"These locks she has curled, shall the rattlesnake kiss? This brow she has kissed, shall the cold grave press? For the sake of the loved ones that will weep for me O bury me not on the lone prairie.

"O bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wild cayotes will howl o'er me, Where the buzzard beats and the wind goes free, O bury me not on the lone prairie.

"O bury me not," and his voice failed there, But we took no heed of his dying prayer; In a narrow grave just six by three We buried him there on the lone prairie.

Where the dew-drops glow and the butterflies rest, And the flowers bloom o'er the prairie's crest; Where the wild cayote and winds sport free On a wet saddle blanket lay a cowboy-ee.

"O bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wild cayotes will howl o'er me, Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the crow flies free O bury me not on the lone prairie."

O we buried him there on the lone prairie Where the wild rose blooms and the wind blows free, O his pale young face nevermore to see,-- For we buried him there on the lone prairie.

Yes, we buried him there on the lone prairie Where the owl all night hoots mournfully, And the blizzard beats and the winds blow free O'er his lowly grave on the lone prairie.

And the cowboys now as they roam the plain,-- For they marked the spot where his bones were lain,-- Fling a handful of roses o'er his grave, With a prayer to Him who his soul will save.

"O bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wolves can howl and growl o'er me; Fling a handful of roses o'er my grave With a prayer to Him who my soul will save."

[Footnote 1: In this song, as in several others, the chorus should come in after each stanza. The arrangement followed has been adopted to illustrate versions current in different sections.]

The Dying Cowboy (Mus. Not.)

"O bu-ry me not on the lone prai-rie," These words came low ... and mourn-ful-ly ... From the pal-lid lips of a youth who lay On his dy-ing bed at the close of day.

THE DAYS OF FORTY-NINE

We are gazing now on old Tom Moore, A relic of bygone days; 'Tis a bummer, too, they call me now, But what cares I for praise? It's oft, says I, for the days gone by, It's oft do I repine For the days of old when we dug out the gold In those days of Forty-Nine.

My comrades they all loved me well, The jolly, saucy crew; A few hard cases, I will admit, Though they were brave and true. Whatever the pinch, they ne'er would flinch; They never would fret nor whine, Like good old bricks they stood the kicks In the days of Forty-Nine.

There's old "Aunt Jess," that hard old cuss, Who never would repent; He never missed a single meal, Nor never paid a cent. But old "Aunt Jess," like all the rest, At death he did resign, And in his bloom went up the flume In the days of Forty-Nine.

There is Ragshag Jim, the roaring man, Who could out-roar a buffalo, you bet, He roared all day and he roared all night, And I guess he is roaring yet. One night Jim fell in a prospect hole,-- It was a roaring bad design,-- And in that hole Jim roared out his soul In the days of Forty-Nine.

There is Wylie Bill, the funny man, Who was full of funny tricks, And when he was in a poker game He was always hard as bricks. He would ante you a stud, he would play you a draw, He'd go you a hatful blind,-- In a struggle with death Bill lost his breath In the days of Forty-Nine.

There was New York Jake, the butcher boy, Who was fond of getting tight. And every time he got on a spree He was spoiling for a fight. One night Jake rampaged against a knife In the hands of old Bob Sine, And over Jake they held a wake In the days of Forty-Nine.

There was Monte Pete, I'll ne'er forget The luck he always had, He would deal for you both day and night Or as long as he had a scad. It was a pistol shot that lay Pete out, It was his last resign, And it caught Pete dead sure in the door In the days of Forty-Nine.

Of all the comrades that I've had There's none that's left to boast, And I am left alone in my misery Like some poor wandering ghost. And as I pass from town to town, They call me the rambling sign, Since the days of old and the days of gold And the days of Forty-Nine.

Days of Forty-Nine (Mus. Not.)

You are gaz-ing now on old Tom Moore, A rel-ic of by-gone days; 'Tis a bum-mer now they call me. But what cares I for praise; It is oft, says I, for days gone by, It's oft do I repine For those days of old when we dug out the gold, In the days of For-ty-nine, In those days of old when we dug out the gold, In the days of For-ty-nine.

