the wind it keeps a-blowing Like it did down in the strip. And, prairie dogs a-sneezing Like they all have got the grip. This is at the head of Bridger, Far from the county seat, Twenty miles from Absarokee, A town that s hard to beat ; Where the golden stars do twinkle And the rattlesnake abound, And where the pitching broncho At the old stockade is found. There s a happy time a-coming, And it s coming pretty soon, A warm chinook is blowing And has kept it up since noon. It s coming, yes, it s coming, The happy time of spring, When the doves will be all mating And the whippoorwills will sing. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 103 Soon the mountains will be humming With the happy song of spring, And the chickens will be hatching In that incubator thing. So we ll keep the fire a-heating Till the eggs begin to pop, And their little wings a-growing Till their big enough to flop. The old stockade s a-booming, All we lack now is a school, She is coming to the front Like the Dutchman on the mule. We ll have incubator chickens And hoppers by the peck, If we only had a railroad We would have a railroad wreck. We can hear the dog wolf hollow In the foothills for his mate, And see the shy kioolee When the day is getting late. Cowboys thick and plentiful, And they always treat you well, And everything is humming At the old stockade corral. Van Sagendorf is coming back, He s as fat as any pig, His horses, too, are looking well, Old Sallie, Sam and Nig. Jase Jo well, too, another chum, I think I hear him yell, And we all meet together At the old stockade corral. I m glad that Jim is coming back And rowing up the tide, For I feel sort of lonely like Since the old gray pony hied. 104 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND But had he only lived till spring I hardly thing he d died; So now I have no circus horse, I only have his hide. We will have a cowboy picnic When the Fourth it comes around, And we ll have some pitching- bronchos That will shake the very ground. The tablecloth for dinner Will be white as any sheet, And the fiddle will make music For the cowboys willing feet. We will whiten up the cabin floor And rosin up the bow. While the mavericks join the roundup In a way that won t be slow. Cowboys and girls a-dancing With their light angora schapps, And grandma sitting grinning In her calico and wraps. The old stockade s a stunner, She has plenty of room and air, Plenty of good, clear, cold water And plenty of grass to spare. Of course, we have no wonders Such as twenty-story shacks, But lots of bear and bobcats, And sometimes cougar tracks. Here we have no city beauties, Nor we have no city crooks, But we have a great plantation Like you read about in books. Here you feel a joyful gladness Like a mantle wrap your soul. And the clouds of melancholy From Despair s dark island roll. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 105 Here the bright and smiling- sunrise Early lightens up the room And drives away the darkness When a soul is plunged in gloom. Here we have no pesky agents, Nor the crazy city swell, But we have just prime perfection At the old stockade corral. The old stockade is lovely In the good old summer time, When the doggies are a-browsing Mong the flowers and the vines. So come along cowpunchers, We will entertain you well With good eating and good drinking At the old stockade corral. In Those Old Round-Up Days. (Song.) I left my home a wandering lad, And bound to see the world, While father said, "Oh, Tommy dear, Your wandering flag unfurled, You have a mother, old and gray, A father good and kind ; Your mother s heart will break for you If you leave her behind." I went toward the setting sun That lights the evening sky, My heart was light, my eyes were bright, For I was young and spry. 106 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND I saw the buffalo on the plains, The Red Man in his home, Twas then I thought of mother dear When far away did roam. In this wild land I cast my lot With the roundup and the range, And here I ve rode and here I ve roamed, And here I ve seen a change. Today the range is all fenced up, Long grass no longer waves, And the poor old measly locoed sheep Feed round the cowboy s grave. 1 found the boys good riders there, And the bronchos rather rough, But quick and limber as an eel, And made of Western stuff. You can talk about gymnasium clubs And the; athletic exercise, But give me a bronk for the real old stuff, And the dust from the rangeland flies. For thirty years I ve rode or roamed O er mountain, hill and plain, My feet have trod the hunting grounds Where buffalo have been slain. My eyes have viewed the roundup camp, Where punchers had full sway. And many a bronk would buck the game In those old roundup days. I now extend a friendly hand To the boy of long ago, To the old range land and the old range man When the roundup wasn t slow. I now take off my Stetson hat To the boys of then and now, To the old-time days, to the old-time ways, To the long-horned steer and cow. -viewed the roundup camp." 108 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND Down at the Alamo. (Song.) A solemn thought comes o er me, As I stand gazing round, To think that I have wandered From Texas sunny ground. I love old sunny Texas And the days of long ago, When those brave heroes fought and fell Down at the Alamo. Away down on the Brazos, Where burning sands are deep, Away down there at Alamo The dead were piled in heaps. Away down in this southland Sleep the men of long ago, Who fought and fell so bravely Down at the Alamo. The flowers bloom as sweetly, The grass grows just as green, And in memory lives those noble men Bright as a silver sheen. But what an awful change has been Since the days of long ago Since those brave heroes fought and fell Dtown at the Alamo. Long years ago the mustang Made the rangers fiery steed, Where once the shaggy buffalo And the long-horned steer did feed. Those were the days of long ago When the cowboy then could ride With elbow room to swing his rope W here twas sunny, lone and wide. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 109 The sands of time are running, The years go quickly by, Tomorrow we ll be old folk, Quite ready then to die. Then when our earthly spirit Returns to God again, May we say, Dear Father, judge us, As we judged our fellowmen. The Lone Star state is coming, Marching right up to the front, Her citizens are loyal, You hear no whine nor grunt. "Come down and live among us," She whispers soft and low, "You will find a hearty welcome Mongst the friends of Alamo." Yes, friendship still is dear to us, And friendly hands the same, With friendly ones to help us some While bucking at life s game. So here s to the state of Texas, To the men of long ago, Who fought and fell in battle Down at the Alamo. I love the state of Texas, She fills my heart with pride, I love the state of Texas, Cause she s sunny, lone and wide. I love her sunlit prairies, I love her burning sand, I love all her wide border Out to the Rio Grande. Hurrah for sunny Texas, Let it ring from sea to sea, For it s down in sunny Texas Is where I want to be. 110 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Hurrah for Sammie Houston, A man that wasn t slow, And hurrah for those brave heroes That fell at Alamo. The Cowboy s Wild Song to His Herd. One beautiful night when the moon was full, And the air was crisp and clear, A cowboy lay on the starlit plains And thought of his home so dear. He thought of his mother he loved so well, And the slumber of sleep was blurred, Not a sound to be heard but those of the night, As he sang a wild song to his herd. The cattle are laying so quiet and still On the carpet that mantles the West, While the golden lamps from the sky of night Sing peace to the cowboy s breast. Still he thinks of his mother in the far away land, And his thoughts by its memory are stirred, And he sees himself back to the old home again, As he sings a wild song to his herd. He is far from the din of the city noise, Where the lamps of folly do shine, He is far from the brawls of the dives of sin And the flow of the sparkling wine. He is in the great West with its mantle of green, Where his neighbors say never a word, A land of mirages, mountains and plains, Where the cowboy sings low to his herd. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES HI The Rustler Gets the Blame. There s a big boy up on Bridger, And I see he s made a. kick, He speaks about some rustlers, Who of late are very slick. As he stands in his old cabin And looks out upon the bluff, He; says the weather has been fine, But now it s awful rough. Now he steps from out the cabin, Views the archway of the sky, And he sees the pesky doggies Have been climbing awful high. Then he walks back in his cabin With a woe begotten frown I wish that bloomin critter Would quit roarin and come down. He s been up there a week or more, His mother down to feed, But I never will go after him, He s got the loco weed. When feed s put out next morning The critter still is there, And the other hungry doggies Gulping down its little share. Then Fred does some awful thinking, Acts though about to cry, But he doomed it to destruction, So alas, the calf must die. This is the way in many a case Where the rustler gets the blame, Their carcasses grace the hilltop And likewise the public lane. 112 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Well I ve said enough, I guess, And no longer will detain, But look up a bloomin carcass, And perhaps it will explain. So go on, put up your cabin And plant your garden seed, And drive those hungry critters down From off the loco weed. Getting My Old Calf Pants Washed. I send you in my old calf pants. The only ones I ve got, For three long months I ve cherished them Until they took the rot. Of course I hate to send them in They are so smooth and slick. They cover my long, limbering shanks Where on the calves do lick. I think the guard is stuck on them, I seen him give the wink, As if to say your pants are stout I think perhaps they stink. I would like to have another pair. But I ll not ask for them, And all the guards with one accord To this will say amen. So wash them clean, take off the smell, And fix them where they re tore, And send them out to me again To last three months or more. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 113 Early Days of the Cherokee Strip. These verses I have written I hope, you all will read, And to their simple story I trust you will give heed ; My name is nothing extra, it is neither Jim nor Joe, But when I have no golddust I am always on the go. We now will leave the thirsty strip for twenty days or more, Go to the state of Kansas, where we have been before; We have lots of heat and sunshine, but it s hard to live on wind, I see the boomers of the Strip are getting mighty thin. The Strip has got the measles and we ll pull out for the mumps, For I hate to see poor hungry men a-wrestling with the dumps ; So we ll harness up the dear old mules and go off on the fly, For when we leave the Strip, you know, it s root hog or die. We have lots in the Strip to be thankful for, you bet, For when the weather isn t hot it s mighty cold and wet ; We have rattlesnakes and centipedes, but cannot name the rest, And when the sun shines out the day it soon goes down the west. But we are coming back again when the geese begin to flock, When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder s in the shock; 114 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND We ll tie up here on White Horse and have a good old time. Our neighbors are so far apart we never hear them whine. But when we do get home again, you bet we will be glad, Where the sandburs are a-booming and the wolves are mighty bad; We will whistle for the monkeys and we ll dance a jam boree, While the dog has got the opossum and the coon is in the tree. Oh, the crowing of the roosters and the barking of the dogs, And the hiking of the rabbit as he hikes into a log; The bawling of the cattle and the braying of the mules, And the rattling of the wagon and the clinking 1 of the tools. It sort of makes us boomers feel it good to be alive, And can watch the little honey bee a-humming to her hive ; When we can eat our dinners with an appetite that s great, And can get away with supper long before it s very late. Everything is booming like a river in the Spring, For the Strip is now a-coming and a-trying hard to sing ; The yellow spotted pussy cat is running to the south, And our little kids have got a running at the mouth. Everything is moving with power, love and will, For the Strip has got its