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Old Jacob was hard, but that was the only life that he knew,
At fourteen made his first cattle drive and was top hand with the crew.
He could ride, rope, wrangle, and shoot,
And helped to hang a many owl hoot.

Indians on the prairie, some were okay,
But there was those that would lift your scalp and not a word would they say.
But that was the west and why men relied on there gun,
Cause mister dealing with rustlers and Indians sure ain’t no fun.

Well those that stayed with the drive at the end of the trail,
Had a few months worth of money and some yarns they could tell.
Not all blew their money on liquor and ladies,
Some were God fearing and knew about Hades.

Many a good cowpoke lost his life in those joints,
Getting all liquored up and going for his gun to make his point.
It would be all for nothing when the smoke cleared away,
The undertaker would be the reaper of rewards on those mournful days.

Old Jacob rode the trail till a stampede broke his back,
Caused by some rustlers as they made their attack.
Laid up for months he had to relearn to walk,
He hated for people to point at him and to gawk.

He stayed to himself in a little cabin out west of town,
And when he’d come in for supplies it would be after the sun would go down.
Never once asked for help just weren’t his way,
Old Jacob was my friend and that’s about all I guess I can say.

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