Ole Abe kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger, 'Til he bust hisself 'bout a lame old n.i.g.g.e.r,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

Old Jeff swears he'll sew him together With powder and shot instead of leather,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

Kin cuss an' fight an' hold or free 'em, But I know them mavericks when I see 'em,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

SILVER JACK[7]

I was on the drive in eighty Working under Silver Jack, Which the same is now in Jackson And ain't soon expected back, And there was a fellow 'mongst us By the name of Robert Waite; Kind of cute and smart and tonguey Guess he was a graduate.

He could talk on any subject From the Bible down to Hoyle, And his words flowed out so easy, Just as smooth and slick as oil, He was what they call a skeptic, And he loved to sit and weave Hifalutin' words together Tellin' what he didn't believe.

One day we all were sittin' round Smokin' n.i.g.g.e.r head tobacco And hearing Bob expound; h.e.l.l, he said, was all a humbug, And he made it plain as day That the Bible was a fable; And we lowed it looked that way.

Miracles and such like Were too rank for him to stand, And as for him they called the Savior He was just a common man.

"You're a liar," someone shouted, "And you've got to take it back."

Then everybody started,-- 'Twas the words of Silver Jack.

And he cracked his fists together And he stacked his duds and cried, "'Twas in that thar religion That my mother lived and died; And though I haven't always Used the Lord exactly right, Yet when I hear a chump abuse him He's got to eat his words or fight."

Now, this Bob he weren't no coward And he answered bold and free: "Stack your duds and cut your capers, For there ain't no flies on me."

And they fit for forty minutes And the crowd would whoop and cheer When Jack spit up a tooth or two, Or when Bobby lost an ear.

But at last Jack got him under And he slugged him onct or twict, And straightway Bob admitted The divinity of Christ.

But Jack kept reasoning with him Till the poor cuss gave a yell And lowed he'd been mistaken In his views concerning h.e.l.l.

Then the fierce encounter ended And they riz up from the ground And someone brought a bottle out And kindly pa.s.sed it round.

And we drank to Bob's religion In a cheerful sort o' way, But the spread of infidelity Was checked in camp that day.

[Footnote 7: A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.]

THE COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS BALL[8]

Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow, Where the cattle are a-browzin' and the Spanish ponies grow; Where the Northers come a-whistlin' from beyond the Neutral Strip; And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as though they had the grip; Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark, And the mockin' birds are singin' to the lovely medder lark; Where the 'possum and the badger and the rattlesnakes abound, And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound; Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call,-- It was there I attended the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The town was Anson City, old Jones' county seat, Where they raised Polled Angus cattle and waving whiskered wheat; Where the air is soft and bammy and dry and full of health, Where the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth; Where they print the _Texas Western_, that Hec McCann supplies With news and yarns and stories, of most amazing size; Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger" on knowing tenderfeet, And Democracy's triumphant and mighty hard to beat; Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap, from Lamar, Who used to be the sheriff "back east in Paris, sah"!

'Twas there, I say, at Anson with the lovely Widder Wall, That I went to that reception, the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles; The ladies, kinder scatterin', had gathered in for miles.

And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well, 'Twas gave on this occasion at the Morning Star Hotel.

The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, And a viol came imported, by the stage from Abilene.

The room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls, And the candles flickered festious, around the airy walls.

The wimmen folks looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed, Till the leader commenced yelling, "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede,"

And the music started sighing and a-wailing through the hall As a kind of introduction to the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The leader was a feller that came from Swenson's ranch,-- They called him Windy Billy from Little Deadman's Branch.

His rig was kinder keerless,--big spurs and high heeled boots; He had the reputation that comes when fellers shoots.

His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain height; His feet were animated, and a mighty movin' sight, When he commenced to holler, "Now fellers, shake your pen!

Lock horns ter all them heifers and rustle them like men; Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing and let 'em go; Climb the grapevine round 'em; neow all hands do-ce-do!

You maverick, jine the round-up,--jes skip the waterfall,"

Huh! hit was getting active, the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The boys was tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat, That old ba.s.s viol's music just got there with both feet!

That wailin', frisky fiddle, I never shall forget; And Windy kept a-singin'--I think I hear him yet-- "Oh, X's, chase yer squirrels, and cut 'em to our side; Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride, Doc Hollis down the center, and twine the ladies' chain, Van Andrews, pen the fillies in big T Diamond's train.

All pull your freight together, neow swallow fork and change; Big Boston, lead the trail herd through little Pitchfork's range.

Purr round yer gentle p.u.s.s.ies, neow rope and balance all!"

Huh! Hit were gettin' active--the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The dust riz fast and furious; we all jes galloped round, Till the scenery got so giddy that T Bar d.i.c.k was downed.

We buckled to our partners and told 'em to hold on, Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.

Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir-ee!

That whirl at Anson City jes takes the cake with me.

I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill, Give me a frontier break-down backed up by Windy Bill.

McAllister ain't nowhere, when Windy leads the show; I've seen 'em both in harness and so I ought ter know.

Oh, Bill, I shan't forget yer, and I oftentimes recall That lively gaited sworray--the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

[Footnote 8: This poem, one of the best in Larry Chittenden's _Ranch Verses_, published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. I have heard it in New Mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,--always as a song.

None of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.]

PINTO

I am a vaquero by trade; To handle my rope I'm not afraid.

I la.s.s' an _otero_ by the two horns Throw down the biggest that ever was born.

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

My name to you I will not tell; For what's the use, you know me so well.

The girls all love me, and cry When I leave them to join the rodero.

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

I am a vaquero, and here I reside; Show me the broncho I cannot ride.

They say old Pinto with one split ear Is the hardest jumping broncho on the rodero.

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

There strayed to our camp an iron gray colt; The boys were all fraid him so on him I bolt.

You bet I stayed with him till cheer after cheer,-- "He's the broncho twister that's on the rodero."

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

My story is ended, old Pinto is dead; I'm going down Laredo and paint the town red.

I'm going up to Laredo and set up the beer To all the cowboys that's on the rodero.