JOE BOWERS

My name is Joe Bowers, I've got a brother Ike, I came here from Missouri, Yes, all the way from Pike. I'll tell you why I left there And how I came to roam, And leave my poor old mammy, So far away from home.

I used to love a gal there, Her name was Sallie Black, I asked her for to marry me, She said it was a whack. She says to me, "Joe Bowers, Before you hitch for life, You ought to have a little home To keep your little wife."

Says I, "My dearest Sallie, O Sallie, for your sake, I'll go to California And try to raise a stake." Says she to me, "Joe Bowers, You are the chap to win, Give me a kiss to seal the bargain,"-- And I throwed a dozen in.

I'll never forget my feelings When I bid adieu to all. Sal, she cotched me round the neck And I began to bawl. When I begun they all commenced, You never heard the like, How they all took on and cried The day I left old Pike.

When I got to this here country I hadn't nary a red, I had such wolfish feelings I wished myself most dead. At last I went to mining, Put in my biggest licks, Came down upon the boulders Just like a thousand bricks.

I worked both late and early In rain and sun and snow, But I was working for my Sallie So 'twas all the same to Joe. I made a very lucky strike As the gold itself did tell, For I was working for my Sallie, The girl I loved so well.

But one day I got a letter From my dear, kind brother Ike; It came from old Missouri, Yes, all the way from Pike. It told me the goldarndest news That ever you did hear, My heart it is a-bustin' So please excuse this tear.

I'll tell you what it was, boys, You'll bust your sides I know; For when I read that letter You ought to seen poor Joe. My knees gave 'way beneath me, And I pulled out half my hair; And if you ever tell this now, You bet you'll hear me swear.

It said my Sallie was fickle, Her love for me had fled, That she had married a butcher, Whose hair was awful red; It told me more than that, It's enough to make me swear,-- It said that Sallie had a baby And the baby had red hair.

Now I've told you all that I can tell About this sad affair, 'Bout Sallie marrying the butcher And the baby had red hair. But whether it was a boy or girl The letter never said, It only said its cussed hair Was inclined to be red.

THE COWBOY'S DREAM[2]

Last night as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by and by.

Roll on, roll on; Roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on, Roll on, roll on; Roll on, little dogies, roll on.

The road to that bright, happy region Is a dim, narrow trail, so they say; But the broad one that leads to perdition Is posted and blazed all the way.

They say there will be a great round-up, And cowboys, like dogies, will stand, To be marked by the Riders of Judgment Who are posted and know every brand.

I know there's many a stray cowboy Who'll be lost at the great, final sale, When he might have gone in the green pastures Had he known of the dim, narrow trail.

I wonder if ever a cowboy Stood ready for that Judgment Day, And could say to the Boss of the Riders, "I'm ready, come drive me away."

For they, like the cows that are locoed, Stampede at the sight of a hand, Are dragged with a rope to the round-up, Or get marked with some crooked man's brand.

And I'm scared that I'll be a stray yearling,-- A maverick, unbranded on high,-- And get cut in the bunch with the "rusties" When the Boss of the Riders goes by.

For they tell of another big owner Whose ne'er overstocked, so they say, But who always makes room for the sinner Who drifts from the straight, narrow way.

They say he will never forget you, That he knows every action and look; So, for safety, you'd better get branded, Have your name in the great Tally Book.

[Footnote 2: Sung to the air of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.]

THE COWBOY'S LIFE[3]

The bawl of a steer, To a cowboy's ear, Is music of sweetest strain; And the yelping notes Of the gray cayotes To him are a glad refrain.

And his jolly songs Speed him along, As he thinks of the little gal With golden hair Who is waiting there At the bars of the home corral.

For a kingly crown In the noisy town His saddle he wouldn't change; No life so free As the life we see Way out on the Yaso range.

His eyes are bright And his heart as light As the smoke of his cigarette; There's never a care For his soul to bear, No trouble to make him fret.

The rapid beat Of his broncho's feet On the sod as he speeds along, Keeps living time To the ringing rhyme Of his rollicking cowboy song.