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Whoopee Ti Yi Yo, Git Along Little Dogies
When the night comes on and we hold them on
bedground, These little dogies that roll on so slow; Roll up the herd and cut out the strays, And roll the little dogies that never rolled before.
Your mother she was raised way down in Texas, Where the jimson weed and sand-burrs grow; Now 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, git along little dogies You're going to be beef steers by and by. |
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