MORE Cowboy Poetry & Songs!

MORE Cowboy Poetry & Songs!

The Strawberry Roan

by Curley Fletcher

I was laying round town just spending my time
Out of a job and not makin' a dime
When up steps a feller and he says, "I suppose
That you're a bronc rider by the looks of your clothes?"

He guesses me right. "And a good one I'll claim
Do you happen to have any bad ones to tame?"
He says he's got one that's a good one to buck
And at throwing good riders he's had lots of luck.

He says this old pony has never been rode
And the man that gets on him is bound to be throwed
I gets all excited and I ask what he pays
To ride this old pony a couple of days.

He says, "Ten dollars." I says, "I'm your man
The bronc never lived that I cannot fan
The bronc never tried nor never drew breath
That I cannot ride till he starves plumb to death."

He says, "Get your saddle.  I'll give you a chance."
We got in the buggy and went to the ranch
We waited till morning, right after chuck
I went out to see if that outlaw could buck.

Down in the corral, a-standin' alone
Was this little old caballo, a strawberry roan
He had little pin ears that touched at the tip
And a big forty-four brand was on his left hip.

He was spavined all round and he had pidgeon toes
Little pig eyes and a big Roman nose
He was U-necked and old with a long lower jaw
You could tell at a glance he was a regular outlaw.

I buckled on my spurs, I was feeling plumb fine
I pulled down my hat and I curls up my twine
I threw the loop at him, right well I knew then
Before I had rode him I'd sure earn my ten.

I got the blind on him with a terrible fight
Cinched on the saddle and girdled it tight
Then I steps up on him and pulled down the blind
And sat there in the saddle to see him unwind.

He bowed his old neck and I'll say he unwound
He seemed to quit living down there on the ground
He went up to the east and came down to the west
With me in the saddle, a-doing my best.

He sure was frog-walkin', I heaved a big sigh
He only lacked wings for to be on the fly
He turned his old belly right up to the sun
For he was a sun-fishin' son of a gun.

He was the worst bronco I've seen on the range
He could turn on a nickel and leave you some change
While he was buckin' he squalled like a shoat
I tell you that outlaw, he sure got my goat.

I tell all the people that pony could step
And I was still on him a-buildin' a rep
He came down on all fours and turned up on his side
I don't see how he kept from losing his hide.

I lost my stirrups, I lost my hat,
I was pullin' at leather as blind as a bat
With a phenomenal jump he made a high dive
And set me a-winding up there through the sky.

I turned forty flips and came down to the earth
And sit there a-cussing the day of his birth

I know there's some ponies that I cannot ride
Some of them living, they haven't all died.
But I bet all money there's no man alive
That can ride Old Strawberry when he makes that high dive.

Cowboy Poetry is meant to be fun as well as serious. Here

is the fun side of a bronco busting ride gone very wrong....

Young Sheldon - Pity the Cowboy

Cowboy Poetry is also meant to be sung as much as to be narrated. Here are some saddle songs from the hearts of America's prairie ballad-eers.

Old Cowboy Songs (32 old timers)

Elko, Nevada

National Cowboy Poetry Gathering

website - https://www.nationalcowboypoetrygathering.org/

2023 Event & Doings

Songs & Readings

from Poets.Org

A Brief Guide to Cowboy Poetry

"It [is] a jazz of Irish storytelling, Scottish seafaring and cattle tending, Moorish and Spanish horsemanship, European cavalry traditions, African improvisation, and Native American experience, if also oppression. . . . the songs and poems of the American cowboy are part of that old tradition of balladry." —Western Folklife Center Archive

One of those rare indigenous creations of America, cowboy poetry has a long and vivid history, driven by its colorful practitioners and memorable canon of poems.

