Posted by: Oklahoma Sun | March 21, 2010



J. Edward Hungerford. The Pacific Monthly, February 1915.


OH, a Round-up’s work and a heap uh grief;
And yuh kaint make plans when yore herdin’ beef;
Fer the dog-gone things are a loco breed;
Let a ki-ote yap and they’ll all stampede,
And its shore some tough if a bunch gits freed,
Old Hoss!

Holy Smoke, it’s hot in this darn old draw!
And we’ve swallered sand ‘till our throats are raw;
Oh, our muscles ache and our tongues are dry,
And our lungs are full uh this alkali,
But we’ll git to a spring now, bye’n bye,
Old Hoss!

Never mind, old Pard, when the Round-up’s done,
Then we’ll ride to town fer some shore ‘nough fun;
Know a blue-eyed gal with a droopin’ lash,
Who has knocked my heart clean, plumb to smash,
And she says she’s fond of a red moustache,
Old Hoss!

Oh, I’ll stroke her hand, while she strokes yore hide,
And I’ll say real soft, “Wont yuh be my bride?”
And if she says “Yes,” like I hope she’ll do,
Then you’ll hike fer the Preacher’s, totin” two,
And I bet my spurs that we’ll go some, too,
Old Hoss!

But I’m dreamin’, Pard, fer it’s this-away,
Sweet gals dont thrive on a cowboy’s pay;
And a gent like me with his forty per,
Dont make much noise and he kaint git fer,
With a sweet young thing uh the like uh her,
Old Hoss!

Come alive, old Pard; hit a swifter gait;
Fer we’ve loafed a heap and it’s gettin’ late;
Got a ways to go, and some hills to climb,
And to day-dream now is a low-down crime,
Fer there’s heaps uh work durin’ Round-up time,
Old Hoss!