Cowboy Poems and Songs

[Delmonico]

The Pot Wrassler

How are you there cowboy, I hope you are well,
Jest light from your saddle and rest fer a spell.
Here are the makin's, so roll you a smoke,
Yure jest out uh town and I bet you are broke.

Yuh looks like old hunger was a ridin' yuh hard,
So sit down and eat--you are welcome old pard.
I put a lot uh years at a ridin' the range,
But now I am wrasslin' pots fer a change.

Now I ain't no chef like that Del-mon-a-co,
But I sabes the mixin' of old sour dough.
I sorts all the big rocks out uh the beans,
And I don't wipe the fryin' pans off on my jeans.

Muh chuck is all right, and the wagon kept neat;
If yuh don't like the cookin', yuh don't haf tuh eat.
Oh, I'm a pot wrassler, but I ain't no dub,
Fer I'm close to my bed, and I'm close to the grub.

I'm a leetle bit old, and I don't want no truck
With horn hookin' cattle, ner horses that buck.
I've rode a long time and my laigs is all bowed;
I've got to the age thet I'm easily throwed.

I got the rheumatics and my hands is all burned,
My joints is all stiff and my belly's all churned.
Now I'm a pot wrassler, yure a-hearin' me shout,
So come on and get it, 'fore I throws it out.

You fellers rope steers to down 'em and tie 'em,
Then I comes along to skin 'em and fry 'em.
I got forty a month, and the cookin' to do,
So I'm all through bein' a cow buckeroo.

When you punchers is out in the blizzard and storm,
I'm close to the fire, where I keeps myself warm.
So do yure old ridin', you wild galoots,
And I'll wrassle pots, you can just bet yure boots.

by Curley Fletcher, from Songs of the Sage

[Delmonico]

The Range Cook's "Holler"

They sing of the puncher--that knight of the range who rounds up the bellerin' steer;
Who rides at the head of the midnight stampede with nary a symptom of fear.
They tell of his skill with the six-gun and rope, but nobody mentions the dub
Who trails the chuck-wagon through desert and plain and never yet failed with the grub!.

The weather may find us in rain or in mud; may bake us or sizzle us down;
The treacherous quicksands may mire us deep, and the leaders and wheelers may drown;
The blizzards may howl and the hurricane blow, or injuns may camp on our trail,
But nary excuse will the foreman accept for havin' the chuck-wagon fail.

For off on the range is the puncher who rides through the buck-brush and sage and mesquite,
With an appetite fierce for the bacon we fry, and the slapjacks we bake him to eat.
And we must be waitin' with grub smokin' hot when he comes a-clatterin' in,
No matter what troubles we've bucked up agin, or what our delays may have been.

So in singin' yer songs of the men of the plains who trail it through desert and pine,
Who rough it from Idaho's borders clear down to the edge of the Mexican line,
Don't give all the due to the puncher of steers, but chip in some dope of the dub
Who trails the chuck-wagon in sun or in storm, and never yet failed with the grub!

From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914

[Delmonico]

The Sterrrioo here at work is runnin' on random and it just played Don Edwards version of this one.  It is one of my favorites.

The Cowboy Song
 
Pushing horns weren't easy like the movies says it was
I don't recall no dance hall girls and motel rooms with rugs
We worked hot and tired and nasty and rode our ponies head too low
And there were all those nights we couldn't sleep cause it was just to durn cold
 
And we sang Strawberry Roan and Little Joe
 
Like the night we crossed the river and the rain began to fall
The water was rising so dang fast we thought it would drown us all
We lost a lot of steers that day and four or five good mounts
But when all the boys rode into camp we knew that's what counts
 
And we sang yippee-ti-yi-yah and Amazing Grace
 
 
Like the night they broke behind the sand it took us by surprise
I whistled out to Bonner I'd seen the terror in his eyes
He rode for all his horse would ride and I know he done his best
But he crossed over Jordan riding Dunny to his death
 
And we sang Bringin' in the Sheaves and the Rugged Cross
 
So if you see a cowboy he's not ragged by his choice
He never meant to bow them legs and put that gravel in his voice
He's just chasing what he really loves and what's burning in his soul
Wishing to God that he'd been born about a hundred years ago
 
Still singing Strawberry Roan and Little Joe
 

[Delmonico]

Waddie Mitchell does this on one of his CD's.The Bronco Twister's Prayer

This poem was recited at Bruce Kiskaddon's funeral.

It was a little grave yard
   on the rolling foot hill plains:
That was bleached by the sun in summer,
   swept by winter's snows and rains;
There a little bunch of settlers
   gathered on an autumn day
'Round a home made lumber coffin,
   with their last respects to pay.

Weary men that wrung their living
   from that hard and arid land,
And beside them stood their women;
   faded wives with toil worn hands.
But among us stood one figure
   that was wiry, straight and trim.
Every one among us know him.
   'Twas the broncho twister, Jim.