sweetness and the Strip has got its swill ; See them coming in their wagons from little Eastern lanes, A-gallivanting Westward a-squabbling for the game. Now we are back again, and thankful, too, for that, Our cattle they are rustlers and are getting mighty fat; The ducks are all good swimmers, but the creek is nearly dry, But it s big pig or little pig, it s root hog or die. We are all just as happy as an Oklahoma dream, O r a monkey in the kitchen or a kitten in the cream ; Our baby is a-grinning like a woodchuck on a rock, And her little tongue a-clickin like a tickin of a clock. Nature is a-trying to get on her bran new dress, And the rolling plains a-shining with springtime loveli ness; Oh, I tell you that she s spinning like a pickaninny top, And our tubi of joy is brimming and it seems about to slop. , Our sorrow s turned to gladness and our gloom is put to route, Our joy is getting deeper and our faith begins to sprout; The prairie dogs are barking and a-sneezing with the Oh, I tell you we are thankful that we live out in the Strip. Yes, we are back again and a-feeling mighty good, We wouldn t leave the Strip, no, we wouldn t if we could ; And if yt>u want to call a while and sit down on the floor, Remember that the latch string hangs outside the cabin door. 116 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Stolen Shoe Strings. After having- my shoestrings stolen out of my shoes in the loafing shack I wrote the following verses and put them up where all could read them : NOTICE. There is a thief, a sneaking thief, A shoestring stealing cur, Who lays around this loafing shack To steal from him or her. But since there is no her about I think it must be him, But say, old pard, a chance to ride. I think is rather slim. I think I ll take my shoestrings out And put my shoes away, For if I don t this stealing cur Will steal them both today. Bring back my shoestrings now, old pard, Or I may rip and snort, And you may reach the dark, dark hole They have at this resort. A few days after my shoestrings were returned, hung up by the looking glass, with the following verses from someone, "Begging Beggs Pardon" : "You say there was a him around And that there was no her, And that s the very reason why You made use of word cur. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 117 Your laces they were taken In an idle sort of way, And because I had use for them Was the reason they did not stay. "In speaking of the dungeon, Why, it seems like regular sport, And the same about your holler And your cheap old rip and snort. "Now like a good Samaritan I bring the laces back to you, And hope you have the gumption To acknowledge favor, too. "Your pardon to me I hope you grant And that you do not feel offended, And if you will comply with this, Why, then my labor is ended." In reply I wrote the following verses and hung them up in the same place : PARDON GRANTED. I want to say to you, dear sir, When I was in despair, I saw upon the looking glass Those laces hanging there. My heart received a little shock, Then to them I drew near, And from their perch I took them down, How sweet they did appear. Like peach buds in the morning dew, Or roses in full bloom; Those verses decked with old shoestrings Soon drove away my gloom. 118 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Your verses, too, well set to rhyme, Like the fisher s old hornpipe; With thanks to you I m frank to say The writer is no snipe. The reason that you give, old pard, Is an unfailing sign That inhumanity to man In human hearts recline. A pardon, yes, I grant to you With honor great and high, As beautiful as the rainbow, Transparent as the sky. And when I cross old Jordan stream, Beyond the Great Divide, I hope to find you there, old pard, A-sitting by my side. He replied by writing the following verses SHOE LACES. "What peculiar things do happen From a little sort of thing, And bring about results Of which all poets sing. "Those laces were a godsend It does appear to me, For now it has me started Writing verses, as you see. "I may not be proficient, But hope to be in time, As able as the ablest To make my verses rhyme. "Anything for recreation, As you hear some people say, A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 119 Might be risky in some instances, But hardly in this way. "To meet on River Jordan Would make my bliss complete, But I don t know what St. Peter Has written on my sheet. "My fears are not unusual, As I presume you know, For I doubt if we, a person, Can tell where Spirits go. "The wedding suit I ve never worn, But think some day I may, If I can find the proper girl And with me she will stay. "I do not think that lace shoes Are the proper thing to wear, So I will wear the rowells If I climb the golden stair. Yours, etc." I replied to him in the following verses, but never got any reply. I never found out who it was. He knew me, but I did not know him : SHOE LACES. You see, old pard, dear sir, and friend, Our verses come and go, Just like the seed that s cast abroad Which we poor mortals sow. I m glad you found them there, old pard, Above that looking glass, Where spicy verse with shoestrings old Entwined the little mass. 120 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND I don t know who you are, old pard, I can t make out your name, But trust that you shall yet walk up The gilded path of fame. The wedding suit I spoke about, And the one no wealth can buy, Is the one which gives a title To the mansion in the sky. That s the one \ve both should strive for In this world of want and woe, Where the devil fires the furnace, And his work is never slow. But to win a prize like this, old pard, Takes courage, faith and hope To climb the ladder round by round And tug upon its rope. To be a bright and shining light In this dark world of sin, To lift a fallen brother up While hardened devils grin. May ray of love and light and truth Along your path be seen, Till God points out a resting place Where you may love to lean. We seem to all be fastened here With selfish cares and ties, But prison sorrow cuts a string And urges us to rise. Goodbye, dear friend, come once again And visit me in rhyme While loitering round this old resort To pass away the time. Goodbye. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 121 Naming the Baby. Put on your brand new calico And grease my Sunday boots, And climb onto the wagon, For we re going over to Tute s. I have just been down to Tutie s And have come home awful quick, For Tutie named the baby, And the baby now is sick. I ll feed the mules some oats and eggs, Say a dozen, two or three, And you shall hold the whip, dear wife, The ribbons give to me. For Tutie named the baby, And she named him good and fine, Called him little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. Of all the names I ve read about, In poetry or prose. I think this one will take the lead, And surely take the rose. I tried to write it down, dear wife, But goodness what a time, To write little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. Although I m middling good to write I couldn t write it right, But still I tried and tried again, And tried with all my might. Tutie then just wrote it down, And wrote it in no time, And wrote little young* Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. 122 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Talk about your pretty women And your fickle minded men, But here s a name that s long enough To set the world on end. If it isn t a prize taker You can have that pup of mine, It is little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. Our mules you know are goers, Like hubby on the dock, We are hastening now to Tutie s, We are traveling by the clock. It is sure a rushing business And must be there on time To see little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. Oats and eggs are just the stuff For bony mules I m sure, And it really is surprising What a drive they will endure. Two strong miles a minute, Says Paddy on the Rhine, Will catch little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. We are turning now the corner, We are hitting hard the road, We are reaping now the harvest That we long ago have sowed. We are getting there like Eli, And getting there on time, To gaze at little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. Only just about a minute more, And isn t that first-rate ? A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 123 Now Tutie sees us coming And is standing at the gate. Doesn t she look happy though? And how the pate does shine Of that little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. His little pate is balder Than the top of Teton Peaks, And his little chin in sympathy With the dimples in his cheeks. His little nose and eagle eye Is a sure and certain sign That it s little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. How he came to get this comic name I m sure I cannot tell, But according to my measurement It is six foot and an ell. But Tutie named the baby, And she named him good and fine, Called him little young Joe Lucifer John Wesley Stewart Kime. 124 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND The Tar Daubers of Shady Bend, Kansas. To the Shady Bend tar daubers, Oh, shame upon you men, The proper place for you to land Will be inside the pen. Oh, what a shocking shame it was To treat a lady so, How degrading and how devilish, How shameful and how low. McNamaras used the dynamite, The Shady Bend the tar, But Justice with her own right hand Has swat them all a scar. A prosecutor rallied forth And hurried to the field, He cinched the guilty triflers up And cinched them till they squealed. It s hurrah for California, The land of orange bloom, Where the orchards and the gardens Are filled with sweet perfume. But pity the McNamara boys, Who in the pen reside, And where so many men drift in To cross the great divide. It s hurrah for sunny Kansas, That great sunflower state, But shame upon tar daubers Who are trembling for their fate. Yes, change the name of Shady Bend And scour up your town, And by your clean and spotless lives May live your scandal down. A BOOK OF WESTERN J/ERSES 125 A Stampede in North Dakota. Talk about your milling cattle and stampede on the plains, When ever a critter g oing like a southbound lightning train, When the heavens are black with darkness, frowning like the child of sin And heavy hailstones falling with a fierce, terrific wind. When the lightning vivid flashes shows up an angry sky And you see the long-horned cattle going past you on the fly, When the peals of mighty thunder seems to shake the very dome, It is then the old cowpuncher lets his thoughts drift off to home. When horns and hoofs are clinking you have hardly time to think, For their double-jointed motions are like skaters on a rink ; Fall in behind the outfit, you may jump or swim the streams, And if they still keep running you may find them in your dreams. So swing into the saddle with your slicker buttoned tight And dodge the breakneck bagger holes by flashes of the light. And if you ride till morning I will bet a horse you ll eat An oven full of biscuits and a whole hind leg of meat. It was up in North Dakota and a-way late in the fall. We had a lively stampede as the wind set up a squall ; They belonged to Wadworths Brothers from the little Missouri range, And they ran for nearly forty miles through country rough and strange. 126 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND They started east at Big Square Butte, run to Knife River Flats, Soaked through and through, with steers all gone, and cold and wet as rats, On the river flat we lay that night with rain a-pouring down, And not a dry thread anywhere about us could be found. "When a storm comes down a-swooping when you re riding on the plains And the chilly damps of morning starts your rheumatiz again, When your bones ain t got no marrow and your stom ach s empty, too, And there ain t no smell of coffee to change the grey to blue." When you shiver to the marrow as you crawl from out your bed And go feeling in your pockets for a wrap to tie your head. It is then when you re at breakfast I will bet a horse you ll eat An oven full of biscuits and a whole hind leg of meat. "We never carry old forty rods in bottles old or new, For us fellows on the ranges know what tangleleg can do : But let me ask one question, When a puncher rides all night, Keeping track of running cattle with the lightning for his light," And he s sick and soaked and sleepy riding hard all through the night, Would you grudge the poor old puncher one good big honest bite? Then sit him down to breakfast and I ll bet a horse he ll eat An oven full of biscuit and a whole hind leg of meat. And they ran\ for nearly forty miles through country rough and strange." 