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Our Singing Country |
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Chorus i:
Hush-ie ciola, little baby, lie easy, Who's your real father may never be known, Oh, it's weeping, wailing, rocking the cradle And tending a baby that's none of your own.
2 When spring comes along, we round up the dogies, We stick on their brands and we bob off their tails. Pick out the strays, then the herd is inspected
And then the next day we go on the trail.
Chorus 2:
Singing hoop—pi-o-hoop! run along, you little dogies, For Montana will be your new home, Oh, it's whooping, swearing, driving the dogies, It's our misfortune we ever did roam.
3 Oh, it's worst in the night just after a roundup When dogies are grazing from the herd all around, You have no idea of the trouble they give us,
To the boys who are holding them on the bed ground.
4 Oh, some think we go on the trail for pleasure But I can tell them that they are dead wrong, If I ever got any fun out of trailing,
I'd have no reason for singing my song.
Tom Hight and I spent two happy days together in an Oklahoma City hotel. Tom was made happier, as I am sure I was, by the added presence of two quart bottles of rye which he consulted frequently between songs. Tom knew more cowboy melodies than any other person I have ever found.
"Ever since I was a boy," said Tom, "I have been a singing fool. I could sing down any man in our cow camp in the Panhandle. When the fellers backed me against the neighboring camp, I won. They challenged the whole damn Panhandle. The champeens of each camp met at a central point and we lifted up our heads like a pack of coyotes, only we lifted 'em one at a time. The rules was that each man was to sing in turn, one after the other, round and round. The man that sung the last song, he won the prize. It took us mighty near all night to get sung out. The other fellows
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