Cowboy – Texas Monthly songs

This story is from Texas Monthlyarchives. We have left it as originally published, without updating, to keep a clear historical record. Some of the language in this archival story on matters such as race and gender may not fit contemporary standards.

meIn the immensity of the plains, it was nice to hear a human voice, even one’s own. Cowboys sang to comfort themselves and their livestock. Singing was an essential part of cowboys as was ropes and horseback riding; One of the famous brothers, Ab Blocker, released his hand to disturb the sound of the herd. Cowboys sang at night, but not around a campfire; Most of them sang in the saddle, and guitars were rare.

“Cowboys used to sing about dying people,” EC Teddy Blue Abbott wrote in his memoirs of the track. “I think it was because they were so full of life themselves.” At that time, death was always at hand. Roamers, horses, and unrequited love were other favorite subjects. Most of the famous folk ballads were based on folk songs or poems from magazines, but the cowboys customize the lyrics to their liking; Thus “Whoopee Ti Yi Yo” is musically similar to “The Streets of Laredo” (aka “The Cowboy’s Lament”), but the words are completely different. Four of the editions printed here are from John and Alan Lomax’s classics, Cowboy songs and other frontier stories.

Cowboy music is not country music, although the two are often combined together as “country and western”. One reflects a nearly forgotten law of the West—clean living, hard work, and personal honor—while the other deals with the violation of these virtues. Although a string of artists have preserved cowboy music—including cowboy vocals Gene Autry, Sons of Perpetual Pioneers, and Marty Robbins in the 1950s—it has been overshadowed by its longtime cousin. Today a few believers carry the torch, such as Riders in the Sky, Mary McCaslin, and Ian Tyson. But with drinking and cheating waning, Texans are primed to rediscover cowboy songs. If you don’t – well, this is a misfortune for you, not a misfortune for us.

Little Joe Wrangler

It’s little Joe, brawlers, never arguing,
his days with Remoda They are up.
Toas a year ago last April he entered our camp, –
Just a little lonely stray Texan, –

It was late in the evening, and he rode to our flock
On a small horse from Texas called “Chow”.
With his Brogan shoes and ov’ralls, a tougher kid
You have never seen in your life before.

His saddle was a Texas “slinger”, built many years ago,
With an OK spur on one foot swinging slightly;
“hot roll” in a cotton bag tied loosely at the back,
His canteen was swinging from the saddle horn.

He said he had to leave the house, and married his mother twice;
His new mistress beat him every day or two.
So he got up on old Zhao one night and set off a jolt in this way,
Now he is trying to row his own boat.

He said if we give him work, he will do what he can,
Although he did not know firsthand about a cow;
So the chief cut a swatch and kindly put it on,
Because he somehow loved this kid.

I taught him to argue horses and try to get to know them all,
and bring them in in broad daylight if possible;
To follow the chuck wagon and always associated with the team,
And to help out chef wood rustle.

We traveled by car to Pecos, and the weather was good;
We were camping on the south side at a bend.
When one of the northerners began to strike, we doubled our guard,
It took all of us to keep them.

Little Joe, the brawler, was summoned, along with the rest;
Although the child was rarely reached the herd,
When they trampled the cattle, like a long hailstorm, they fled,
Then we were all up front.

“Amidst the Lightning Lines” the horse we can see in the lead,
Twas Little Joe, Wrangler, in the lead;
He was riding an old blue rocket with a spoon over his head,
Try to check the speed of the cattle.

We finally got them to grind and calm down kind of,
And the extra guard went to the wagon.
But there was one mistake and we knew it at a glance,
“Just, our little wayward Texan, poor Joe Wrangeling.

The next morning, at dawn, we found where the rocket had fallen,
down in a sink twenty feet below;
And under the horse, mashed to a pulp, his spur rang a bell, –
Was it our little wayward Texan, poor Joe Wrangeling.

home on the run

Oh, give me a house where buffalo roam,
Where deer and antelope play,
Where you seldom hear the word frustrating
And the sky is not cloudy all day.

home, home on the scale,
where deer and antelope play;
Where you seldom hear the word frustrating
And the sky is not cloudy all day.

The red man was pressed from this part of the west,
He probably won’t come back anymore
To the banks of the Red River where this rarely happens
Their fire flicker burning.

How many times at night when the sky is bright
With twinkling stars
Did you just stand here amazed and ask him while I stare
If their glory exceeds ours.

Oh, I love these wildflowers in this dear land;
The curlews love to hear the screaming;
And I love white rocks and herds of antelope
that graze on the green mountain tops.

