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Cowboy Song
WAY high up in the Mokiones, among the mountain tops, | |
| A lion cleaned a yearlin’s bones and licked his thankful chops, | |
| When who upon the scene should ride a trippin’ down the slope, | |
| But High Chin Bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope. | |
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| “Oh, glory be to me!” says he, “and fame’s unfadin’ flowers; | 5 |
| I ride my good top hoss today and I’m top hand of Lazy-J, | |
| So, Kitty-cat, you’re ours!” | |
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| The lion licked his paws so brown and dreamed soft dreams of veal, | |
| As High Chin’s loop come circlin’ down and roped him round his meal. | |
| He yowled quick fury to the world and all the hills yelled back; | 10 |
| That top hoss give a snort and whirled, and Bob caught up the slack; | |
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| “Oh, glory be to me,” says he, “we’ll hit the glory trail. | |
| No man has looped a lion’s head and lived to drag the bugger dead, | |
| Till I shall tell the tale.” | |
| ’Way high up in the Mokiones that top hoss done his best, | 15 |
| ’Mid whippin’ brush and rattlin’ stones from cañon-floor to crest; | |
| Up and down and round and cross, Bob pounded weak and wan, | |
| But pride still glued him to his hoss and glory drove him on. | |
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| “Oh, glory be to me,” says he, “this glory trail is rough! | |
| I’ll keep this dally round the horn until the toot of judgment morn, | 20 |
| Before I’ll holler ’nough!” | |
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| Three suns had rode their circle home beyond the desert rim, | |
| And turned their star-herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim; | |
| And whenever Bob turned and hoped the limp remains to find, | |
| A red-eyed lion, belly-roped, but healthy, loped behind! | 25 |
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| “Oh, glory be to me,” says Bob, “he kaint be drug to death! | |
| These heroes that I’ve read about were only fools that stuck it out, | |
| To the end of mortal breath.” | |
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| ’Way high up in the Mokiones, if you ever come there at night, | |
| You’ll hear a ruckus amongst the stones that will lift your hair with fright; | 30 |
| You’ll see a cow hoss thunder by and a lion trail along, | |
| And the rider bold, with chin on high sings forth his glory song: | |
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| “Oh, glory be to me,” says he, “and to my mighty noose; | |
| Oh, pardner, tell my friends below, I took a ragin’ dream in tow, | |
| And though I never laid him low—I never turned him loose!” | 35 |
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