127 Well you see those cattle grazing near the top of that divide, They re the ones we punchers rounded after forty miles of ride; And a wetter, colder outfit you never yet have seen A-leaving old Knife River as the sun began to gleam. But I guess we ll all live through it, and our old cow- ponies, too, But I have not yet forgotten how those long, lean, wild- eyed doggies flew; And when we got round to breakfast I ll bet a horse we ate An oven full of biscuits and a whole hind leg of meat. Where storms come hard and swooping I have roamed for many years, But to look about on the old-time range, it almost brings the tears; For the sheep have eat off all the grass till bare as my old boots, And today the robbers still are there a-gnawing at the roots ; Yes, they still keep coming, they are crossing every bridge, And the stinking old range robbers cover nearly every ridge ; You will hear the sorghum peelers as a storm upon the ground When the crazy old sheepherder with his stinking sheep comes round. Cowpunching now is done away and the land is all cor- raled, Bought up by wealthy sheepmen and fenced to a fare- you-well : The long-horned steer has gone away, they could not stand the scent, They crowded in their stinking sheep, and off the range thev went. 128 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Well, we ve had our time of riding through blizzard and the storm, So I guess you ll not begrudge us a smack of something warm; It is good, hot, smoking biscuits, and I ll bet a horse we ll eat A yard of apple butter with a whole hind leg of meat. Just a little one-horse roundup is all we have today, While cowpunchers ride the grub line and have a funny way ; But I guess I ll not be kickin , she is off with me, I m done, For I m like an old cow pony that s forgotten how to run. I ll trade off my rope and saddle and give my gun away And go down to old Missouri, and there I ll live and stay, And dream of the old-time cow songs and the ones I have forgot, Will I forget you then, old pard? Well, no, I reckon not. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 129 When Lillie Roundup Throws Her Rope. When Lillie Roundup throws her rope She casts a figure four, As it goes twirling through the air For thirty feet or more; And as it drops around the steer It is an amusing sight, For Lillie with both feet is there A-sitting taut and tight. The estimation of herself In her own eyes are great : She says she s champion roper, The best that s in the state. Young Lillie is a pretty girl With wavy light brown hair, As beautiful as Pete Pillman s wife And almost twice as fair. "I wish I had a swifter horse," She said one day to me, "Then I would challenge anyone No matter who he d be. Bill Dulin has a dandy horse, I wish that he was mine, I believe that I could rope and tie In just two seconds time." "I have a little sorrel out there Somewhere by Buzzard Butte, I ll go and catch him up tonight, A cinch that he will suit. When you first swing in the saddle He may act a little strange, But say, he s a real go get her And the peach of all the range." 130 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND "Thank you, old pard, I wish you would And have him in on time, And I will practice up a bit And show you where I shine." That night the little sorrel came in, A truly noble mount, But when he made a prospect trip He made it quick and stout. The little sorrel next morning Was brought into the string, A-stepping high and fancy To the tune of the Highland Fling. The punchers all grew anxious, As all good punchers do, And Lillie was a-watching them With her great eyes of blue. When everything was ready The circus then began, Then hurrah for Lillie Roundup, Come beat her if you can. She walked up to Mr. Broncho Like a brave, sweet little girl. Swung herself into the saddle As the bronk began to whirl. Three jumps, five jumps, twenty, more or less, Up hill, down hill, everywhere, I guess ; The bronk has his baggage, Lillie has the game, Five dollars, ten dollars, she rides him all the same. Sunfish, catfish, always on his feet, Wild bronk, merry bronk, pitching is complete; Long winded, double jointed, acrobatic clown, Ten dollars, twenty dollars, plank the: money down. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 131 Little bronk, big bronk, turning left and right, Thirty jumps, forty jumps, isn t he a fright? Hairy bronk, wild bronk, Lillie s doing fine Forty jumps, fifty jumps, riding all the time. Side step, two step, but can t shake her off, Sixty jumps, seventy jumps, bronk begins to cough; Lillie s in the saddle, the reins in her hand, Riding Mr. Broncho just to beat the band. Bad bronk, mad bronk, ride you plum to death, Eighty jumps, ninety jumps, better take your breath; Wobbly bronk, sick bronk, sides begin to thump. All in and called in and can t make a jump. Now Lillie Roundup is the girl That does look good to me, A thousand others by her side, No one so good as she. She rode that pitching broncho From Besheba unto Dan, Hurrah for Lillie Roundup, Come beat her if you can. Now Lillie with her sunny eyes, We call her Lil for short, Is just the sweetest little flower That blooms in this resort. And bring on your pitching bronchos If you are on the pike, And little Lillie Roundup Will ride them all alike. 132 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Montana, the Gem of the West. I will sing of Montana, the gem of the West, And a wonderful story relate; I will sing- of the charms, the crops and the soil Of the marvelous great Treasure State. It s a wonderful country, surpassingly fine, Where the hand of the Master doth rest, Where the Angel of Peace plants the flowers of love To bloom on the trail of the West. Of course we are proud of this great Treasure State, And proud of her mansions and spires; It speaks out the throbbings of our frail hearts And fills us with greater desires. Here dreams of the future will come and will play, And around your old hearthstone will rest, And there they will circle around and around, Clinging fast to the core of your breast. Here the cheery old sun with its bright shining rays Warmly kisses Montana s green sod, And whispers a message to you and to me To come and walk under His rod. Here long grasses wave and sweet flowers bloom Midst the fragrance of sweet scented air. While Nature a mantle of beauty spreads out To drive from your soul every care. Here ditches with water are all brimming full To water the green growing crops, And fruit trees so burdened with luscious fruit Are crying aloud for some props. The wild gooseberry bushes are loaded With fruit that is perfect and large, Growing down by the creeks and the gulleys Without an expense or a charge. A BOOK OF WESTERN V ERSES 133 Here winding old cowtrails are hid as from view, Creeping- out of the tall, wavy grass, And swift mountain streams so pleasing to see Are full of the trout and the bass. Here uplands are rich as her valleys, And her valleys as rich as the Nile, And the big bumper crops when responding Spreads over your face a great smile. Here sweetest \vild flowers in their pretty gay dress In bewildering profusion abound, While lead, iron and copper, silver and gold Across her wide border is found. Here is beautiful scenery, resplendent and grand, In garments of purplei and green, Where swift brimming rivers go tumbling on Across this great state to be seen. Not a bronk has bucked off his baggage In order to try and explain, Not a cow that has nipped her green grasses But is waiting to do so again. Not a soul who has trod her wide border But today do tenderly yearn, Not an eye that has viewed her green valleys But are longing again to return. To spend their few days, seasons or years In a country so wonderfully blest, Where the Angel of Peace plants the flowers of love To bloom on the trail of the West. Then pass to their rest and quiet repose In a land where the long grasses wave, To sleep under skies that are sunny and blue, In an earth covered casket, a sod covered grave. Montana, Montana, the fairest of lands ! Montana, the bright gem of the West! Let me live all my days in your beautiful land, Sup thy milk and thy honey, thou are dear to my breast. 134 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Give me home, peace and plenty, give me sunshine and storm. While I in thy border do dwell ; Keep the gaunt wolf of hunger away from my door, Then to all other regions will I murmur farewell. Look across her wide border, see her cattle and sheep, That feed on her sweet, juicy grass; See her thousands of horses, her timber fringed streams, Alive with the trout and the bass. See the rotten old bones, the horns and the hoofs, The remains of that great buffalo herd That the white man pursued till he slaughtered them all, While the government said never a word. See her homes and her cities, her girls and her boys. Look to their swing and their sweep, Their vim and their vigor, their push and their go And the rich, golden harvest they reap. Come gather her honey, come sup her rich milk, And here in her border abide ; Come fence in a garden, come plant out a tree, Come be a light and a guide. Sincerely I love this sweet land of Montana, To me she s the climax of years, And as I look to her rainbow of promise I smile through my season of tears. Her meadows and her hills are the greenest And her mountain peaks crested with snow ; She s a park of great beauty, charming with splendor. Spread out for us poor creatures below. My soul is enraptured as I view the fair scene. So charmingly and beautifully dressed, And of all the great states of the Union Montana is the one I love best. It s a wonderful country, surpassingly fine, Where the hand of the Master doth rest. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 135 Where the Angel of Peace plants the flowers of love To bloom on the trail of the West. Then come to this Eden and this wonderland see, Come look on her mountains and plains ; Her seed time and harvest both walk hand in hand, While cloudland sends down her good rains. Come gather her harvest, come eat the good bread, Where the hand of the Master doth rest; Come fence in a garden, come plant out a tree, To grow in the gem of the West. Drifting Around. Perhaps you have run on the ranges of sin And fed where the pastures were dry, Perhaps you have sat in the scoffer s great seat While the old gospel rider went by. Perhaps you have gone all the days of your life With no knowledge of God and His love, Perhaps you have turned from the shadowless light Streaming down through the archway above. Perhaps you have traveled the rough mountains of sin And rode the black canyon of doubt, Perhaps you have drifted around and around Till you re puzzled and lost on the route. But why should you dwell in the dark swamp of sin And eat the sad bread of despair, When in the green pastures of life there is feed For a soul that is famished on care. Then why sit like a statue so lifeless and cold, With your hands hanging down by your side, When God is so willing to lead you right through To a land where you long may abide ? 