Oh, give me a land where the diamond sand is shining
it flows leisurely downstream;
Where the graceful white swan glides along
Like a maid in a heavenly dream.

strawberry row

I was loitering in a circular town and not earning a penny,
Being unemployed, just taking my time.
When a stranger steps forward and says, “I suppose
You are a bronze contestant by the appearance of your clothes.”
I say, “I think you’re right, and I say you’re right.
Do you happen to have any bad things to tame? ”
He says, “I have one, and that’s a good thing,
Throwing good knights, he had a lot of luck.”

I get all excited and ask what’s driving
To ride that old horse for a few days.
He offers me ten, and I say, ‘I am your man,
“Because the horse didn’t live and I couldn’t fan.”
He says, “Bring your saddle, and I’ll give you a chance.”
So we get up on the board and ride to the farm.
Early the next morning right after Chuck
I go downstairs to see if this outlaw can resist.

Only there in the corral standing alone
He is a lean old foal – a strawberry bird.
He has the eyes of a piglet and a large Roman nose,
long crooked legs that curl at the toes,
small pin ears that split at the tip,
There is a mark 44 there on his left hip.
I wear spurs and thousand my strings,
And tell the stranger, “The ten points are mine.”

Then I put on the curtains and it’s definitely a fight.
My saddle comes on next, and I strap it on tight.
Then a pile on his back I know very well after that,
If I ride that old pony, I will definitely earn ten.
Because he bends his old neck and jumps off the ground
Ten circles do their work before coming down.
He’s the worst con man I’ve ever seen on the range,
It can run a nickel and give you some change.

Ascend again, ascend high,
And leave me there in the sky.
I turned twice and fell to the ground
And I start cussin’ the day he was born.
I rode a lot of ponies here at the range,
And there were one or two that I couldn’t tame.
But I bet all my money that no man is alive
He can ride this old horse when he’s doing a high dive.

Dying Cowboy

“Oh, bury me not in the only prairie.”
These words came sad and sad
From the pale lips of a lying young man
On his dying bed at the end of the day.

We loved from pain until it crossed his forehead
Shadows of death were now gathering rapidly.
He was thinking about his home and loved ones soon
Cowboys also gather to see him die.

“Oh, bury me not in the lonely prairie
Where wild coyotes will howl,
In a narrow grave only six by three.
Oh, bury me not in the only prairie.”

“I always wanted to be lying down when I died
In the courtyard of the chapel on the green hillside;
At my father’s grave to be there,
And do not bury me in the lonely prairie.

Let my death sleep where my mother prays
Sister’s tears mingle there,
where my friends can come and weep for me;
Oh, bury me not in the only prairie.

“Oh, bury me not in the lonely prairie
In a narrow grave, only six by three
Where the hawk waits and the wind blows free;
Then bury me not in the only prairie.

“Oh, don’t bury me–” and his voice failed there.
But we did not pay attention to his dying prayers.
In a narrow grave, only six by three
We buried him there on the lonely prairie.

Where dew drops glow and butterflies rest,
And the flowers bloom over the top of the prairie;
Where the wild wolf and the wind are a free sport
On a wet saddle blanket lay a cowboy.

Oh, we buried him there on the lonely prairie
Where the wild rose blooms and the wind blows free;
Oh, his pale young face to see anymore –
Because we buried him there on the lonely prairie.

And the cowboys now roaming the plain –
Because they marked the spot where his bones were.
Throwing a bunch of roses on his grave,
Praying for his soul.

“Oh, bury me not in the lonely prairie
where wolves can howl and grumble at me;
Throwing a bunch of roses on my grave
Praying for the one who saved my soul.

Whoopi ty u, get long, little doggies

Because I was walking one morning for fun,
I spied a cow rider riding along;
His hat was thrown and his spurs were jingling,
As he approached me singing this song:

Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
It is your misfortune, not mine;
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
Because you know Wyoming is going to be your new home.

Early in the spring we will gather the dogs,
slapped on their trademarks, and flew off their tails;
Gather our horses, load up on Chuck’s wagon,
Then throw those dogs on the road.

Some boys climb the trail for fun,
But this is where they got it very wrong;
Because you have no idea what trouble they are giving us
When we go we drive the dogs along.

When night comes and we carry them to the ground,
These are little dogs that roll very slowly;
Fennel the herd and chop the strays,
Small dogs that have never rolled before.

Your mother grew up in Texas,
where jimson weeds and sand bumps grow;
Now we’ll fill you in on the prickly pear and chola
So you’re ready to drive to Idaho.

Oh, you’ll be soup for Uncle Sam’s Injuns;
I hear them cry “It’s beef, beef heap.”
Git along, git along, git along, little dogies
Beef will be progressing over time.

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