The Cowman’s Prayer

Now, O Lord, please lend me thine ear,
The prayer of a cattleman to hear,
No doubt the prayers may seem strange,
But I want you to bless our cattle range.

Bless the round-ups year by year,
And don’t forget the growing steer;
Water the lands with brooks and rills
For my cattle that roam on a thousand hills.

Prairie fires, won’t you please stop?
Let thunder roll and water drop.
It frightens me to see the smoke;
Unless it’s stopped, I’ll go dead broke.

As you, O Lord, my herd behold,
It represents a sack of gold;
I think at least five cents a pound
Will be the price of beef the year around.

One thing more and then I’m through, —
Instead of one calf, give my cows two.
I may pray different from other men
But I’ve had my say, and now, Amen.

The Days of Forty-Nine 

We are gazing now on old Tom Moore,
A relic of bygone days;
‘Tis a bummer, too, they call me now,
But what cares I for praise?
It’s oft, says I, for the days gone by,
It’s oft do I repine
For the days of old when we dug out the gold
In those days of Forty-Nine.

My comrades they all loved me well,
The jolly, saucy crew;
A few hard cases, I will admit,
Though they were brave and true.
Whatever the pinch, they ne’er would flinch;
They never would fret nor whine,
Like good old bricks they stood the kicks
In the days of Forty-Nine.

There’s old “Aunt Jess,” that hard old cuss,
Who never would repent;
He never missed a single meal,
Nor never paid a cent.
But old “Aunt Jess,” like all the rest,
At death he did resign,
And in his bloom went up the flume
In the days of Forty-Nine.

There is Ragshag Jim, the roaring man,
Who could out-roar a buffalo, you bet,
He roared all day and he roared all night,
And I guess he is roaring yet.
One night Jim fell in a prospect hole, —
It was a roaring bad design, —

And in that hole Jim roared out his soul
In the days of Forty-Nine.

There is Wylie Bill, the funny man,
Who was full of funny tricks,
And when he was in a poker game
He was always hard as bricks.
He would ante you a stud, he would play you a draw,
He’d go you a hatful blind, —
In a struggle with death Bill lost his breath
In the days of Forty-Nine.

There was New York Jake, the butcher boy,
Who was fond of getting tight.
And every time he got on a spree
He was spoiling for a fight.
One night Jake rampaged against a knife
In the hands of old Bob Sine,
And over Jake they held a wake
In the days of Forty-Nine.

There was Monte Pete, I’ll ne’er forget
The luck he always had,
He would deal for you both day and night
Or as long as he had a scad.
It was a pistol shot that lay Pete out,
It was his last resign,
And it caught Pete dead sure in the door
In the days of Forty-Nine.

Of all the comrades that I’ve had
There’s none that’s left to boast,
And I am left alone in my misery
Like some poor wandering ghost.
And as I pass from town to town,
They call me the rambling sign,
Since the days of old and the days of gold
And the days of Forty-Nine.

Dogie Song

The cow-bosses are good-hearted chunks,
Some short, some heavy, more long;
But don’t matter what he looks like,
They all sing the same old song.
On the plains, in the mountains, in the valleys,
In the south where the days are long,
The bosses are different fellows;
Still they sing the same old song.

“Sift along, boys, don’t ride so slow;
Haven’t got much time but a long round to go.
Quirt him in the shoulders and rake him down the hip;
I’ve cut you toppy mounts, boys, now pair off and rip.
Bunch the herd at the old meet,
Then beat ’em on the tail;
Whip ’em up and down the sides
And hit the shortest trail.”

Down in the Valley 

Down in the valley, the valley so low
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow
Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow

Writing this letter, containing three lines
Answer my question, will you be mine?
Will you be mine, dear, will you be mine?
Answer my question, will you be mine?

Write me a letter, send it by mail
Send it in care of the Birmingham jail,
Birmingham jail, dear, Birmingham jail
Send it in care of the Birmingham jail

Roses love sunshine, violets love dew
Angels in Heaven know I love you
Know I love you, dear, know I love you
Angels in Heaven Know I love you

The Dreary, Dreary Life

A cowboy’s life is a dreary, dreary life,
Some say it’s free from care;
Rounding up the cattle from morning till night
In the middle of the prairie so bare.

Half-past four, the noisy cook will roar,
“Whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!”
Slowly you will rise with sleepy-feeling eyes,
The sweet, dreamy night passed away.

The greener lad he thinks it’s play,
He’ll soon peter out on a cold rainy day,
With his big bell spurs and his Spanish hoss,
He’ll swear to you he was once a boss.

The cowboy’s life is a dreary, dreary life,
He’s driven through the heat and cold;
While the rich man’s a-sleeping on his velvet couch,
Dreaming of his silver and gold.

Spring-time sets in, double trouble will begin,
The weather is so fierce and cold;
Clothes are wet and frozen to our necks,
The cattle we can scarcely hold.

The cowboy’s life is a dreary one,
He works all day to the setting of the sun;
And then his day’s work is not done,
For there’s his night herd to go on.

The wolves and owls with their terrifying howls
Will disturb us in our midnight dream,
As we lie on our slickers on a cold, rainy night
Way over on the Pecos stream.

You are speaking of your farms, you are speaking of your charms,
You are speaking of your silver and gold;
But a cowboy’s life is a dreary, dreary life,
He’s driven through the heat and cold.

Some folks say that we are free from care,
Free from all other harm;
But we round up the cattle from morning till night
Way over on the prairie so dry.

I used to run about, now I stay at home,
Take care of my wife and child;
Nevermore to roam, always stay at home,
Take care of my wife and child.

Half-past four the noisy cook will roar,
“Hurrah, boys! she’s breaking day!”
Slowly we will rise and wipe our sleepy eyes,
The sweet, dreamy night passed away.