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THE GOL-DARNED WHEEL 71 |
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It's whoopin' and yellin' and drivin' the dogies; Oh, how I wish you would go on; It's whoopin' and punchin', go on, little dogies, For you know Wyoming will be your new home.
Some boys go up the trail for pleasure, But that's where you get it most awfully wrong; For you have n't an idea the trouble they give us While we go drivin' them all along.
Your mother she was raised 'way down in Texas, Where the jimson weed and sand-burrs grow; How we'll fill you up on prickly pear and cholla, Till you are ready for the trail to Idaho.
Oh, you'll be soup for Uncle Sam's Injuns; "It's beef, heap beef," I hear them cry. Git along, git along, little dogies, You're goin' to be beef steers by and by.
THE GOL-DARNED WHEEL
Mailed me by a friend from Marfa, Texas, who heard it sung by a cow-puncher named Hudspeth.
I can take the wildest bronco in the tough old woolly
West; I can ride him, I can break him, let him do his level
best; I can handle any cattle who ever wore a coat of hair, And I've had a lively russle with a tarnal grizzly
bear; I can rope and throw the longhorn of the wildest
Texas brand, And in Indian disagreements I can play a leading
hand; |
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