Songs of the Cowboys

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Houghton Mifflin, 1921 - American ballads and songs - 184 pages
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Page 63 - Where the jimson weed and sandburs grow; Now we'll fill you up on prickly pear and cholla Till you are ready for the trail to Idaho. Oh, you'll be soup for Uncle Sam's Injuns,— It's "beef, heap beef,
Page 101 - Come along, boys, and listen to my tale, I'll tell you of my troubles on the old Chisholm trail. Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya, Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya. I started up the trail October twenty-third. I started up the trail with the 2-U herd. Oh, a ten dollar hoss and a forty dollar saddle, — And I'm goin' to punchin
Page 111 - Oh, hitch up your horses and feed 'em some hay, And seat yourself by me so long as you stay. My horses ain't hungry, they'll not eat your hay ; My wagon is loaded and rolling away.
Page 37 - It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing, It was once in the saddle I used to go gay; First to the dram-house and then to the card-house; Got shot in the breast and I am dying today.
Page 130 - The only shot he saw was to give poor Sam away. He sold out Sam and Barnes and left their friends to mourn — Oh, what a scorching Jim will get when Gabriel blows his horn!
Page 34 - Last night as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by and by.
Page 71 - The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten, Too hot for the devil and too hot for men.
Page 38 - To cool my parched lips," the cowboy said; Before I turned, the spirit had left him And gone to its Giver, — the cowboy was dead. We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly, And bitterly wept as we bore him along; For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome, We all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong.
Page 35 - They say he will never forget you, That he knows every action and look; So for safety you'd better get branded, Have your name in the great Tally Book.
Page xviii - It can only be because the cowboy has been despoiled of his inheritance of traditional song; he has nothing behind him. When, therefore, he feels the need of self-expression, having no inherited fund of poetic literature upon which to draw, no imaginative world into which to escape, he has only himself and his daily occupations to sing about, and that in a...

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