American Ballads and Songs

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Some boys goes up the trail for pleasure, But that's where you get it most awfully wrong; For you haven't any idea the trouble they gave us While we go driving them along.
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.
Come all you pretty girls and listen to my noise, I'll tell you not to marry the Cheyenne boys, For if you do a portion it will be; Cold butter milk and Johnnie cake is all you'll see. Cold butter milk and Johnnie cake is all you'll see.