Just a bunch of hardened muscle
   tempered with a savage grit,
And he had the reputation
   of a man that never quit.
He had helped to build the coffin,
   he had helped to dig the grave;
And his instinct seemed to teach him
   how he really should behave.

Well, we didn't have a preacher,
   and the crowd was mighty slim.
Just two women with weak voices
   sang an old time funeral hymn.
That was all we had for service.
   The old wife was sobbing there.
For her husband of a life time,
   laid away without prayer.

She looked at the broncho twister,
   then she walked right up to him.
Put one trembling arm around him and said,
   "Pray. Please won't you Jim?"
You could see his figure straighten,
   and a look of quick surprise
Flashed across his swarthy features,
   and his hard dare devil eyes.

He could handle any broncho,
   and he never dodged a fight.
'Twas the first time any body ever saw
   his face turn white.
But he took his big sombrero
   off his rough and shaggy head,
How I wish I could remember what
   that broncho peeler said.

No, he wasn't educated.
   On the range his youth was spent.
But the maker of creation
   know exactly what he meant.
He looked over toward the mountains
   where the driftin' shadows played.
Silence must have reined in heaven
   when they heard the way Jim prayed.

Years have passed since that small funeral
   in that lonely grave yard lot.
But it gave us all a memory, and a lot
   of food for thought.
As we stood beside the coffin,
   and the freshly broken sod,
With that reckless broncho breaker
   talkin' heart to heart with God.

When the prayer at last was over,
   and the grave had all been filled,
On his rough, half broken pony,
   he rode off toward the hills.
Yes, we stood there in amazement
   as we watched him ride away,
For no words could ever thank him.
   There was nothing we could say.
Since we gathered in that grave yard,
   it's been nearly fifty years.
With their joys and with their sorrows,
   with their hopes and with their fears.
But I hope when I have finished,
   and they lay me with the dead,
Some one says a prayer above me,
   like that broncho twister said.

[Delmonico]

When They've Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall


Though you're not exactly blue,
Yet you don't feel like you do
In the winter, or the long hot summer days.
For your feelin's and the weather
Seem to sort of go together,
And you're quiet in the dreamy autumn haze.
When the last big steer is goaded
Down the chute, and safely loaded;
And the summer crew has ceased to hit the ball;
When a fellow starts to draggin'
To the home ranch with  the wagon --
When they've finished shipping cattle in the fall.

Only two men left a standin'
On the job for winter brandin',
And your pardner, he's a loafing by your side.
With a bran-new saddle creakin',
But you never hear him speakin',
And you feel it's goin' to be a quiet ride.
But you savvy one another
For you know him like a brother--
He is friendly but he's quiet, that is all;
For he' thinkin' while he's draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon--
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.

And the saddle hosses stringin'
At an easy walk a swingin'
In behind the old chuck wagon movin' slow.
They are weary gaunt and jaded
With the mud and brush they've waded,
And they settled down to business long ago.
Not a hoss is feelin' sporty,
Not a hoss is actin' snorty;
In the spring the brutes was full of buck and bawl;
But they 're gentle, when they're draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon --
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.

And the cook leads the retreat
Perched high upon his wagon seat,
With his hat pulled 'way down furr'wd on his head.
Used to make that old team hustle,
Now he hardly moves a muscle,
And a feller might imagine he was dead,
'Cept his old cob pipe is smokin'
As he lets his team go pokin',
Hittin' all the humps and hollers in the road.
No, the cook has not been drinkin'--
He's just settin' there and thinkin'
'Bout the places and the people that he knowed
And you watch the dust a trailin'
And two little clouds a sailin',
And a big mirage like lakes and timber tall.
And you're lonesome when you're draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon--
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.

When you make the camp that night,
Though the fire is burnin' bright,
Yet nobody seems to have a lot to say,
In the spring you sung and hollered,
Now you git your supper swallered
And you crawl into your blankets right away.
Then you watch the stars a shinin'
Up there in the soft blue linin'
And you sniff the frosty night air clear and cool.
You can hear the night hoss shiftin'
As your memory starts driftin'
To the little village where you went to school.
With its narrow gravel streets
And the kids you used to meet,
And the common where you used to play baseball.
Now you're far away and draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon
For they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.

And your school-boy sweetheart too,
With her eyes of honest blue--
Best performer in the old home talent show.
You were nothin' but a kid
But you liked her, sure you did--
Lord! And that was over thirty years ago.
Then your memory starts to roam
From Old Mexico to Nome.
From the Rio Grande to the Powder River,
Of the things you seen and done--
Some of them was lots of fun
And a lot of other things they make you shiver.
'Bout that boy by name of Reid
That was killed in a stampede--
'Twas away up north, you helped 'em dig his grave,
And your old friend Jim the boss
That got tangled with a hoss,
And the fellers couldn't reach in time to save.

You was there when Ed got his'n--
Boy that killed him's still in prison,
And old Lucky George, he's rich and livin' high.
Poor old Tom, he come off worst,
Got his leg broke, died of thirst
Lord but that must be an awful way to die.