136 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Wife That I Loved So Well. (A Song.) Across the hills of sorrow A prisoner toiled one day, He had felt the curse of Eden Since ere he d went astray. He felt life s burden heavy And his spirit was depressed, In rain or storm or sunshine His mind could find no rest. He thought of his dear old mother And the wife he loved so well, He thought of his own dear children, What a story of life would tell. He thought how his friends forsook him When the day of trouble came, How they left him there in prison To cover him deep with shame. He thought of life s great purpose And how it had passed away, He thought of his old-time sweetheart And he thought of his wedding day. He thought that his life was useless, Like an egg> with a broken shell, But with him in all his rovings Goes the wife that he loved so well. I know my days are numbered, For I feel quite frail and weak, And I would like to see my sweetheart, And I want .to hear her speak. I hate with loath and scorning The doom of a prison cell. A BOOK OF WESTERN YERSES 137 For it tore from my own bosom The wife that I loved so well. So now I ll keep on roving Till I travel this world all round, And I think of her as often, As often as the sun goes down. For I know my years are wasted Like the strand of a broken thread, Feeling void of all ambitions, And I know that my hope is dead. My pleadings were most tender, My call both loud and long, But the echo from the hilltops Brought back the same old song. I have felt the wound severely, And have felt the pain most sharp, And I feel that my life is useless Like a string on a broken harp. The needless pain I ve suffered And the lonely nights of woe, I hope no other creature May ever undergo. For years I ve called in anguish, But no answer is returned, Like a dead leaf in the forest, Or the ashes from the urn. I wish I could solve the problem, Oh, won t you tell me how ? For I love the flowers of friendship And to them always bow. My hope once strong as an anchor, But now it has been slain, And I feel the hard, cold pressure Like the wind through a broken pane. 138 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Not a friend on this old planet, Not a child I can call my own, Not a home in this wide valley, So there s nothing to do but roam. But still there s a consolation Coming as from a broken shell, That with me in all my rovings Goes the wife I loved so well. Oh, could I but meet my darling Where the Western sun reclines, I know the spark would brighten, I know that the fire would shine. Cursed be the gate of a prison, And cursed be the prison cell, For it tore from my own bosom The wife that I loved so well. My mother in the churchyard Where a stone of marble rears, My wife away out yonder And her children in their tears. While I, a lonely pilgrim, Must stem both storm and tide. But I ll meet her in old dreamland Till I cross the Great Divide. But across the hills of sorrow There blooms the flower of peace. Where I see the wounded gather And I see them get relief. I see no broken heart strings, I see no teardrops start, But I hear the sweetest music Like the strains from David s harp. As a flower in the forest And a serpent by its side, A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 139 So the foes of man are lurking, His footsteps to betide. Like the froth and foam of the ocean, Or a river underground. We all are swiftly hastening To that sod covered mound. The springtime brings her beauty And the winter brings her sleet, So death is surely coming To give me rest that s sweet. Oh, could I only meet her Before King Terror comes, I would put my arms around her, But my lips would be dumb. When the heart and mind is shattered By the thoughts of a ruined life, When the strings of hope are severed By folly s cruel knife; When the lamp of life is feeble And it s flame is dim and low, There s a cloud of solemn sadness Falling round you as you go. Oh, if she would only answer And bid me hope once more, Oh, if she would send me greetings It would heal this heart that s tore. It would make us both more happy If we would together dwell. And I d end life s checkered journey With the one I loved so well. I would gather the children round us To comfort our old age, We would love and live together, Let storm or tempest rage. 140 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND There joy and peace and kindness Would hold together fast. Blotting out the faults and failings Of all the cruel past. Then I would be so happy, The clouds would roll away, And we d live just like old sweethearts Until our dying day. The wind would carry the tidings, The sun would brighter shine, Sending down her benediction On that sweet wife of mine. But I ll bear my troubles bravely, No one shall hear my groans, I ll borrow smiles and laughter To stifle all my moans. I will love her as strong as ever, Though a thousand miles apart, And would like to have her company, For she has got my heart. So I m lonely and forsakened, My bright hopes have fled, My days and years are wasted Like the strands of a broken thread. But I ll journey on with my burden A frail and broken shell, And with me in all my rovings Goes the wife that I loved so well. A BOOK OF WESTERN FERSES 141 A Happy Home, 1892. We in our happy home, dear wife, Our absent ones may see, While loving arms about us twine Like tanbark to a tree. T would be a sad, sad thought, dear wife, To think we loved in vain, Our happy dream of long ago Would give but burning pain. The flight of time rolls on, dear wife, It haunts me more and more, And in the happy dream of night See those I ve seen before. How quick the time does pass, dear wife, The evening and the day, They seem to chase each other Like children in their play. We ventured on life s sea, dear wife, With vessels weak and frail, The storms have often threatened us And tried to tear our sail. Our boats were just the thing, dear wife, Good lifeboats true and tried, Which safely rode the angry waves While others foundering died. Our riches are not great, dear wife, Yet hard we ve toiled and worked. No matter what discouragement We never played the shirk. We are not as poor as some, dear wife, We have never lacked for meat. If sometimes just a little scarce Qose picking made it sweet. 142 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Our honeymoon still lasts, dear wife, Though fifteen years have gone Since you walked up to the marriage chair And the bridal veil put on. But now we both grow old, dear wife, And what do you think of that? The rosy glow of youth is gone Like Thompson s spotted cat. A few short years ago, dear wife, When both were young and fair, Two loving hearts together grew And formed the marriage chair. And in the good old chair, dear wife, Together we have rocked, While passion storms struck others hard We never have been shocked. Our children, too, we love, dear wife, And they just number three, While little Jay lies far away Beneath the southern tree. Our hearts are very sad, dear wife, When with the silent dead They part from us to meet no more Until the seas have fled. Yes, one by one they go, dear wife. To slumber and to sleep, Until the sea gives up her dead And leaves her ancient deep. The sweetest flowers you know, dear wife, Will always fade and die, They come and bloom for a little while And then how soon they fly. It makes me sad to think, dear wife, That we ll be called to part, A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 143 For Death is a cold, cruel foe And loves to pierce the heart. They sa,y it comes to all, dear wife, I feel it must be true, But drop on us thy hovering wings As falls the evening dew. The gilded cords of love, dear wife, By age they say will break, But we will love each other more, As Hermon loved the lake. The sunny days of youth, dear wife, With us are past and gone, But still we ll hold our honeymoon As silvery hairs come on. While walking up the hill, dear wife, Two hearts have beat as one, And now we ll journey down again With yonder setting sun. I could not cause you pain, dear wife, Nor from you could I roam, But fair sweet flowers will I seek And twine them round our home. 144 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Darkies Are Leaving Oklahoma. (A Song} Oh, the darkies am offended And are gwine to emigrate, They are leaving Oklahoma To find a better state. But you better stay with uncle And get you all a home, You sure can do the pickin If you ve only got the bone. Here we haA^e a great big country And a thousand sort of things, An easy road to travel, So we have no use for kings. Our president is a stunner With a mighty sight of gall, But I reckon that he needs it, For he s up against them all. Here we have the grandest country Beneath the shining sun, In science and inventions We only have begun. Here we have the flag of colors, The red, \vhite and blue, The good man and the bad man, The loyal and the true. So you better stay with uncle, Who will surely pull you through, It s the foot that gets the pinching When we re putting on the shoe. But of course I m not dictating, For I know it is no use, You may chew your own tobacco And may also spit the juice. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 145 Yes, you better stay with uncle, He s a great and mighty man, When he calls for help their coming From Besheba unto Dan. He is true and loyal hearted And will use you well, I know, You can get the coon and opossum If you only get the dough. When Aunt Dinah pats the juba And all am feelin fine, Oh, what a happy people As the stars begin to shine. See the pickaninnies prancing By the dim light of the moon, And the colored belle a-dancing When the fiddle is in tune. So go to Oklahoma, boys, And go right away, For the darkies am a gwine And I guess they re gwine to stay. But they better stay with uncle And get them all a home, They sure can do the pickin , If they ve only got the bone. But of course I m not dictating, For I know it is no use. You may chew your own tobacco And may also spit the juice. 146 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND For That Bronk Will Throw His Rider Away Out in Beulah Land. (Song.) Away out in the country on the far Pacific slope Roams a little lady rider with her saddle and her rope ; As she swings into the saddle with the reins in her hand She s the picture of old Ireland to grace the Beulah land. Now what s the matter, Hannah, are you going to ride that horse ? I thought he had you buffaloed, I really did, of course; You may swing into the saddle with your courage and your gall. But something will be doing when that bronk begins to bawl. I am sure it is no picking to ride a wild cayuse On a cold and frosty morning when the saddle cinch is loose ; Though your feet are in the stirrups and the reins are in your hand, Yet that bronk will throw his rider away out in Beulah land. Raven locks are beautiful, with eyes of sunny blue, But yet that ornery cayuse has no respect for you ; Some cold and frosty morning you will hear an awful squall, And oh, there ll be a parting when that bronk begins to bawl. I want to tell you, Hannah, it ain t no safe retreat To mount a wall-eyed broncho when he s laying for your meat; A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 147 Your spurs may be engravened, have a shining silver band, Yet that bronk will throw his rider away out in Beulah land. Now listen to me, young cowgirl, and don t you be so fop For your tub of joy is brimming and is just about to slop; Some morning after breakfast there will come to you a call, And oh, an awful parting as the bronk begins to bawl. Yes. some morning while at breakfast the flapjacks being fine, You will eat close to six dozen in about ten minutes time ; Then you ll swing into the saddle with the reins in your hand, But that bronk will drop his baggage away out in Beulah land. Now come all you jolly cowgirls who ride the Western plains, Come stay with the wall-eyed broncho till he breaks the bridle reins; For if you don t you ll miss it, you will surely hear a squall, And some girl will find a landing when the bronk begins to bawl. Then swing into the saddle, boys, when you hear an awful squall, For some girl has found a landing as her bronk began to bawl; Yes, swing into the saddle, boys, with the rope in your hand, For the bronk has thrown his rider away out in Beulah land. 148 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Land That I Love, or the Roundup Coming Through. (A Song.) I am going away to the land that I love, In sweet sunny southland I ll roam, And there under skies that are sunny and blue I will build me a snug- little home. Where the redbirds do whistle and the mocking bird sings And the stars their glory do shine, Where the oak and the ash and the willow tree grow To stand with the hemlock and pine. Where the sweetest wild flowers bedeck the green sod, As they do in Erin s green isle, And the song of the woodland compels you to stay And romp with old Nature a while. Oklahoma, Oklahoma, is the land that I love, And I love her green pastures and lanes, And the Red Men well named you "the beautiful land," As they gazed o er your wide spreading plains. Oklahoma, Oklahoma, "the beautiful land," And this you will never deny, For the leaves of your forest and the grass on your plains Grow under a sunny blue sky. Your leafy old woodland is a joy to behold By those who are famished with care, But the cloud of despondency soon pass away As they rove through your sweet scented air. Oklahoma, Oklahoma, I love thy fair land And you have a warm place in my breast, A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 149 I can never forget you nor your sunny kissed hills As I rove through the wild woolly West. I love your old rangeland, though mangled and tore, And the wound is still bleeding today, But the white man they say has a balm that will cure, But I can t really see it that way. Yes, I loved the old long-horn as he used to appear To gaze on your green grassy sod, But the happy dry farmer has