When you ship the cattle he's bound to go along To keep the boss from drinking and see that nothing's wrong. Wherever he goes, catch on to his name, He likes to be called with a handle to his name. He's always primping with a pocket looking-glass, From the top to the bottom he's a bold Jackass. CALIFORNIA TRAIL List all you California boys And open wide your ears, For now we start across the plains With a herd of mules and steers. Now, bear in mind before you start, That you'll eat jerked beef, not ham, And antelope steak, Oh cuss the stuff! It often proves a sham. You cannot find a stick of wood On all this prairie wide; Whene'er you eat you've got to stand Or sit on some old bull hide. It's fun to cook with buffalo chips Or mesquite, green as corn,-- If I'd once known what I know now I'd have gone around Cape Horn. The women have the hardest time Who emigrate by land; For when they cook out in the wind They're sure to burn their hand. Then they scold their husbands round, Get mad and spill the tea,-- I'd have thanked my stars if they'd not come out Upon this bleak prairie. Most every night we put out guards To keep the Indians off. When night comes round some heads will ache, And some begin to cough. To be deprived of help at night, You know is mighty hard, But every night there's someone sick To keep from standing guard. Then they're always talking of what they've got, And what they're going to do; Some will say they're content, For I've got as much as you. Others will say, "I'll buy or sell, I'm damned if I care which." Others will say, "Boys, buy him out, For he doesn't own a stitch." Old raw-hide shoes are hell on corns While tramping through the sands, And driving jackass by the tail,-- Damn the overland! I would as leaf be on a raft at sea And there at once be lost. John, let's leave the poor old mule, We'll never get him across! BRONC PEELER'S SONG I've been upon the prairie, I've been upon the plain, I've never rid a steam-boat, Nor a double-cinched-up train. But I've driv my eight-up to wagon That were locked three in a row, And that through blindin' sand storms, And all kinds of wind and snow. Cho:-- Goodbye, Liza, poor gal, Goodbye, Liza Jane, Goodbye, Liza, poor gal, She died on the plain. There never was a place I've been Had any kind of wood. We burn the roots of bar-grass And think it's very good. I've never tasted home bread, Nor cakes, nor muss like that; But I know fried dough and beef Pulled from red-hot tallow fat. I hate to see the wire fence A-closin' up the range; And all this fillin' in the trail With people that is strange. We fellers don't know how to plow, Nor reap the golden grain; But to round up steers and brand the cows To us was allus plain.