Written by
Badger Clark |
'Way high up the Mogollons,
Among the mountain tops,
A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones
And licked his thankful chops,
When on the picture who should ride,
A-trippin' down a slope,
But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride
And mav'rick-hungry rope.
"_Oh, glory be to me," says he,_
"_And fame's unfadin' flowers!_
_All meddlin' hands are far away;_
_I ride my good top-hawse today_
_And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J----_
_Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!_"
That lion licked his paw so brown
And dreamed soft dreams of veal--
And then the circlin' loop sung down
And roped him 'round his meal.
He yowled quick fury to the world
Till all the hills yelled back;
The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled
And Bob caught up the slack.
"_Oh, glory be to me," laughs he._
"_We hit the glory trail._
_No human man as I have read_
_Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,_
_Nor ever hawse could drag one dead_
_Until we told the tale._"
'Way high up the Mogollons
That top-hawse done his best,
Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,
From canyon-floor to crest.
But ever when Bob turned and hoped
A limp remains to find,
A red-eyed lion, belly roped
But healthy, loped behind.
"_Oh, glory be to me" grunts he._
"_This glory trail is rough,_
_Yet even till the Judgment Morn_
_I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,_
_For never any hero born_
_Could stoop to holler: Nuff!_'"
Three suns had rode their circle home
Beyond the desert's rim,
And turned their star-herds loose to roam
The ranges high and dim;
Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross
Bob pounded, weak and wan,
For pride still glued him to his hawse
And glory drove him on.
"_Oh, glory be to me," sighs he._
"_He kaint be drug to death,_
_But now I know beyond a doubt_
_Them heroes I have read about_
_Was only fools that stuck it out_
_To end of mortal breath._"
'Way high up the Mogollons
A prospect man did swear
That moon dreams melted down his bones
And hoisted up his hair:
A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,
A lion trailed along,
A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,
Yelled out a crazy song.
"_Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,_
"_And to my noble noose!_
_Oh, stranger, tell my pards below_
_I took a rampin' dream in tow,_
_And if I never lay him low,_
_I'll never turn him loose!_"
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Written by
Badger Clark |
Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast
And my wild record closes.
This maverick is down at last
Just roped and tied with roses.
And one small girl's to blame for it,
Yet I don't fight with shame for it--
Lay on the iron; I'm game for it,
Just roped and tied with roses.
I loped among the wildest band
Of saddle-hatin' winners--
Gay colts that never felt a brand
And scarred old outlaw sinners.
The wind was rein and guide to us;
The world was pasture wide to us
And our wild name was pride to us--
High headed bronco sinners!
So, loose and light we raced and fought
And every range we tasted,
But now, since I'm corralled and caught,
I know them days were wasted.
From now, the all-day gait for me,
The trail that's hard but straight for me,
For down that trail, who'll wait for me!
Ay! them old days were wasted!
But though I'm broke, I'll never be
A saddle-marked old groaner,
For never worthless bronc like me
Got such a gentle owner.
There could be colt days glad as mine
Or outlaw runs as mad as mine
Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine,
But never such an owner.
Lay on the iron, and lay it red!
I'll take it kind and clever.
Who wouldn't hold a prouder head
To wear that mark forever?
I'll never break and stray from her;
I'd starve and die away from her.
Lay on the iron--it's play from her--
And brand me hers forever!
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