come with the years And over your threshold will trod. Like the old Indian tepee your cowboys have gone, No more will they circle the herd, No more will they listen to the song of the wind As the leaves by the breezes are stirred. No more on your rangeland will the cowpunchers meet To ride on the merry roundup, No more will the tenderfoot heave a long sigh. As the old pitching bronk wins the cup. Your sunny old rangeland is mangled and tore And your riders have lost both the reins, Your chuck wagon s empty, your saddles uncinched, Since the long-horn is gone from the plains. Like the Indian and buffalo they have gone the long trail And we see their footprints no more, But a feeling of sadness sweeps over my soul When I see them today as of yore. When I first seen your rangeland great joy filled my heart As I came o er the old beaten trail, Now the city club boosters, dry landers and all. Come into the countrv bv rail. 150 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Oklahoma, Oklahoma, bright jewel of years, Where the corn and the cotton both grow, Where the rainbow of promise spans the archway above To cheer us poor mortals below. Your archways as blue as pretty blue bells That twine in some grass bedded dells, That speaketh in language so modest and meek Its love for the land where it dwells. Oklahoma, Oklahoma, sweet dreams of the past Are oftimes awakened by thee, Though far from her border a pilgrim does roam You are not forgotten by me. Yes, I m coming, I m coming, I m coming again, To roam o er your sunny kissed hills, While the old roving spirit throbs strong in my heart I can but remember you still. Where the sweetest wild flowers grow o er your green sod Like they do on Erin s green isle, And the song of the warblers so< sweet to the ear Just fills your whole soul with a smile. Yes, I m going away to that land that I love, Where the skies are so sunny and blue, There I ll sit and I ll wait, but I ll wait all in vain For the old roundup coming through. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 151 Home on the Rangeland. My home is on the rangeland, far away from any town, In the shelter and protection of the Rockies lofty crown. Where such inspiring grandeur, such lockings are in sight, When the moon is playing checkers with the shadows of the night. And the grandest little brooklet, just as jolly as can be In its prancing, dancing manner sings its lullaby to me. I can hear it in the twilight, in the sunset after-glow, I can hear it in the moonlight, as the fire-fly passes slow. When the banquet meal is ready and you are about to dine, Floating round about the table comes the breath from off the pine. Happy are the little children reared in a home so rude, Eating in the mountain fastness, sleeping in their soli tude. Here s the place for nature lovers, in this far-secluded spot, With nature cutting antics where the Master s hand has wrought, Where a man in health and gladness will appreciate its worth, Drinking from the gushing fountains pouring out of Mother Earth. 152 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND The Locoed Sheep. (Song) When you get to be a loco How happy you will be, A chasing squirrels and rabbits And barking at the tree. A funny way of walking And looking round for dope, Makes even mule-eared rabbits Go sideways as they lope. The coyotes, they won t kill you ; They think you are too tough. Your meat has got the flavor Of loco, sure enough. You can see all horrid creatures A dancing on the plains, And scare the dry-land farmers Till they want to leave their claims. I think you need some fixing, For you re shaking in your boots ; You are living now on loco And feasting on its roots. Till you find this weed of virtue You are Johnny on the trot, And like Old Davy Crockett, Stand grinning at the spot. You had better go out fishing, Away up in a cloud ; With a green hoop pole for suckers And your chariot rumbling loud. You would surely get some whoppers If you had a lasso rope, But you have to keep a walking And looking round for dope. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 153 You are an old booze-fighter, And you have got its curse ; And like the old booze drinkers, Are getting worse and worse. If you could only reason I would take you by the neck And drag you to a looking glass To gaze at this old wreck. You will fight this weed of loco Until your life will end A dope-fiend and sang-rooter And a real old loco friend. Some day you ll go star gazing Out on the loco flat Where you ll leave your locoed carcass, I will bet my Stetson hat. The Cowboys Last Retreat. (To my friend Flood.) Well, Flood, old pard, cold, cruel fate Hath dealt us both a blow ; And as we sit in prison garb We sadly know it s so. The days ! how long they do appear. The nights appear the same ; Here we have time to view the past And try to hide its shame. Us cowboys, by our reckless ways, Have often found the snare That tripped us up and held us fast To sweat in deep despair. 154 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND With storms upon the sea of life We sometimes run amuck; Rough billows toss our empty barque, To try our cowboys pluck. There is a way that seemeth right, To man of woman born, It leads him to the door of death- Forsaken and forlorn. Oh, why will we poor mortal men Forever court distress, While on we ride at breakneck sneecl Great evils to caress. There is a better way to live. And a better way to die : The stripes we wear today, old pard. Make plain the reason why. Prepare to ride the upper range, Where the round-up herd will feed. Where the grass is rich with the juice of life To satisfy your need. There the round-up boss is good and kind, And the flower of love doth grow : You ll find some old-time cowboys there, Who rode on the range below And were caught by the gospel round-up. On the range where they long had sinned And the brand of life now glow and shine With a luster there undimmed. Come, put your name on the big brand book, Ere you pass to the great divide; Come spread your bed bv the river of life, Where the range is big and wide. There you can roam the sun-lit plains The cowbovs last retreat ; A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 155 There you can stay with the round-up herd, Where the water is clear and sweet. There you can range in pastures green, Away from the child of sin; And drink from the clear, cool stream of life And have no foe within. There you can look with eyes undimmed, When the sun is setting low On rosy clouds of rainbow hue. Caused by its after-glow. Only a few more days, dear friend, And your pardon you regain ; And may you love and cherish it, And prize it to retain. Farewell, dear friend, be good, old pard, May the world to you be kind, As you give the last, long lingering look To the ones you leave behind. And when outside, among your friends, Be honest, true and straight, And lend a hand to a brother man, And help him find the gate That opens up to the other range, Where the round-up herd will feed ; Where the round-up boss with love and life Will satisfv vour need. 156 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Farewell to Montana, the Gem of the West. Farewell to Montana, the gem of the West, For I now have no wife, nor no home. I will bid you adieu, turn quickly away For sorrow^ compels me to roam. My children, come kiss me, ere I am away To journey the road that is drear, The parting is painful and stifles my breast, When I fancy your voices I hear. Farewell to Montana, bright jewel of years, And farewell to its prison of shame, Where her cold, cruel walls, with iron-grated cells, Cast a shadow and blot on my name. I have stood on the summit of mountain and hill, And looked upon scenes that were fair, But a cold, cruel prison, home-trouble, and sin Has furrowed my brow with your care. Farewell to Montana, sweet land of the West. Yet you still are as dear to my heart As the day of my childhood, around the old home, That from me can never, no never, depart. So your charms long will haunt me where ever I go And o er my sad bosom will roll, On plain, hill or valley, or surf-beaten coast, You will be to my heart, what you were to my soul. Not a friend have I left in this great treasure state, Where I once was so happy and free ; They are gone like the snow flake that kissed the proud wave, As it danced on the sparkling blue sea. Gone like the sweet flowers when bitten by frost, Or dewdrops by the rays of the sun. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 157 So I ll wander in gloom, with despondency veiled, Till my roving on earth will be done. Farewell to Montana, sweet land of my liking, Where winds of misfortune have blown ; When harvest is over, then I will be gone, To roam the wide world all alone. At the cabin on Bridger I have tarried quite long, Till the cold winter snow would go way, But the grass now is growing, the sun shining bright, And I have not much longer to stay. Farewell to Montana, thou pearl of great price, Farewell to the trail of the West; And as I go forth, faith leads me along With the flowers of peace in my breast. I leave not behind me a grief-stricken wife, With children caresses to dwell. But far, far away, to a land west of this Live the ones that I still love so well. May their slumber be sweet in the stillness of night, When the stars in their glory look down. And recall in bright vision the joys of their youth, While the blessings of love did abound. May the silvery moon in her journey of night, Speak gently to her of the past, And cover with mantle that one hasty choice To be blighted and parted at last. It is hard to be parted from wife and from home, When misfortune has cast her dark frown; It is hard to be happy, when despondency come And throws her dark shadows around. But when storms of great fierceness sweep over my soul And dangers my pathway beset, Yet beyond the dark cloud shines the rainbow of hope For my Jesus is still with me yet. 158 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Farewell to Montana, to the land of the gold, Farewell to the gem of the West; I ll cherish sweet memories of thee when away, And mantle them deep in my breast. Your mountains and hill tops, rivers and rills Just make me look up with a start; Bringing strength to my muscles and light to my eyes, Giving health to my soul and my heart. Farewell to Montana, the great smiling land, And farewell to her rich and her poor; May her soil in great plenty yield well her increase, And blessing descend round your door. The soil that in childhood my footstep has pressed Shall nourish the flower that blooms in the West, And I ll cherish sweet memories of thee when away And mantle them deep in my breast. Oklahoma, Meaning Beautiful Land. (Song.) Oh, let us look back to that country again Far away to the sweet Sunny South. Where the mocking bird wakes us so early each day, With the sweetest of songs from his mouth. Where the redbirds whistle in the cottonwood groves That skirts the Canadian shore, And the whippoorwill s song we will hear once again, As we heard long ago from our door. Where the peach and the apple both flourish and grow In that beautiful land far away; Come, let us go, let us go to that beautiful land, In that beautiful land let us stay. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 359 There we can feast till our hearts are content, On cherries that are juicy and red, And strawberries, too, that will melt in your mouth ; Will you go? I will go, I have said. There are melons so large you can t eat one at all It would take a whole day more or less And nice sweet potatoes so sappy with juice I could eat a full dozen I guess. Dear wife, let us go to that land of thy dreaming, Where the summers are tinted with azure and gold; Where the winters are soft with life s music throbbing, And night with its moonlight has glory untold. Land of the sooners and the boomers of old, Land of the Cheyenne and the Arapahoes, too; Land of the cotton, the wheat and the corn, Basking in sunshine where the skies are of blue. What s the use living in a land where we re freezing, And spend all our money for fuel and coal ; Where the storm and the blizzard both feel for your life, And poverty feels for your soul. It s a land of great orchards where the fruit is the best That grows in the sunshine or wet; Oh, land of great promise, fair land of my dreams, How can I, how can I forever forget. Here the meadow lark sings in the cottonwood trees, When the leaves by the zephyrs are stirred, And the howl of the coyote is heard in the hills, Where the cowboy sings low to his herd. There fruit and flowers both flourish and grow, In old Oklahoma, sweet land; Won t you go, won t you go? and there let us stay In that country so great and so grand. 