Hike it, cowboys, For the range away On the back of a bronc of steel, With a careless flirt Of the raw-hide quirt And a dig of a roweled heel!

The winds may blow And the thunder growl Or the breezes may safely moan;-- A cowboy's life Is a royal life, His saddle his kingly throne.

Saddle up, boys, For the work is play When love's in the cowboy's eyes,-- When his heart is light As the clouds of white That swim in the summer skies.

[Footnote 3: Attributed to James Barton Adams.]

THE KANSAS LINE

Come all you jolly cowmen, don't you want to go Way up on the Kansas line? Where you whoop up the cattle from morning till night All out in the midnight rain.

The cowboy's life is a dreadful life, He's driven through heat and cold; I'm almost froze with the water on my clothes, A-ridin' through heat and cold.

I've been where the lightnin', the lightnin' tangled in my eyes, The cattle I could scarcely hold; Think I heard my boss man say: "I want all brave-hearted men who ain't afraid to die To whoop up the cattle from morning till night, Way up on the Kansas line."

Speaking of your farms and your shanty charms, Speaking of your silver and gold,-- Take a cowman's advice, go and marry you a true and lovely little wife, Never to roam, always stay at home; That's a cowman's, a cowman's advice, Way up on the Kansas line.

Think I heard the noisy cook say, "Wake up, boys, it's near the break of day,"-- Way up on the Kansas line, And slowly we will rise with the sleepy feeling eyes, Way up on the Kansas line.

The cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, All out in the midnight rain; I'm almost froze with the water on my clothes, Way up on the Kansas line.

THE COWMAN'S PRAYER

Now, O Lord, please lend me thine ear, The prayer of a cattleman to hear, No doubt the prayers may seem strange, But I want you to bless our cattle range.

Bless the round-ups year by year, And don't forget the growing steer; Water the lands with brooks and rills For my cattle that roam on a thousand hills.

Prairie fires, won't you please stop? Let thunder roll and water drop. It frightens me to see the smoke; Unless it's stopped, I'll go dead broke.

As you, O Lord, my herd behold, It represents a sack of gold; I think at least five cents a pound Will be the price of beef the year around.

One thing more and then I'm through,-- Instead of one calf, give my cows two. I may pray different from other men But I've had my say, and now, Amen.

THE MINER'S SONG[4]

In a rusty, worn-out cabin sat a broken-hearted leaser, His singlejack was resting on his knee. His old "buggy" in the corner told the same old plaintive tale, His ore had left in all his poverty. He lifted his old singlejack, gazed on its battered face, And said: "Old boy, I know we're not to blame; Our gold has us forsaken, some other path it's taken, But I still believe we'll strike it just the same.

"We'll strike it, yes, we'll strike it just the same, Although it's gone into some other's claim. My dear old boy don't mind it, we won't starve if we don't find it, And we'll drill and shoot and find it just the same.

"For forty years I've hammered steel and tried to make a strike, I've burned twice the powder Custer ever saw. I've made just coin enough to keep poorer than a snake. My jack's ate all my books on mining law. I've worn gunny-sacks for overalls, and 'California socks,' I've burned candles that would reach from here to Maine, I've lived on powder, smoke, and bacon, that's no lie, boy, I'm not fakin', But I still believe we'll strike it just the same.

"Last night as I lay sleeping in the midst of all my dream My assay ran six ounces clear in gold, And the silver it ran clean sixteen ounces to the seam, And the poor old miner's joy could scarce be told. I lay there, boy, I could not sleep, I had a feverish brow, Got up, went back, and put in six holes more. And then, boy, I was chokin' just to see the ground I'd broken; But alas! alas! the miner's dream was o'er.

"We'll strike it, yes, we'll strike it just the same, Although it's gone into some other's claim. My dear old boy, don't mind it, we won't starve if we don't find it, And I still believe I'll strike it just the same."

[Footnote 4: Printed as a fugitive ballad in Grandon of Sierra, by Charles E. Winter.]

JESSE JAMES

Jesse James was a lad that killed a-many a man; He robbed the Danville train. But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard Has laid poor Jesse in his grave.

Poor Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life, Three children, they were brave. But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard Has laid poor Jesse in his grave.