Cowboy poetry is distinctive both in its culturally specific subject matter and its traditional use of rhyme and meter. While the range of emotional landscapes explored in cowboy poetry are the traditional province of poetry—from joy to grief, from humor to spirituality—the particulars derive from the American West: horses, cattle, fire, prairie storms, mythic figures of cowboys and ranchers, and the sublime wilderness. The use of forms such as ballads and odes and of poetic devices such as mnemonics and repetition sets cowboy poetry apart from the majority of contemporary poetry and relates it more to the Homeric tradition of oral poetry.

In the anthology Cowboy Poetry Matters, editor Robert McDowell collects the poetry of such cowboy poets as Paul Zarzyski, Linda Hussa, Laurie Wagner Buyer, Wallace McRae, and Buck Ramsey, as well as poets such as Maxine Kumin and Donald Hall, who have written in the genre. The collection also contains scholarly essays about cowboy poetry, including Zarzyski's response to Dana Gioia’s "Can Poetry Matter?": "The Lariati versus/verses the Literati: Loping Toward Dana Gioia's Dream Come Real." The book ends with a list of "Cowboy Poetry Anthologies of Note," and while there are cowboy poetry archives, publications, documentaries, audio recordings, and online resources, most would argue that cowboy poetry lives in the human voice, during live readings and gatherings.

Many cowboy poetry gatherings exist in almost all Western states, but the most popular of them is the annual National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, held in Elko, Nevada. Every January, cattle people, rural folks, poets, musicians, western enthusiasts, and curious urban dwellers gather for the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, described as "a jubilee of conversation, singing, dancing, great hats and boots, stories, laughing and crying, big steaks, incessant rhymes, and a galloping cadence that keeps time for a solid week." Launched in 1985, the Gathering is a program of the Western Folklife Center, a regional nonprofit folk arts organization dedicated to preserving, perpetuating, and presenting the folk arts of the West.

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When They’ve Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall

by Bruce Kiskaddon

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.

DiscoverPoetry - Cowboy Poetry

link here to read the poems below

1. A Prairie Song by Anonymous
2. The Cowboy's Life by Anonymous
3. The Railroad Corral by Anonymous
4. Ridin' by Charles Badger Clark
5. The Song of the Leather by Charles Badger Clark
6. A Cowboy's Prayer by Charles Badger Clark
7. The Wind is Blowin' by Charles Badger Clark
8. The Christmas Trail by Charles Badger Clark
9. The Outlaw by Charles Badger Clark
10. The Pale Horse by James W. Whilt
11. The Tied Maverick by Charles Badger Clark
12. The Old Frying Pan by James W. Whilt
13. The Old Dutch Oven by Arthur Chapman
14. Bacon by Charles Badger Clark
15. Southwestern June by Charles Badger Clark
16. To Her by Charles Badger Clark
17. A Roundup Lullaby by Charles Badger Clark
18. From Town by Charles Badger Clark
19. A Bad Half Hour by Charles Badger Clark
20. Hawse Work by Charles Badger Clark
21. The Camp-fire Has Gone Out by Anonymous
22. The Dying Cowboy by H. Clemons
23. Passing of the Range by James W. Whilt

* * * * * * *

Wikipedia - Cowboy Poetry

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Notable cowboy poets

• S. Omar Barker
• Baxter Black
• Arthur Chapman
• Badger Clark
• Curley Fletcher
• Steven Fromholz
• Cathy Park Hong
• Bruce Kiskaddon
• Wally McRae
• Waddie Mitchell
• Joel Nelson
• Red Steagall
• Paul Zarzyski

In addition, Robert W. Service is sometimes classified as a cowboy poet.

Famed spoken-word artist Bingo Gazingo has done at least one cowboy poem, "Everything's OK at the OK Corral."