160 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND Flanigan s Pan Cake. The experience of an old school teacher keeping bach and baking pancakes. Flanigan, the bachelor, lived up in a hall, As a baker of pancakes he was the pride of them all ; His clothes were all grease from his feet to his head, And grease all the way from stove to the bed. He came home one night and it must have been late. For he rushed about madly and he wished for a mate ; He said to himself when a man s forty-four And has bached it ten years he should bach it no more. I am up every morning exactly at seven, And when breakfast is ready it s half past eleven; And he stamped down his feet, it s the pest of my life I wish to my soul I had a good wife. Ah, said Flanigan, it is useless to fret, I will bake a big fellow that will last, you bet ; I ll dress myself up like a bit of a fairy, I ll drive away trouble or play the old Harry. So he greased his griddle from bottom to top, And poured in the batter with a flippity flop ; When the griddle got hot, why the batter did too, And the hotter it got the faster it grew. It grew out of the griddle in a very short round In an hour from that it weighed ninety pounds; It lay on the stove and rested quite well He crammed in the wood, it grew and it swelled. When the pancake was done it reached to the door, On the right and the left it covered the floor; And of all the great pancakes that ever was baked, None ever equaled the Irish pancake. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 161 He ran for the door but he could not get out, Then he started at once for a different route; With his foot on the floor and his arm on the cake, He tried to get up but he couldn t quite make. He succeeded, however, in making his escape, But he sprained his ankle in making the leap; With wondering eyes he peered in at the door, For he never saw such a terror before. The pancake loomed up like a ship in a fog, \Vith high and low places like knots on a log; The inside was juicy with very large holes, And looked for the world like there might be some gold. So he broke off a chunk and carried it away, To the assayer s office to see would it pay; The assayer took it and put on the test, And said that the chunk was one of the best. One thousand, said he, it would run to the ton The finest gold ore found under the sun; Ore like this chunk shows a very rich streak I believe in my soul it came from Hahn s Peak. While the old assayer was testing the ore, Flanigan was laughing his sides really sore ; But he made him an offer for the cake as it lay Forty-five thousand and all in good pay. Flanigan s pancake brought a very large sum, But the old assayer was the one that was done; He employed forty oxen to haul it away, And fifty brave Irishmen to work by the day. At the mouth of the canyon they thought it the best, For the light-hearted Irish to put on the test; They blew it wide open and, oh, such a fake, And the Irish were covered with batter from the cake. 162 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND A long train of Irish soon started for town, And worse looking Irish could never be found ; For the bold witty Irish were heavy with woe, For Flanigan s pancake had given them its dough. Give Me the Woman Who Loves the Fresh Air. Oh, give me the woman who loves the fresh air, Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair; She will rise from her slumber as fresh as a lark, Have a sweet disposition from daylight till dark ; She will raise up the windows and open the door, She will polish the stove and scrub up the floor. In the far away West where love has its source, This little brave woman will ride the wild horse; Let him rear on his haunches or twist in the air Three cheers for the woman who stays with him there ; See him go to it, now watch her ply to the quirt, Here s proof without asking that this woman s no flirt. Oh, give me the woman with a warm loving heart, Where kindness and sympathy both have a start; Where tender compassion sits there as a queen, Where Judgment and Justice with Wisdom is seen. Such a woman with natural endowments is blest, And here they will sparkle like gems in the West. Her children, like rosebuds, will be sweet and as fair As the sunbeams and moonbeams that falls on their hair ; She ll be clean, neat and tidy, her teeth like the pearl Good natured, good mannered like the real Western girl. So give me the woman who loves the fresh air, Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 163 You will find all the women who love the great West Have a sense of wild freedom that throbs in their breast ; They ll run you a footrace did you see how she grinned ? See her hair hanging down keeping time with the wind. Yes, give me the woman who loves the fresh air, Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair. So here s to the brave woman of mountain and plain. I give her my hand and rejoice in her reign ; In danger she s fearless and in love she is strong, Her path is all sunshine and her home is all song. So give me the woman who loves the fresh air, Her cheeks will be rosy and her countenance fair. Oh, give me the woman who loves with a zest Her chickens and turkeys in a home of the West ; Though her home be it humble her heart will be warm Through sunshine and tempest, through blizzard and storm. Such a woman as this is as dear to my hear As the joys of my boyhood which cannot depart. She s the pride of the ranch in her up-to-date gown, And the queen of the city when she goes to the town; She s as fair as a rosebud when encircled with dew, And a gem of perfection both priceless and true. So give me the woman who loves the fresh air, Her cheeks will be rosv and her countenance fair. 164 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND On the Bellefouche Far Away. Talk about your pretty countries and a climate all superb, Where the ranchers are all wealthy with their horses and their herds, Where every one is welcomed and they want a thousand more To settle in their country to prospect or explore : It s the Black Hills lovely region, where the wild horse used to stray, In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far away. The red men loved this hunting ground it used to be their home Where the elk and shaggy buffalo around them there did roam; It was here they held their green-corn-dance and lit their council fire, They roamed this region o er and o er to fill their heart s desire; And from the Black Hills highest peaks this valley could survey, In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far away. The noble red man now is gone from where they used to dwell, Caught in the white man s roundup and drove to a fare- you-well ; They cheated them out of their land and to this you say, ahem, But the devil he will deal with you as you have dealt with them. The tomahawk and scalping knife are not in use today, In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far away. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 165 The red men with their mighty chiefs are forced from off the land, Caught by the white man s roundup and drove to the barren sand. Old Sitting Bull, an old Sioux Chief, was brave as brave could be, But now is gone to his hunting ground was killed at Wounded Knee. No more the Sioux that country raid, revenge has had its sway, In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far away. The great and noble red man has not been treated right The white man took away their land and forced them then to fight. The tomahawk and scalping knife then played an active part. And many a pale-faced soldier fell when arrow pierced his heart. Away from home and loving friends to perish and decay, In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far away. Rain-in-the-Face, once mighty chief, has gone to raising stock On the big Missouri River at the old place Standing Rock. They seem to be contented there and happy with their lot, Forgetting all the old-time raids and battles that they fought. The old war bonnet and war shirt no more are used today, In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far away. The South Dakota country is a land that s bright and fair 166 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Most of her braves have crossed the ridge to meet the others there; And may they reach their hunting grounds and always there reside, Where all their pale- face enemies will have to camp outside. May he who gave them power to wield the tomahawk in war, Give them more peace and happiness than they ever had before. The Black Hills are so lovely when the w r estern sun reclines, When the wooded hills and valleys throw forth the scent of pine. Nature there is beautiful on a scale that s great and grand, With the sunset throwing kisses that western winds have fanned. Her canyons draped in splendor and mystic beauty sways, In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far away. Her canyons great and mighty with transcendent beauty hung, That my vivid imagination to the highest pitch is strung; And I see the great Creator sitting on the circling earth, In His hands he holds the colors of the rainbow since its birth ; And He spreads those lovely garments, so beautifully and so gay, In the South Dakota country on the Black Hills far away. So come where lovely scenery glows and sun-lit valleys shine, Where wooded hills and grassy vales throw 7 forth the scent of pine ; A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 167 Where sapphire hues are blended with the rainbow s graceful form, And mystic beauty lingers in the sunshine and the storm ; Where moonlit nights are clear and bright and sunlit valleys lay, In the South Dakota country on the Bellefouche far awav. When Lovina Was My Sweetheart So Many Years Ago. (Song.) Midst the green fields of Ohio as the western sun reclines, When the evening breeze is playing with the morning glory vines, It is there my mind goes wandering and a rhyme begins to flow, When Lovina was my sweetheart so many years ago. When the silvery moon was climbing and the twinkling stars had come, Down the dear old dusty road the buggy wheels would hum ; Then my heart would beat and flutter and my soul be all aglow, When Lovina was my sweetheart so many years ago. When the summer days were over and the cool autumn came, No frost could nip a blossom as sweet as Lovina s name. Life is always worth its living, she would say it soft and low, This pretty little lover that I loved long years ago. 168 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Oh! the fragrance of the breezes where the morning glory twine, With my lover sitting neath them as the western sun reclines ; The curtains of night are lovely and the moonlight tells you so, When you were out a-strolling with the one of long ago. When my roving, rambling nature takes me back to the dear old State, There I see that charming lover standing at the roadside gate; A-standing and a-smiling as she always used to do. When I would say, "Lovina, have you read that letter through ?" I have seen some lovely landscapes from swift onrush- ing trains, And have gazed upon the mountain tops while on the western plains, But the most inviting lover and who haunts me where I go, Was Lovina as my sweetheart so many years ago. I am sure I cannot help it but I m wondering all the time, Will we ever meet together where the western sun reclines ? Will I feel again that pleasure, like a river in its flow. Strolling with that old-time lover that I loved so long ago? Will we talk the many happenings and the changes that have come? Will we whisper love together or will our tongues be dumb? Will we count again our friendship where sweet wild flowers grow. And be again true lovers as we were long years ago? A BOOK OF WESTERN FERSES 169 Oh, if I was only with her where the western sun reclines, Out where the western breezes get their fragrance from the pines ; I would give my summer wages if I could only know, Where this lover is a-rambling that I loved so long ago. Love, you know, is beautiful that stays and grows and shines ; Love, you know, is beautiful that hangs and twists and twines. Just now it sends its signals to the place I used to know, When Lovina was my sweetheart so many years ago. Lovina. the green fields of Ohio, have you forgotten now? And the promise that you made to me I can t see really how. I would give my summer wages and a coon skin, don t you know. If you would be my sweetheart as you were long years asro. 170 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Leaving