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BUCKING BRONCHO |
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M
Y love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks, Though he's promised to quit it, just for my sake. He ties up one foot, the saddle puts on, With a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.
The first time I met him, 'twas early one spring,
Riding a broncho, a high-headed thing.
He tipped me a wink as he gaily did go;
For he wished me to look at his bucking broncho.
The next time I saw him 'twas late in the fall, Swinging the girls at Tomlinson's ball. He laughed and he talked as we danced to and fro, Promised never to ride on another broncho.
He made me some presents, among them a ring; The return that I made him was a far better thing; 'Twas a young maiden's heart, I'd have you all
know; He's won it by riding his bucking broncho.
My love has a gun, and that gun he can use, But he's quit his gun fighting as well as his booze;
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