See also

• Bush ballads
• Cowboy
• "Faster Horses (The Cowboy and the Poet)"
• Rodeo
• Western lifestyle

* * * * * * *

Ask a Cowboy Poet:

“What three classic poems do you

think every cowboy poet should know?"

article link

May 19, 2022

Being rather devoted to cowboy poetry, we’re delighted when people take an interest in the classics. Many traditions crystallize around core classics–pieces that become standards to those “in the know.” Cowboy poetry is no exception. Why do certain poems (and not others) evoke such loyalty through the years? What do they inspire? For whom? If you’re looking to learn your classics, where might you start? Who better to know a thing or two about all this than the Ask a Cowboy Poet panel? So, we posed them this month’s question:

What three classic poems do you think every cowboy poet should know, and why? - Sincerely, Seeking Out Standards

It’s a two-parter. Next month, the poets consider the idea of “new classics.”

*Have a question for the cowboy poets? They would be delighted to hear from you! Submit a question on our Facebook, Instagram, or by email to media@westernfolklife.org.

WADDIE MITCHELL

What is a classic cowboy poem? The way it seems to be is if it is known, recited, and has an awareness fifty years after being written, it has earned the right to be classified "classic."

The three classic cowboy poems I believe are worthy of every cowboy poet knowing, and why, are:

Sierry Petes sings

Tying Knots in the Devil's Tail,

by Gail I. Gardner

“Tying Knots in the Devil’s Tail” by Gail I. Gardner

This poem made itself to every corner of the cowboy world when the web wasn't here. It traveled mostly word of mouth. Its storyline is mystic with lots of chuckles thrown in. Plus, it's cowboy situation, cowboy language, and cowboy way of thinking. Barely old enough, but it is a true classic. Many artists have put tunes to it and performed and recorded it as a song.

“The Strawberry Roan” by Curley Fletcher

This poem was also put to music, but they left the poem intact (no bridge, no chorus). One of the most important poems of the genre.

“When They’ve Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall” by Bruce Kiskaddon

Meditative, reminiscent, image painting, all in cowboy vocabulary. Real cowboy but relatable to all.

These by no means should be construed as the best, but they are three of the top, maybe, fifteen.

DW GROETHE:

There's no real answer to this as, for me anyway, it'll vary with the day because there are too many great "classic" poems out there. What I recommend you do is learn a few poems from each of the "classic" poets...Henry Herbert Knibbs, Badger Clark, S. Omar Barker, Curley Fletcher, and the list goes on... I almost always recite "The Strawberry Roan," but since every audience is different I might decide to do "Boomer Johnson" (Knibbs) instead of "Tyin' Knots in the Devil’s Tail" (Gardner) or "Ridin'" (B. Clark) instead of "The Chuckwagon" ( S. O. Barker). And then there's poets like Robert Service who are not "cowboy" poets but fit in fine with what we do, like "The Shooting of Dan McGrew"...see what I mean? We're lucky to have such a grand list to choose from. A plethora (been waiting forever to use that word) if you will. Have fun and go fencin'...it's the perfect time to memorize poems.

Thanks for askin',

dw

VIRGINIA BENNETT:

The first one that came to my mind as I set about to write this was Henry Herbert Knibbs, “Where the Ponies Come to Drink.” Mr. Knibbs gave us a great, poetic style to play with and also teaches us how to paint a picture with words as well as any other poet of any genre.

The next one I thought of was “The Men That Don't Fit In” by Robert W. Service. A student of cowboy poetry can learn from this poem that he or she can write about the sort of person a cowboy might be without even mentioning anything about a ranch, a horse, or a cow. That was a lesson I needed to learn in my early years of writing poetry because I mistakenly thought cowboy poetry HAD to include "ranchy stuff." I was blessed early on to be mentored by the gifted poet, Vess Quinlan. He taught me that I could write about the things that are common to mankind or even unique to a certain subject without always having to include sagebrush, broncs, or chuckwagon cocineros.

“Between the Lines” by Bruce Kiskaddon has stuck in my mind ever since I first read it back in the 1980s. I enjoy poetry that goes to the raw and rarely-discussed part of history (or any story about any topic). “Between the Lines” takes us to a dark place in ways that put us right into a tragic situation. Surely a lesson on the value of such literature is worthy to be heard.