the Old Farm for the City. Old Mr. and Mrs. Plugmyer leave their quiet home for the city, and are led away by fashions, and become gay, but at last return to the old farm. I say, dear wife, we ll pack our trunks and to the city go, For out here in the backwoods the things do move so slow. You know, dear wife, I ve toiled and worked to keep ourselves in rations, While you were galivanting round a chasing after fashions. We have been here in these backwoods just thirty years today, A-toiling and a-working, but I find it doesn t pay. We haven t seen the world, you know, or what the world is like, But just stayed here together since we ve been man and wife. I ll tell you what we ll do, dear wife. I think it for the best. We ll move right off to the city and let the old farm rest. You may get a pretty dress and have it togged in fashion, And I will get a brand new suit and off we ll go a dashin . We will have the best of everything that money can afford You shall be my loving queen and I shall be your lord. We ll stroll together here and there along great pleasure streets ; A parachute we ll surely get to keep from us the heat. A BOOK OF WESTERN J/ERSES 171 We ll have breakfast gowns, dinner gowns and evening gowns, you know; Driving gowns and tea gowns enough to rig a show. The people they will wonder where we gathered all our riches, When they see me with my swallow tail and Philadelphia breeches. We ll have the second-hand man, you know, to make a call, And sell to him our furniture, our carpets and our all. To take this backwoods furniture to the city wouldn t do, But must have the nicest furniture and have it all bran new. This is a discontented world and some day we may feel That we have made a great mistake when city life is real. Only a few more minutes, wife, and the \vagon we will see, That from this old log cabin, dear, will hustle you and me. When we get there, I say, dear wife, we ll be a feeling fine; We ll be the gayest of the gay and be it all the time. We ll buy a wheel apiece, good wife, and go out for a ride, And spin along the avenues and down by the river side. They are just the thing for ladies, if they wear divided skirts, And the girl that rides the pretty wheel often with her lover flirts. The women folks look scary, but they cannot stop the show Of neat propelling feet and limbs as lovers come and go. 172 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND It s get there Eli in the rush and join them in the whirl; I ll act young again, you know, and you just like a girl; And you, good wife, must get some curls raised on the heads of others, And be a belle and cut a swell exactly like your brothers. So we started out next morning long before the break of day, And left the old log cabin for the city bright and gay. I had on my brand new suit, my whiskers trimmed aright It seemed I was dressed up so fine it almost hurt my sight. I do declare upon my word my wife was dressed most frightful, Yet she was tickled through and through, she thought it just delightful; She was a blaze of splendor, no need you have to doubt ; Her dress was loud enough to call the fire department out. She was a star of beauty as you often read in story Just like a host of other stars but differing some in glory. In satin, sash and ribbons my wife was nearly hid: Much like the morning glory vine that hides the katy-did. With a pink belt ribbon round her waist she just lit up the sky. And peaked headed like, you know, she danced a little high. Her dress was rather low in neck, but very rich and rare ; Upon my word I couldn t dance could only stand and stare. I thought her trim and neat enough for almost any preacher. And I was bound to fall in line if I had to hire a teacher. A BOOK OF WESTERN FERSES 173 So I got up a full dress suit to gratify my passion, And got a low-necked, bald-faced shirt to be up with the fashion. I shaved my old side-whiskers off, because they were unhandy, And on my chin I gew a bunch of whiskers coarse and sandy ; My old shirt sleeves I then cut off ten inches more or less, And at the ball that evening I entered in full dress. We danced all night in great delight and swift the hours flew, And through excitement of the night the morning quickly drew ; But my old wife just took the cake, for she was pert and spry, And none of the younger ones could swing or even dance as high. We enjoyed ourselves so much that night we had to sleep next day, But soon we blossomed out again as flowers do in May; But then we soon grew tired of this and longed again to roam Along the old white picket fence around our cabin home. We left our dear old cabin home because life was so slow, And went to the horrid city and started in for show. Now we are willing to go back and never more to roam, Leave the fashions and the follies for the city folk at home. 174 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND The Horrors of a Prison Cell. Well, Pard, old boy, cold cruel fate Doth often seem unkind. And more severe to those who leave Their loved ones far behind. A term of years in prison garb Means anguish and despair, For pain and sorrow, strong and fierce, Is sure to meet you there. Gaunt Terror meets you at the door With all its hellish glare ; The iron door with bars of steel Will deal you out your share. Tis here you feel the galling pain Of sorrow s bitter tear; Tis here the time is slow and long Each day seems like a year. Man s inhumanity to man Is here most clearly shown, And here the prisoner in his stripes Must reap what he has sown. The mills of all the Gods grind on With a slow and sad lament, Until they grind your measured share, And then they seem content. You cannot see the ones you love You can but see the wrong; While you can see and that quite well, The wall is high and strong. You see a convict in his stripes, A picture of your fate; For prison cells can only bear The fruit of shame and hate. A BOOK OF WESTERN I ERSES 175 I know, Old Pard, and that quite well. And you do know the same, That every stone in this Corral Is branded well with shame. See that old stone box, the prison cell, Is barred with iron and steel, To hide the prisoner from the world, To smother all he feels. It s here you may forgotten be By wife and children kind, Though in your dreams you visit them, The ones you left behind. It s here you may forgotten be By brother and by friend, Unless the golden cords of love Will draw them to that end. Man s rule of cruelty to man Has caused him long to mourn ; It s drove him to a prison cell, For which he was not born. And here within the prison pen His life is marred and blurred, Midst squeaking doors and clanking chains, He must not say a word. I know, old Pard, that you dislike To breathe the prison air; It seems that whether good or bad You get the buzzard share. Here hearts grow r hard and passions rage, That witness prison shame, And dark will be the blot on one Who bears a convict s name. They come to this great school of crime From Bethsheba and from Dan : They represent with one accord Man s cruelty to man. 176 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Some are here whose time is life, And some whose time is short, And some outside are on the road To reach the same resort. In vain may you expect reform Where teachers slap and shove ; You cannot change the cruel heart But with the words of love. There s nothing- here to help a man Should he wish to reform ; Hate and revenge both mark the road That leads to sad forlorn. No good can come to cruel hearts That hard with evil pant, But like a child when whipped at school Will only rave and rant. It takes the tender words of love To thaw the ice-cold heart. To drive from it revengeful fire And make the hate depart. I truly sympathize with those Whose home s a prison pen For I have seen the prison chain That binds the prison men. Pride, hate and envy is the chain That long shall hold them fast, Unless the love of Jesus Christ Shall find a place at last. I point you now to Jesus Christ, The Lamb for sinners slain ; Who once a visit made to earth And soon will come again. Oh ! come to this great glorious King And let him change your heart ; A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 177 He ll walk with you and live with you And from you will not depart. We met in prison stripes, old Pard, I knew you were my friend, And may we still continue so Until our term shall end. And when you leave this prison pen I shall often think of you, For I have a large place in my heart For one so good and true. But here we have to stay, old Pard, Till freedom swings her gate, For we are convicts still, you know. Resigned unto our fate. And if we ask for anything We are sure to be refused, For convicts only wear the stripes And the guards they wear the shoes. And this I know 7 full well, old Pard, That fearful passions burn, That grow and flourish every day And causes no concern. The school of crime here flourish well, Each one tries to betray; Oh! what a long great roll of crime For that great Judgment Day. Swing open now, ye mighty gate, And set this prisoner free; You ve done so much for him today. Soon do the same for me. And when we meet outside, old Pard, Along the path of fame, Fll reach to you my hand again I know you ll be the same. 178 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Just to Be a Rancher s Wife. When the rosebud greets the lily And the lily greets the dew, And the sunshine and the shadow Have the shine a-woven through, And your heart is kind and tender, Beating free and full of life, There s a happy consolation Just to be a rancher s wife. But when the days are cloudy And the rain begins to pour, And the frosty stars to glitter And the winter wind to roar. And the fearful cold has reached you, Keen cutting as a knife, There is little consolation Just to be a rancher s wife. When Johnny eats green apples And you re forty miles from town, No matter what the hurry is The doctor can t be found. When the baby gets the colic, And a-screaming for its life, Oh, how awfully disgusting To be a rancher s wife. When the wife is worn and weary With four kids on her knees, And the bed bugs are a-fighting In the kitchen with the fleas. It is then you surely sicken With exasperating strife, And you feel it is disgusting To be a rancher s wife. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 179 When the milk is strong with garlic And the butter it is too, And the taste has got the flavor And has got it through and through; Now your appetite has left you And you re almost sick of life, You know it s aggravating To be a rancher s wife. When Tutie has the measles, And Katie has the mumps, And the old dog Watch is threatened With a fearful case of thrumps; When green apple Johnny s crying Cause he s got the stomach ache, And his mother wet and chilly Cause she fell into the lake. When the chickens they won t cackle, And the roosters they won t crow, And the snow is still a-falling In a way that isn t slow, Don t you kno\v that you can t cut it With that rusty-bladed knife, For your little strength has vanished Working as a rancher s wife. But when everything is lovely And the goose is flying high, And a thousand little blessings Along your pathway lie; When the children are a romping And crowing full of life, It is perfectly delightful To be a rancher s wife. 180 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Far From My Happy Home. (Song.) I ve wandered far from thee, dear wife, Far from my happy home; I ve left the land that gave me birth In other climes to roam. But time since then has rolled its years And marked them on my brow, Yet I do often think of thee, I m thinking of thee now. I m thinking of the day, dear wife, When you stood by my side, And watched the dawning of my youth And kissed me in your pride. Your girlhood love was then lit up With hopes of future joy, Which your bright fancy wove for you To deck your husband boy. I m far away from thee, dear wife, No friends are near me now, To guide me with a tender hand Or ease my troubled brow. The follies of this wicked world Have left their marks on me, And wandering on enchanted ground Find none to love like thee. I m lonely and forsakened now, Unpitied and unblest. Yet still I would not have you know How sorely I m distressed. I know you love me yet, dear wife, And will not give me blame ; Come soothe me with your loving words And bid me hope again. