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THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA |
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W
RANGLE up your mouth-harps, drag your
banjo out, Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout, For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,
But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain. Shiniri dobe fire-place} shadows on the wall
(See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)
Ifs the best grand high that there is within the law
When seven jolly punchers tackle t( Turkey in the Straw!*
Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,
Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high-arched tail, But we held 'em and we shoved 'em for our longin' hearts were tried
By a yearnin' for tobaccer and our dear fireside. Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop
(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!) 106 |
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