Classic Poem

“Yes, stranger, them was red-hot times,”
And things they wasn't slow
In this here little, one-hoss town
Some twenty years ago.

“Cow punchers they was in their prime,
And genteel in their ways,
And didn't ride the grub line, like
You see 'em do now days.

“The ranges they was many,
Where roamed the long-horned steer,
The wild horse and the buffalo;
Likewise the elk and deer.

“'Nd sheep—that robber of the range—
Why, on these western hills,
If anyone had seen a sheep,
'Twould have been a case of chills.

“Water it was plenty,
And the lakes was overflowed;
The grass it waved like billows,
When the western breezes blowed.

“The cow-boy, he wore notches on
His ivory-handled gun,
To show the number of scraps
That he had fought and won.

“There was Cussin' Sam, the captain,
And Oklahoma Dick,
And City Jim, the same as had
The fight on Beaver crick.

“Bill Riley he was in his prime,
With Parson Sim, his chum;
And Tin-Horn Pete was twistin' bronks,
And wasn't on the bum.

“Buck Berry he was then alive,
And used to come to town
To circulate his money and
To throw good licker down.

“And Slippery Jake, the gambler,
A onery galoot,
Was dealin' faro 'cross the way,
With skinnin' games to boot.

“Sich as loaded dice and montey,
With marked cards, on the sly;
But one day he played solitaire
Between the earth and sky.

“Old Dirty Dave, the round-up cook,
He, too, was workin' then;
With Club-foot, Yank 'nd Greaser Bill,
And old Panhandle Ben.

“While Cotton-Eye, the night hawk,
Was then a top cow hand,
As reckless as they make 'em,
And, you bet, he had the sand.

“The women folks, them days, was brave,
And never seemed to care
To flirt and enter politics,
Or rip around and tear.

“But come and have another drink,
My throat is gettin' dry,
A-talkin' of them good, old times—
Them happy days gone by.

“Gi' me some red-eye—that's the stuff—
Jar loose an' let her run;
There's nothing like old forty-rod
To open up the fun.

“Now, boys, let's have a stag dance,
And celebrate, you know;
The kag is full of whiskey,
And our pockets full of dough.

“Come, stranger, don't be bashful,
This party ain't select;
Though you're a simple tenderfoot,
The boys they won't object.

“Say, boys, let's find a shepherd,
A herder, that's the cheese,
Like that old whiskey soaker
With his dog between his knees.

“Come, Shep—you, over yonder,
A talkin' to your dog;
This ain't no lunatic asylum;
Come, let's have a clog.

“Oh! you don't know how it's done, hey?
You're modest, that is all;
Come, boys, let's start the music;
Now, herder, balance all.

“Start, now; you're up against it;
Close up your blattin' face;
That's good; now slide out for the hills,
Your dog has quit the chase.

“Go! Pull your freight and vanish!
Get out and split the breeze,
Shake off the wool that's in your clothes—
A little faster, please.

“Now, gentlemen, the air is cleared
Of that flea-bitten bum,
Put up your guns and wet your throats
With Casey's fightin' rum.

“Here's to the happy days of old,
When wages they was high;
Come, drink, you won't get licker
In the sweet bye and bye.”