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 181 But I would have you know, dear wife, That brightest hopes decay; The tempter with his baleful cup Has dashed them all away. While shame has left its venom sting To rack with anguish wild, Yet still I think of thee, dear wife, Of mother, home and child. You knew, dear wife, that I was born With passions wild and strong, And listening to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. But as often as I go, dear wife, In error s pleasing track, There comes a soft and gentle voice That always calls me back. Our youthful days are gone, dear \vife, We ve felt their many cares, But always found some loving hearts Some wheat among the tares. Dear wife, could you but feel my pain While penning these few lines, The depth of feeling in your heart Would change to grow more kind. Oft in the dreams of night, dear wife, Your cherished face I see, Amid the old familiar scenes Where once we used to be. And as oft as I look back, dear wife, Along the waste of years, My heart fills up with sudden pain, My eyes fill up with tears. Yet still I look to thee, dear wife. No other can I know, To help me o er life s thorny path Where wintry winds do blow. 182 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND I ve seen yon sultry summer sun For many times return, And every time it proves to me There s many hearts that yearn. We wandered o er the world, dear wife, On nature s trackless path, We ve romped with children in their play, And joined them in their laugh. We ve helped them pluck the little flowers That deck the early spring, And walked with them in twilight hours While mocking birds would sing. But now the sun of time, dear wife, Shines on the western hills, We soon shall hear the sunset gun And death s demand fulfill. Then may our souls in silent peace Resign life s joyless day, Our troubled hearts their throbbing cease, Cold mouldering in the clay. Quite rough has been the road, dear wife, Since last I saw your face, But what a joyful thought, dear one, My journey to retrace. The God of love may guide us yet Long years before we part When peace and righteousness have kissed To bind the broken heart. It is with tender love, dear wife, These lines to you I send, And as you read and ponder them Esteem them more than friend. Beneath life s evening setting sun I dedicate this page, To thee, thou lover of my youth, And my delight in age. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 183 It s very hard to write, dear wife, When the wings of hope are clipped; How hard it s been to drink the dregs That my own lips have sipped. But, farewell, dear wife, be good, old girl; May the world to you be kind, And send one hopeful, cheerful word To the one you left behind. To the Cranky Freight Agent. Alturas, Cal., 1911. I thank you for your photograph, Which seems to be quite good The very image of yourself When you before me stood And spoke insulting cranky words That could but leave their sting, A recompense of no reward To prophet, priest or king. But. why send me your photograph? Why should you make the show? Why not send it to the round-house Of the little N. C. O. ? Now, it surely is amusing, I am willing to admit, To have a one-horse railroad And a crank a-running it ; And to have a bonehead agent Stand up and call you down, Because you asked about the rates To some measlev little town. 184 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND It sets a person thinking What a person ought to do To such a cranky agent When he gets in such a stew. Three cheers for the stage line, And a nickel for the show, That little one-horse railroad They call the N. C. O. They fire up the little engine And then she steams away, To get stuck in a little snowdrift. And there she has to stay. So they drag out Mr. Holigan From the little drift of snow, And wheel him to the round-house Of the little N. C. O. Now, good-bye, Mr. Agent, To forgive you sure I ll try, But it takes a quart of vinegar To catch one little fly. But if you have done caught him. Pray don t you let him go, But send him to the round-house Of the little N. C. O. I have met some cranky agents, But none to serve me so, As the cranky little agent Of the little N. C. O. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 185 Farewell to My Saddle and Rope. I will now quit the range of the cattle To ride through the garden of love, For Jesus to me has just whispered Of a wonderful mansion above. So farewell to the wild pitching broncho, Farewell to my saddle and rope, For I ve heard of a range that is better And my heart is filled with its hope. Farewell to the merry old roundup, Where all the wild punchers would meet With angoras, sombreros and stetsons And bright shining spurs on their feet. Farewell to the barbed wire fences, Farewell to the cattle within, Farewell to all my companions. Who feed on the ranges of sin. I am tired of seeing good riders Ride close to the whirlpool of hell. When I m trying so hard to turn them Back home to the old corral. Farewell to the old chuck wagon. Farewell to the boss and his soap, For I ve heard of a range that is better And my heart is filled with its hope. Farewell to her grassy old rangeland, With her water so cold and so clear; Farewell to her rocky-ribbed mountains, Where her peaks so majestically rear. Farewell to her flower-decked gardens That fills with a joy and a hope. Where a cowboy has room too, and plenty, To gracefully circle his rope. 186 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Farewell to her dreary old badlands, Farewell to her mountains and hills, Farewell to her lakes and her marshes, Farewell to her rivers and rills. Farewell to her sage and her cactus, Farewell to all this wide scope, For I ve heard of a range that is better And my heart is filled with hope. Farewell to the old bucking cayuse, Who s as onery as ginger and snuff, Who is springy and twisty and nervy, And knows how to deal you the stuff. Yes, farewell, Mr. Outlaw, I quit yon, Here I pull off my saddle and rope, For I ve heard of a range that is better And my heart is filled with its hope. I am tired of the western roundups We have on the ranges of sin, Through the storm, the blizzard and sunshine, Cold, hungry and wet to the skin. So I ll now quit the range of the cattle To ride in the garden of love ; It s as dear to my soul as the circling blue That arches the world above. Farewell to the wild western outlaw. Who always goes crooked and high ; No use for side-stepping and twisting. And it s little I care for your shy. So I ll pull off my saddle and blanket, Throw down my six-shooter and rope, For I ve heard of a range that is better And my heart is filled with its hope. Farewell, all you wild, jolly punchers. Who circle around the biV herd ; A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 187 I hold up to you a great Saviour, And point you to God and His Word. And you, boys, who are out hunting mavericks, You had better turn round and go back, For I ve seen across the sad valley Where sorrow has made her big track. So I warn you, my gay, jolly fellows, As I give you my last parting hand, To turn from the trail of the maverick And put on the upper range brand. Get your soul well filled at the fountain And your feet with Salvation well shod, And be a bright light at the roundup As you ride on God s green grassy sod. Farewell to the wilds of Montana, Farewell to the gem of the West, For I guess I m in time with her motion, And her charms have set deep in my breast. But farewell to her plains and her mountains And farewell to my saddle and rope, For I ve heard of a range that is better And my heart is filled with its hope. Farewell to her clear brimming rivers, And her valleys where the punchers would stand Encircled around the wild critters To locate and read every brand. But I m through with the saddle and blanket, And through with six-shooter and rope, For I ve heard of a range that is better And my heart is filled with its hope. So I leave you, brave fellows, God bless you, Remember the words I have spoke, And turn from your sins to your Saviour Come quickly, step under the yoke. 188 RHYMES FROM THE RAN GEL AND For I now quit the range of the cattle To ride in the garden of love, For God in His Word has just spoken Of a wonderful mansion above. Come now, heed the words of the Saviour, Come ride in the pasture of love, Come with me to a range that is better And a mansion prepared up above. So farewell to all the cow-punchers, Here I pull off my saddle and rope. And throw off my trusty six-shooter As I drift to this land of my hope. The Morning Glory Hills. /.$ a name applied by me to the Upper Stillwater country from the Red Bridge to its source. Here you can see the grandest of all scenery, the most inviting and the most inspiring. Here you can see battlements and domes and thrones decorated with nature s beautiful garments. Around them twines a mantle of leaves of many colors tawny and brown, silvery and golden, the blue and the grey all are here. Here you can see the rain and the rainbow, the flowers in their bloom, and the frost king in his frozen form; the mountains in all their vastness and their greatness. There s a thousand gems of beauty In this land we call our own. So just chum awhile with nature Take a trip and be alone. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 189 Go up the far-famed Yellowstone, Or the Stillwater valley stream, And you ll feel that you are treading Where the mountain crystals gleam ; When a beauty from the mountains Over all the landscape spills, And the sun shines in her splendor On the Morning Glory hills. Yes, a thousand gems of beauty Lie sparkling by your side, When the autumn leaves are falling In their crimson colors dyed. Here you ll see the brilliant rainbow Gleaming out above the storm, And the frosty king of winter Sitting in his frozen form; And here" a mystic beauty Over all the landscape spills, When the sun shines in her splendor On the Morning Glory hills. From the rough and rugged mountains Now a golden chain is spun, To the highest peaks that glisten From the bright uprising sun. And, Oh! those mighty mountains, With their faces glowing bright, And their foreheads turned to heaven And their lock so snowy white. Here they stand serene, majestic, When the sun begins to spill Her rosy blushing blushes On the Morning Glory Hills. Take a trip to old Montana, And see the sweep and swing; Where the people are true as metal, And the metal has the ring; 190 RHYMES FROM THE RANGELAND Where the stars at night are glistening From the dome of heaven s blue; Where you can chum with nature And take her medicine, too. Where you can see the sunrise Get ready just to spill, Her rosy blushing blushes On the Morning Glory hills. Go up the far-famed Yellowstone A wonderland you ll find; And up the Stillwater valley Is another not far behind. Here you can trace by the light of day The freaks of a Master hand, And you can see by the starlit sky He still is in command When a splash of mystic beauty Over all the landscape spills, And the sun shines in her splendor On the Morning Glory hills. A BOOK OF WESTERN VERSES 191 To the Public. I wish to say that I have three quite large books ready for publication : "Rhymes From the Rangeland Under the Sunny Blue Skies of the Western Plains, Mountains and Foothills," etc. ; "Away Out West Be hind the Bars, Or the Shadows of the Great Stone Corral at Deer Lodge, Mont." (in two volumes), each one complete in itself. I tried to find a publisher in the West who worked on a royalty basis, but could find none, so I concluded to .get out a small, cheap edition, without many illustra tions, until I could do better. You will notice that I have been up against the real thing. I was sent to the penitentiary for five years, charged with killing a steer. During that time my wife got a divorce from me, gathered up the stuff and, like the Prodigal Son, went into a far country. I have never seen her since I have been released from prison or any of the children. I traveled through Idaho, Utah, Nevada, California and Oregon, with the hope of finding her and being with her, but to no avail. I did not succeed, so I returned again to Montana. But somewhere toward the sun- kissed hills of the Pacific slope roams the wife that I loved so well. I hope to get my other books out as soon as I can, and trust you may read them and be benefited by them. In them I have told you what prison life is as I found it at Deer Lodge, Mont., within that great stone corral. I tell you of the divorce evil and what it did to me ; how I hate the cruel monster, etc. You will find these books interesting and instructive from start to finish. Tn prose and poetry. Yours very sincerely, THE AUTHOR. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-17m-8, 55 (B3339s4)444 PS 3503 Rhymes from the ran Re land m iiniiui III || inn Illll Hill IJIII IJJIf |||j J|