I am a Mormon bishop and I will tell you what I know.

I joined the confraternity some forty years ago.

I then had youth upon my brow and eloquence my tongue, But I had the sad misfortune then to meet with Brigham Young.

He said, "Young man, come join our band and bid hard work farewell, You are too smart to waste your time in toil by hill and dell; There is a ripening harvest and our hooks shall find the fool And in the distant nations we shall train them in our school."

I listened to his preaching and I learned all the role, And the truth of Mormon doctrines burned deep within my soul.

I married sixteen women and I spread my new belief, I was sent to preach the gospel to the pauper and the thief.

'Twas in the glorious days when Brigham was our only Lord and King, And his wild cry of defiance from the Wasatch tops did ring, 'Twas when that bold Bill Hickman and that Porter Rockwell led, And in the blood atonements the pits received the dead.

They took in Dr. Robertson and left him in his gore, And the Aiken brothers sleep in peace on Nephi's distant sh.o.r.e.

We marched to Mountain Meadows and on that glorious field With rifle and with hatchet we made man and woman yield.

'Twas there we were victorious with our legions fierce and brave.

We left the butchered victims on the ground without a grave.

We slew the load of emigrants on Sublet's lonely road And plundered many a trader of his then most precious load.

Alas for all the powers that were in the by-gone time.

What we did as deeds of glory are condemned as b.l.o.o.d.y crime.

No more the blood atonements keep the doubting one in fear, While the faithful were rewarded with a wedding once a year.

As the nation's chieftain president says our days of rule are o'er And his marshals with their warrants are on watch at every door, Old John he now goes skulking on the by-roads of our land, Or unknown he keeps in hiding with the faithful of our band.

Old Brigham now is stretched beneath the cold and silent clay, And the chieftains now are fallen that were mighty in their day; Of the six and twenty women that I wedded long ago There are two now left to cheer me in these awful hours of woe.

The rest are scattered where the Gentile's flag's unfurled And two score of my daughters are now numbered with the world.

Oh, my poor old bones are aching and my head is turning gray; Oh, the scenes were black and awful that I've witnessed in my day.

Let my spirit seek the mansion where old Brigham's gone to dwell, For there's no place for Mormons but the lowest pits of h.e.l.l.

DAN TAYLOR

Dan Taylor is a rollicking cuss, A frisky son of a gun, He loves to court the maidens And he savies how it's done.

He used to be a cowboy And they say he wasn't slow, He could ride the bucking bronco And swing the long la.s.so.

He could catch a maverick by the head Or heel him on the fly, He could pick up his front ones Whenever he chose to try.

He used to ride most anything; Now he seldom will.

He says they cut some caper in the air Of which he's got his fill.

He is done and quit the business, Settled down to quiet life, And he's hunting for some maiden Who will be his little wife,--

One who will wash and patch his britches And feed the setting hen, Milk old Blue and Brindy, And tend to baby Ben.

Then he'll build a cozy cottage And furnish it complete, He'll decorate the walls inside With pictures new and sweet.

He will leave off riding broncos And be a different man; He will do his best to please his wife In every way he can.

Then together in double harness They will trot along down the line, Until death shall call them over To a bright and sunny clime.

May your joys be then completed And your sorrows have amend, Is the fondest wish of the writer,-- Your true and faithful friend.

WHEN WORK IS DONE THIS FALL

A group of jolly cowboys, discussing plans at ease, Says one, "I'll tell you something, boys, if you will listen, please.

I am an old cow-puncher and here I'm dressed in rags, And I used to be a tough one and take on great big jags.

"But I've got a home, boys, a good one, you all know, Although I have not seen it since long, long ago.

I'm going back to Dixie once more to see them all; Yes, I'm going to see my mother when the work's all done this fall.

"After the round-ups are over and after the shipping is done, I am going right straight home, boys, ere all my money is gone.

I have changed my ways, boys, no more will I fall; And I am going home, boys, when work is done this fall.

"When I left home, boys, my mother for me cried, Begged me not to go, boys, for me she would have died; My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me, that's all, And with G.o.d's help I'll see her when the work's all done this fall."

That very night this cowboy went out to stand his guard; The night was dark and cloudy and storming very hard; The cattle they got frightened and rushed in wild stampede, The cowboy tried to head them, riding at full speed.

While riding in the darkness so loudly did he shout, Trying his best to head them and turn the herd about, His saddle horse did stumble and on him did fall, The poor boy won't see his mother when the work's all done this fall.

His body was so mangled the boys all thought him dead, They picked him up so gently and laid him on a bed; He opened wide his blue eyes and looking all around He motioned to his comrades to sit near him on the ground.

"Boys, send mother my wages, the wages I have earned, For I'm afraid, boys, my last steer I have turned.

I'm going to a new range, I hear my Master's call, And I'll not see my mother when the work's all done this fall.

"Fred, you take my saddle; George, you take my bed; Bill, you take my pistol after I am dead, And think of me kindly when you look upon them all, For I'll not see my mother when work is done this fall."

Poor Charlie was buried at sunrise, no tombstone at his head, Nothing but a little board and this is what it said, "Charlie died at daybreak, he died from a fall, And he'll not see his mother when the work's all done this fall."

SIOUX INDIANS

I'll sing you a song, though it may be a sad one, Of trials and troubles and where they first begun; I left my dear kindred, my friends, and my home, Across the wild deserts and mountains to roam.

I crossed the Missouri and joined a large train Which bore us over mountain and valley and plain; And often of evenings out hunting we'd go To shoot the fleet antelope and wild buffalo.

We heard of Sioux Indians all out on the plains A-killing poor drivers and burning their trains,-- A-killing poor drivers with arrows and bow, When captured by Indians no mercy they show.