Classic Poem

As I looked out of my window
I saw a cowboy come riding along,
His hat was shoved back and his spurs kept a-jingling
And as he drew near he was singing this song.

Hush, ciaola, 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.

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 next day we go on the trail.

Singing whoop pi-o-whoop, run along 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.

Oh, it's worst in the night just after a round-up
When dogies are grazing from the herd all around.
You have no idea of the trouble they give us
To the cowboys who are holding them on the bed ground.

Whoop pi-o-whoop, 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.

Oh, some think we go on 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.

Hush, ciaola, 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.