It's little Joe, the wrangler, he'll wrangle never more, His days with the _remuda_ they are o'er; 'Twas a year ago last April when he rode into our camp,-- Just a little Texas stray and all alone,-- On a little Texas pony he called "Chaw."

With his brogan shoes and overalls, a tougher kid You never in your life before had saw.

His saddle was a Texas "kak," built many years ago, With an O.K. spur on one foot lightly swung; His "hot roll" in a cotton sack so loosely tied behind, And his canteen from his saddle-horn was swung.

He said that he had to leave his home, his pa had married twice; And his new ma whipped him every day or two; So he saddled up old Chaw one night and lit a shuck this way, And he's now trying to paddle his own canoe.

He said if we would give him work, he'd do the best he could, Though he didn't know straight up about a cow; So the boss he cut him out a mount and kindly put him on, For he sorta liked this little kid somehow.

Learned him to wrangle horses and to try to know them all, And get them in at daylight if he could; To follow the chuck-wagon and always. .h.i.tch the team, And to help the _cocinero_ rustle wood.

We had driven to the Pecos, the weather being fine; We had camped on the south side in a bend; When a norther commenced blowin', we had doubled up our guard, For it taken all of us to hold them in.

Little Joe, the wrangler, was called out with the rest; Though the kid had scarcely reached the herd, When the cattle they stampeded, like a hailstorm long they fled, Then we were all a-ridin' for the lead.

'Midst the streaks of lightin' a horse we could see in the lead, 'Twas Little Joe, the wrangler, in the lead; He was riding Old Blue Rocket with a slicker o'er his head, A tryin' to check the cattle in their speed.

At last we got them milling and kinda quieted down, And the extra guard back to the wagon went; But there was one a-missin' and we knew it at a glance, 'Twas our little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe.

The next morning just at day break, we found where Rocket fell, Down in a washout twenty feet below; And beneath the horse, mashed to a pulp,--his spur had rung the knell,-- Was our little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe.

Little Joe, The Wrangler (Mus. Not.)

Lit-tle Joe, the wran-gler, He'll wran-gle nev-er-more, rode up to our herd His days with the re--mu--da they are o'er; On a lit-tle Tex-as Po-ny he call'd Chaw; 'Twas a year a-go last A-pril he rode in-to our herd; With his bro-gan shoes and o-veralls, a tough-er look-in' kid Just a lit-tle Tex-as stray, and all a-lone.

You nev-er in your life be-fore had saw.

It was late in the eve-ning he

HARRY BALE

Come all kind friends and kindred dear and Christians young and old, A story I'll relate to you, 'twill make your blood run cold; 'Tis all about an unfortunate boy who lived not far from here, In the township of Arcade in the County of Lapeer.

It seems his occupation was a sawyer in a mill, He followed it successfully two years, one month, until, Until this fatal accident that caused many to weep and wail; 'Twas where this young man lost his life,--his name was Harry Bale.

On the 29th of April in the year of seventy-nine, He went to work as usual, no fear did he design; In lowering of the feed bar throwing the carriage into gear It brought him down upon the saw and cut him quite severe; It cut him through the collar-bone and half way down the back, It threw him down upon the saw, the carriage coming back.

He started for the shanty, his strength was failing fast; He said, "Oh, boys, I'm wounded: I fear it is my last."

His brothers they were sent for, likewise his sisters too, The doctors came and dressed his wound, but kind words proved untrue.

Poor Harry had no father to weep beside his bed, No kind and loving mother to sooth his aching head.

He was just as gallant a young man as ever you wished to know, But he withered like a flower, it was his time to go.

They placed him in his coffin and laid him in his grave; His brothers and sisters mourned the loss of a brother so true and brave.

They took him to the graveyard and laid him away to rest, His body lies mouldering, his soul is among the blest.

FOREMAN MONROE

Come all you brave young shanty boys, and list while I relate Concerning a young shanty boy and his untimely fate; Concerning a young river man, so manly, true and brave; 'Twas on a jam at Gerry's Rock he met his watery grave;

'Twas on a Sunday morning as you will quickly hear, Our logs were piled up mountain high, we could not keep them clear.

Our foreman said, "Come on, brave boys, with hearts devoid of fear, We'll break the jam on Gerry's Rock and for Agonstown we'll steer."

Now, some of them were willing, while others they were not, All for to work on Sunday they did not think they ought; But six of our brave shanty boys had volunteered to go And break the jam on Gerry's Rock with their foreman, young Monroe.

They had not rolled off many logs 'till they heard his clear voice say, "I'd have you boys be on your guard, for the jam will soon give way."

These words he'd scarcely spoken when the jam did break and go, Taking with it six of those brave boys and their foreman, young Monroe.

Now when those other shanty boys this sad news came to hear, In search of their dead comrades to the river they did steer; Six of their mangled bodies a-floating down did go, While crushed and bleeding near the banks lay the foreman, young Monroe.

They took him from his watery grave, brushed back his raven hair; There was a fair form among them whose cries did rend the air; There was a fair form among them, a girl from Saginaw town.

Whose cries rose to the skies for her lover who'd gone down.

Fair Clara was a n.o.ble girl, the river-man's true friend; She and her widowed mother lived at the river's bend; And the wages of her own true love the boss to her did pay, But the shanty boys for her made up a generous sum next day.

They buried him quite decently; 'twas on the first of May; Come all you brave young shanty boys and for your comrade pray.

Engraved upon the hemlock tree that by the grave does grow Is the aged date and the sad fate of the foreman, young Monroe.

Fair Clara did not long survive, her heart broke with her grief; And less than three months afterwards Death came to her relief; And when the time had come and she was called to go, Her last request was granted, to be laid by young Monroe.

Come all you brave young shanty boys, I'd have you call and see Two green graves by the river side where grows a hemlock tree; The shanty boys cut off the wood where lay those lovers low,-- 'Tis the handsome Clara Vernon and her true love, Jack Monroe.

THE DREARY BLACK HILLS

Kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale, I am an object of pity, I am looking quite stale, I gave up my trade selling Right's Patent Pills To go hunting gold in the dreary Black Hills.

Don't go away, stay at home if you can, Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne, For big Walipe or Comanche Bills They will lift up your hair on the dreary Black Hills.

The round-house in Cheyenne is filled every night With loafers and b.u.mmers of most every plight; On their backs is no clothes, in their pockets no bills, Each day they keep starting for the dreary Black Hills.

I got to Cheyenne, no gold could I find, I thought of the lunch route I'd left far behind; Through rain, hail, and snow, frozen plumb to the gills,-- They call me the orphan of the dreary Black Hills.

Kind friend, to conclude, my advice I'll unfold, Don't go to the Black Hills a-hunting for gold; Railroad speculators their pockets you'll fill By taking a trip to those dreary Black Hills.

Don't go away, stay at home if you can, Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne, For old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bills They will take off your scalp on the dreary Black Hills.

The Dreary Black Hills (Mus. Not.)

Kind friends, you must pit-y my hor-ri-ble tale, I'm an ob-ject of pit-y, I'm look-ing quite stale; I gave up my trade, Selling Right's Pat-ent Pills, To go hunt-ing gold In the drear-y Black Hills.