Honorable Mentions:

• “They Keep A-Stealing on You in the Night” by Rhoda Sivell
• “Ridin’” by Charles Badger Clark
• “Hail and Farewell” by Delia Gist Gardner

BILL LOWMAN:

“Tying Knots in the Devil’s Tail” by Gail I. Gardner

“When They’ve Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall” by Bruce Kiskaddon

“Little Joe the Wrangler” by N. Howard “Jack” Thorpe

These were actually poems that were sung a cappella as most old classic songs were. They record our early past history that otherwise would be lost. They preserve our heritage as we're doing contemporary work of our cowboy era. The early-day cowboy was basically nomadic and therefore most of their history was oral. The few poems and songs are stellar to its cultural survival.

My dad always sang "Little Joe the Wrangler" and "When the Work’s All Done This Fall"* to my brothers and I as we grew up on horseback and doing ranch work. It wasn't until I got a little older that I realized he couldn't carry a tune in a tin bucket, so I recited poems instead of songs to spare my offspring while we rode. A cowboy poem and a cowboy song are basically double first cousins or perhaps even siblings.

YVONNE HOLLENBECK:

First of all, it is good that every cowboy poet knows and studies many of the old classics, if nothing else but to inspire and enhance their own writing of poetry, but not necessarily to memorize them and recite them. When people attend a cowboy poetry gathering, for the most part, they enjoy hearing the work of the poet doing the presenting. There are a few reciters that do an outstanding job doing the "classics," and they are contracted and scheduled for that purpose. With that said, here are three that I consider classics that are my favorites:

"The House With Nobody In It" by Joyce Kilmer

Although it speaks of an old, abandoned house, this poem speaks volumes about the sad abandonment and deterioration of farm and ranch homes, barns and buildings across the West, and how the West is changing.

"Ridin'" by Charles Badger Clark

This poem echoes the sentiments of every cowboy.

"Rekindling Campfires" by Ben Arnold (also known as "The Campfire Has Gone Out") Although not as widely known as many old classics, this poem was published in the book with the same title in 1926 by the University of North Dakota Press, and in numerous publications since, but was originally written in 1879. The words were put to music by Ben's friend, John Suttles, a Kentuckian, who was freighting at Ft. Niobrara with Ben and who was an excellent musician. The song was sang around campfires, passed along, and was often sung by Don Edwards, who also recorded the same under the title, "The Campfire Has Gone Out." Arnold, a Civil War vet, lived at a time when he could see the whole procession of the Old West, and said that the years spent as a cowboy were the happiest of his life. Around the round-up wagon and the campfire were formed friendships in which there was no shadow of turning. How do I know all this? Because Ben Arnold was my great-grandfather. Imagine my feelings, while standing offstage getting ready to perform at a program in Elko as Don Edwards closed his set singing that song.

DICK GIBFORD:

Cowboys like me are sure enuff dinosaurs. I don’t even know how to run a computer. My cell phone is the limit to my technical ability. I have spent most of my adult life in cow camps without electricity and it’s totally okay with me living the old way. Now that I have said my piece about that, just know that when I answer an Ask a Cowboy Poet question, it’s based on strictly common-sense thinking and what I have read in books. There is another source of knowledge available to some, that all of us have a chance at, but unfortunately we just get a glimpse of now and then. So, now that I am done with my philosophical meanderings, I will get to the question. Since I am a proud American, my first choice of a classic that would be nice if everyone would read is: “Paul Revere’s Ride” by Longfellow. The other two would be: “The Man From Snowy River” by Banjo Paterson, and “The Tome of Time” by Curley Fletcher. The why for these other two is this: “The Man From Snowy River” was written by a poetic genius from down under, and the other one was written by a poetic genius that never went past fourth grade, reared and raised a cowboy on the high deserts along the California-Nevada border.

