Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads. Various

      As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,

      As I walked out in Laredo one day,

      I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen,

      Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay.

      "Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,

      Play the Dead March as you carry me along;

      Take me to the green valley, there lay the sod o'er me,

      For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

      "I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy,"

      These words he did say as I boldly stepped by.

      "Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story;

      I was shot in the breast and I know I must die.

      "Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin,

      Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song,

      Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me,

      For I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

      "My friends and relations, they live in the Nation,

      They know not where their boy has gone.

      He first came to Texas and hired to a ranchman,

      Oh, I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

      "Go write a letter to my gray-haired mother,

      And carry the same to my sister so dear;

      But not a word of this shall you mention

      When a crowd gathers round you my story to hear.

      "Then beat your drum lowly and play your fife slowly,

      Beat the Dead March as you carry me along;

      We all love our cowboys so young and so handsome,

      We all love our cowboys although they've done wrong.

      "There is another more dear than a sister,

      She'll bitterly weep when she hears I am gone.

      There is another who will win her affections,

      For I'm a young cowboy and they say I've done wrong.

      "Go gather around you a crowd of young cowboys,

      And tell them the story of this my sad fate;

      Tell one and the other before they go further

      To stop their wild roving before 'tis too late.

      "Oh, muffle your drums, then play your fifes merrily;

      Play the Dead March as you go along.

      And fire your guns right over my coffin;

      There goes an unfortunate boy to his home.

      "It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing,

      It was once in the saddle I used to go gay;

      First to the dram-house, then to the card-house,

      Got shot in the breast, I am dying to-day.

      "Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin;

      Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall.

      Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,

      Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall.

      "Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly,

      And give a wild whoop as you carry me along;

      And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me,

      For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

      "Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water,

      To cool my parched lips," the cowboy said;

      Before I turned, the spirit had left him

      And gone to its Giver,—the cowboy was dead.

      We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,

      And bitterly wept as we bore him along;

      For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome,

      We all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong.

      As William and Mary stood by the seashore

      Their last farewell to take,

      Returning no more, little Mary she said,

      "Why surely my heart will break."

      "Oh, don't be dismayed, little Mary," he said,

      As he pressed the dear girl to his side,

      "In my absence don't mourn, for when I return

      I'll make little Mary my bride."

      Three years passed on without any news.

      One day as she stood by the door

      A beggar passed by with a patch on his eye,

      "I'm home, oh, do pity, my love;

      Have compassion on me, your friend I will be.

      Your fortune I'll tell besides.

      The lad you mourn will never return

      To make little Mary his bride."

      She startled and trembled and then she did say,

      "All the fortune I have I freely give

      If what I ask you will tell unto me,—

      Say, does young William yet live?"

      "He lives and is true and poverty poor,

      And shipwreck has suffered beside;

      He'll return no more, because he is poor,

      To make little Mary his bride."

      "No tongue can tell the joy I do feel

      Although his misfortune I mourn,

      And he's welcome to me though poverty poor,

      His jacket all tattered and torn.

      I love him so dear, so true and sincere,

      I'll have no other beside;

      Those with riches enrobed and covered with gold

      Can't make little Mary their bride."

      The beggar then tore the patch from his eye,

      His crutches he laid by his side,

      Coat, jacket and bundle; cheeks red as a rose,

      'Twas William that stood by her side.

      "Then excuse me, dear maid," to her he said,

      "It was only your love I tried."

      So he hastened away at the close of the day

      To make little Mary his bride.

      There once was a noble ranger,

      They called him

Скачать книгу