It was Robert Ford, that dirty little coward, I wonder how he does feel, For he ate of Jesse's bread and he slept in Jesse's bed, Then laid poor Jesse in his grave.

Jesse was a man, a friend to the poor, He never would see a man suffer pain; And with his brother Frank he robbed the Chicago bank, And stopped the Glendale train.

It was his brother Frank that robbed the Gallatin bank, And carried the money from the town; It was in this very place that they had a little race, For they shot Captain Sheets to the ground.

They went to the crossing not very far from there, And there they did the same; With the agent on his knees, he delivered up the keys To the outlaws, Frank and Jesse James.

It was on Wednesday night, the moon was shining bright, They robbed the Glendale train; The people they did say, for many miles away, It was robbed by Frank and Jesse James.

It was on Saturday night, Jesse was at home Talking with his family brave, Robert Ford came along like a thief in the night And laid poor Jesse in his grave.

The people held their breath when they heard of Jesse's death, And wondered how he ever came to die. It was one of the gang called little Robert Ford, He shot poor Jesse on the sly.

Jesse went to his rest with his hand on his breast; The devil will be upon his knee. He was born one day in the county of Clay And came from a solitary race.

This song was made by Billy Gashade, As soon as the news did arrive; He said there was no man with the law in his hand Who could take Jesse James when alive.

Jesse James (Mus. Not.)

Jes-se James was a lad that killed a-ma-ny a man; He robbed the Dan-ville train; But that dirt-y lit-tle cow-ard that shot Mis-ter How-ard Has laid poor Jes-se in the grave.

REFRAIN.

Poor Jes-se had a wife to mourn for his life. Three chil-dren, they were brave; But that dir-ty lit-tle cow-ard That shot Mis-ter How-ard Has laid poor Jes-se in the grave.

POOR LONESOME COWBOY

I ain't got no father, I ain't got no father, I ain't got no father, To buy the clothes I wear.

I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy, I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy, I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy And a long ways from home.

I ain't got no mother, I ain't got no mother, I ain't got no mother To mend the clothes I wear.

I ain't got no sister, I ain't got no sister, I ain't got no sister To go and play with me.

I ain't got no brother, I ain't got no brother, I ain't got no brother To drive the steers with me.

I ain't got no sweetheart, I ain't got no sweetheart, I ain't got no sweetheart To sit and talk with me.

I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy, I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy, I'm a poor, lonesome cowboy And a long ways from home.

BUENA VISTA BATTLEFIELD

On Buena Vista battlefield A dying soldier lay, His thoughts were on his mountain home Some thousand miles away. He called his comrade to his side, For much he had to say, In briefest words to those who were Some thousand miles away.

"My father, comrade, you will tell About this bloody fray; My country's flag, you'll say to him, Was safe with me to-day. I make a pillow of it now On which to lay my head, A winding sheet you'll make of it When I am with the dead.

"I know 'twill grieve his inmost soul To think I never more Will sit with him beneath the oak That shades the cottage door; But tell that time-worn patriot, That, mindful of his fame, Upon this bloody battlefield I sullied not his name.

"My mother's form is with me now, Her will is in my ear, And drop by drop as flows my blood So flows from her the tear. And oh, when you shall tell to her The tidings of this day, Speak softly, comrade, softly speak What you may have to say.

"Speak not to her in blighting words The blighting news you bear, The cords of life might snap too soon, So, comrade, have a care. I am her only, cherished child, But tell her that I died Rejoicing that she taught me young To take my country's side.

"But, comrade, there's one more, She's gentle as a fawn; She lives upon the sloping hill That overlooks the lawn, The lawn where I shall never more Go forth with her in merry mood To gather wild-wood flowers.

"Tell her when death was on my brow And life receding fast, Her looks, her form was with me then, Were with me to the last. On Buena Vista's bloody field Tell her I dying lay, And that I knew she thought of me Some thousand miles away."

WESTWARD HO

I love not Colorado Where the faro table grows, And down the desperado The rippling Bourbon flows;

Nor seek I fair Montana Of bowie-lunging fame; The pistol ring of fair Wyoming I leave to nobler game.