Then them winters at the ranches,
And the old time country dances--
Everybody there was sociable and gay.
Used to lead 'em down the middle
Jest a prancin' to the fiddle--
Never thought of goin' home till the break of day.
No! there ain't no chance for sleepin',
For the memories come a creepin',
And sometimes you think you hear the voices call;
When a feller starts a draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon--
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.


From Kiskaddon's 1924 version in Rhymes of the Ranges.

[Delmonico]

The Reason for Dead Deer

The antelope's a country guy, whose relatives are goats,
He lives with cows and sage and grass, and far away from folks.

He's no desire for society, or ladies dainty roses --
'Cause they dislike the smell of him, and just turn up their noses.

He likes the breaks and creeks and hills, he's got no use for roads --
He's just a common country guy, whose relatives are goats.

The deer, upon the other hand, has kin who work for Santa . . .
He hangs around the urban scene, from Bismarck to Atlanta.

He has a taste for garden truck, found in the yards of houses,
And being of nocturnal stock, he don't care who he rouses

As he sets the dogs to yappin' and gets housewives' dander up;
In fact, the deer disdains the noise of a common, barkin' pup!

Three crossed the street in front of me, this very afternoon,
In the midst of town!  And did I frown -- my, they are so rude!

I think it's pride those deer can't hide, 'cause Rudolph is their cousin
They come in from the country, just to set the city buzzin'!

Check out the Christmas lights my friend, and tell me with great care,
If you can find, in all those lights, an ANTELOPE anywhere?

Of course you can't - the point is moot - that's why he's not affected
With city ways to gardens graze, because he's not connected

In any way to Santa Claus, who stops in all the towns,
Accompanied by his reindeer, all light as eiderdown!

But there's the deer, where'ere you turn, oft' tripping crost' a roof;
Or there between a couple trees . . . He flies! That's surely proof!

So if they're prone to suicide, along our nation's highways,
Excuse the deer - he has no fear - he thinks he's in the flyways!

[Boston John Doucette]

The Guide

We'd left St. Louis three weeks late and now we were paying the price;
We were trapped in a world of raging wind, of blowing snow and ice.
For a week we'd been stranded at South Pass, the drifts growing higher each day;
No sun or stars for reckoning, and our cattle froze dead where they lay.

Two men set out four days prior but hadn't yet come back;
More volunteers were asked for, their futures decidedly black.
Then through the swirling maelstrom of the winter storm gone wild,
A stranger appeared in the center of camp, holding the Rubinsteins' child.

"Halloo!" he called above the wind, "Someone come take this lad!
He must have wandered off a bit... but he ain't hurt too bad!
Come on! Come gather  'round me! We've got work to be doing!
We need to get you out of here...for there's a worse storm brewing!"

By twos and threes we surrounded him, to hear what he had to say;
And he built our hopes on promises that we would move that day.
He wore a robe of buffalo and a hat with a broad, flat brim;
He bore a Hawken rifle... and an aura that made us trust him.

"There isn't a square foot that I don't know, from here to the Black's Fork mouth;
And if I am to help you save your lives we must move quickly South.
Dump all the extra weight you have, we can't have anyone laggin'...
Get your horses and mules hitched up! We're movin' out the wagons!"

Hour after hour his horse broke trail, ice glistening on its flanks;
For two days straight we traveled 'til we reached the Big Sandy's banks.
The homes in the town of Eden each took our families in;
From the hearths of hospitable fires we listened to the outside din.

The morning of the first of November dawned quiet and sunny and clear;
The world was an endless ocean of white that no longer caused us fear.
We examined our livestock and wagons,  repairing the damage done;
Then we noticed the stranger was missing, and reasoned he must have moved on.

Some of us sat in the Mercantile, around the stove so warm,
And recounted the tale of the stranger... his appearance in the storm.
The proprietor of the dry goods store drew his chair to an empty space;
As he heard us speak of the stranger the color drained from his face.

"Did he carry a Hawken and ride a huge horse, a powerful gelding bay?"
The tone of his question was so intense that "Yes" was all we could say.
"Then Noah Johnson saved your lives," he  whispered low and even;
"Jim Bridger and him discovered South Pass, back in 'twenty-seven.

The two of them were inseparable, tough men who wouldn't break;
It was Bridger and Noah in 'twenty-four  who discovered the Great Salt Lake.
Twenty years later on the shore of the Green, Bridger built his store;
But Noah was killed in an avalanche when South Pass shut her door."

Only the sound of the fire in the pot-bellied stove was heard
As we tried to grasp the meaning of the old storekeeper's words.
"They were right in the middle of South Pass when hit by the cascading slide...
Eleven families and Noah, and every last one of them died.

The Shoshone believe that his spirit will never be able to rest...
That he rides the mountains and prairies upon an impossible quest;
And every great once in awhile, when travelers need him most,
They're guided out of South Pass by Noah Johnson's ghost."



©Copyright2002 Boston John Doucette