*Note from the Western Folklife Center: We edited titles and writing credits in the poets’ responses so that the same poem is referred to by the same title throughout. But, in oral tradition, the poems go by variations and shorthands of the titles, so we left a hint of that everyday usage here and there.

“The Tome of Time” by Curley Fletcher

* * * * * * *

Paul Revere’s Ride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(1807-1882)

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

S. Omar Barker - Horses Versus Hosses

Horses Versus Hosses

by S. Omar Barker, from Songs of the Saddlemen

I heard an oldtime cowboy swappin' off some drawlin' talk

About them nags men used to ride, who didn't like to walk.

He spoke of them as hosses, so I up and asked him way

He didn't call them horses. Well, a gleam come in his eye,

And here is what he told me—be it right or be it wrong—

Some salty information that I'd like to pass along:

"You go out to the race track or some modern ridin' school,

And what you'll find 'em ridin' there is horses, as a rule.

You'll see 'em wrapped in blankets when they raise a little sweat,

And bedded in warm stables so they won't git cold or wet.

Their saddle is a postage stamp; they're combed and curried slick:

Their riders bobble up an' down like monkeys on a stick.

Them purty tricks are horses, son, but that there ain't the word

We used to call them shaggies that we rode behind the herd.

They might not be so purty, but they stayed outdoors at night.

They maybe weighed 900 pounds—all guts an' dynamite.

They took you where you had to go an' always brought you back,

Without no fancy rations that you purchase in a sack.

They loped all day on nothin' but your two hands full of grass.

On a Stetson full of water they could climb a mountain pass.

They swum you through the rivers an' they plowed you through the sand—

You an' your heavy saddle, an' they learned to understand.

Which end of the cows the tail was on, till all you had to do

Was set up in the saddle while they did the cow work, too!

Sometimes they sorter dodged your rope, sometimes they bucked you high,

But they was sure the apple of the oldtime cowhands eye!

These stable-pampered critters may be horses sure enough,

But them ol' cow range hosses, they was born to take it rough.

So that's the way they took it, till they earned a tougher name

Than these here handfed horses, all so delicate an' tame.

So, you can have your horses, with their hifalutin' gloss—

I'll take four legged rawhide—or in other words, a hoss!"

S. Omar Barker - He'll Do!

He'll Do!

by S. Omar Barker, 1928

Don't call me no star in the bronc bustin' game—
Sech words is plumb natcherly wrong.
Us cowboys jest say, when a feller is game:
"He'll do, boys, fer takin' along!"

Don't call me no "prince of good fellers" nor say
I'm 'bold, brave an' fearless" nor such!
Don't claim I'm no "marvel"—no fine "sobrikay"
Like "world-beatin' champeen"! Not much!

Fer I never hanker fer high-soundin' praise
A cowboy can't half understand.
I'd ruther be told, in the old puncher phrase:
"Say cowboy, yuh'll shore make a hand!"

Big words never warm up no cowpuncher's heart
In praise of him doin' his best
Like them simple phrases. A man does his part -

"He'll do, boys!" they say in the West.

Waddie Mitchell - Range Riders of the Night

Mustangs on the Move, Red Desert, Wyoming

Range Riders of the Night
by Waddie Mitchell


The rim rocks tower high...
The air is clear,
The wind blows cold...
There's only the horses tonight.

Withers swim like a silver sea
In the light of a big full moon,
In the strong and clear that comes to me
In the lilt of the first guard­'s tune.

S. Omar Barker - A Workin' Man's Roan

A Workin' Man's Roan

by S. Omar Barker, author, 1928

recited by Larry Schutte

You rode horses like that,

Kind of thin never got fat.

The old breed with a mustache on his lip,

Kind of high at the withers but low at the hip.

His ears are way up, he had bright wicked eyes,

Don't forget he's plenty cow-wise.

Cold mornings he'd buck, sometimes he'd kick,

No horse for a kid or a man that was sick.

Lord what a bundle of muscle and bone,

A horse for a cowboy that little blue roan.