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WINDY BILL |
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So Bill brought up his old cow-horse — His wethers and back were sore —
Prepared to tackle this old black steer Who ran down in the draw.
With his grazin' bits and sand-stacked tree,
His chaps and taps to boot, His old maguey tied hard and fast,
Went out to tackle the brute. Bill sorter sauntered around him first;
The steer began to paw, Poked up his tail high in the air,
And lit down in the draw. , ■
The old cow-horse flew at him
Like he 'd been eatin' corn, And Bill he landed his old maguey
Around old blackle's horns. The old-time horse he stopped dead-still;
The cinches broke like straw; Both the sand-stacked tree and old maguey,
Went driftin' down the draw.
Bill landed in a big rock-pile;
His hands and face were scratched; He 'lowed he always could tie a steer
But guessed he 'd found his match. Paid up his bet like a little man,
Without a bit of jaw, And said old blackie was the boss
Of all down in the draw.
There's a moral to my song, boys, Which I hope you can see; |
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