We traveled three weeks till we came to the Platte And pitched out our tents at the end of the flat, We spread down our blankets on the green gra.s.sy ground, While our horses and mules were grazing around.

While taking refreshment we heard a low yell, The whoop of Sioux Indians coming up from the dell; We sprang to our rifles with a flash in each eye, "Boys," says our brave leader, "we'll fight till we die."

They made a bold dash and came near to our train And the arrows fell around us like hail and like rain, But with our long rifles we fed them cold lead Till many a brave warrior around us lay dead.

We shot their bold chief at the head of his band.

He died like a warrior with a gun in his hand.

When they saw their bold chief lying dead in his gore, They whooped and they yelled and we saw them no more.

With our small band,--there were just twenty-four,-- And the Sioux Indians there were five hundred or more,-- We fought them with courage; we spoke not a word, Till the end of the battle was all that was heard.

We hitched up our horses and we started our train; Three more b.l.o.o.d.y battles this trip on the plain; And in our last battle three of our brave boys fell, And we left them to rest in a green, shady dell.

THE OLD CHISHOLM TRAIL

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' Texas cattle.

I woke up one morning on the old Chisholm trail, Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail.

I'm up in the mornin' afore daylight And afore I sleep the moon shines bright.

Old Ben Bolt was a blamed good boss, But he'd go to see the girls on a sore-backed hoss.

Old Ben Bolt was a fine old man And you'd know there was whiskey wherever he'd land.

My hoss throwed me off at the creek called Mud, My hoss throwed me off round the 2-U herd.

Last time I saw him he was going cross the level A-kicking up his heels and a-running like the devil.

It's cloudy in the West, a-looking like rain, And my d.a.m.ned old slicker's in the wagon again.

Crippled my hoss, I don't know how, Ropin' at the horns of a 2-U cow.

We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly, We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by.

No chaps, no slicker, and it's pouring down rain, And I swear, by G.o.d, I'll never night-herd again.

Feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle, I hung and rattled with them long-horn cattle.

Last night I was on guard and the leader broke the ranks, I hit my horse down the shoulders and I spurred him in the flanks.

The wind commenced to blow, and the rain began to fall, Hit looked, by grab, like we was goin' to loss 'em all.

I jumped in the saddle and grabbed holt the horn, Best blamed cow-puncher ever was born.

I popped my foot in the stirrup and gave a little yell, The tail cattle broke and the leaders went to h.e.l.l.

I don't give a d.a.m.n if they never do stop; I'll ride as long as an eight-day clock.

Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn, Best d.a.m.ned cowboy ever was born.

I herded and I hollered and I done very well, Till the boss said, "Boys, just let 'em go to h.e.l.l."

Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it, So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.

We rounded 'em up and put 'em on the cars, And that was the last of the old Two Bars.

Oh it's bacon and beans most every day,-- I'd as soon be a-eatin' prairie hay.

I'm on my best horse and I'm goin' at a run, I'm the quickest shootin' cowboy that ever pulled a gun.

I went to the wagon to get my roll, To come back to Texas, dad-burn my soul.

I went to the boss to draw my roll, He had it figgered out I was nine dollars in the hole.

I'll sell my outfit just as soon as I can, I won't punch cattle for no d.a.m.ned man.

Goin' back to town to draw my money, Goin' back home to see my honey.

With my knees in the saddle and my seat in the sky, I'll quit punching cows in the sweet by and by.

Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya, Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya.

The Old Chisholm Trail (Mus. Not.)

Come a-long, boys, and list-en to my tale, I'll tell you of my trou-bles on the old Chisholm trail.

REFRAIN

Co-ma ti yi you-pe, you-pe ya, you-pe ya, Co-ma ti yi you-pe, you-pe ya.

JACK DONAHOO