Come list to a ranger, you kind-hearted stranger
This song, though a sad one, you'rer welcome to hear,
Who fought the Comanches away from your ranches
And followed 'em far o'er the Western frontier.
Though weary of routin' an' travellin' an' shoutin'
These bloodthirsty brutes over prairie an' woods,
The 'lection is a-comin' an' they will be drummin'
An' praisin' our value to purchase our food.
These big alligators an' stately legislators,
A-puffin' an' blowin' two-thirds of the time,
No rest for the sinner, no breakfast, no dinner
We sleep in the mud an' we aint got a dime.
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No corn, no potatoes, no beets, no tomatoes
The jerked beef is dry as the sole of your shoe,
We fight in our blood an' we sleep in the mud,
An' what in the hell can a poor ranger do?
No glory, no payment, no victuals, no raiment,
No longer we'll fight on the Texas frontier;
So guard your own ranches, an' fight the Comanches
Yourself, or they'll scalp you in less than a year.
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