The cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, All out in the midnight rain; I'm almost froze with the water on my clothes, Way up on the Kansas line. THE COWMAN'S PRAYER Now, O Lord, please lend me thine ear, The prayer of a cattleman to hear, No doubt the prayers may seem strange, But I want you to bless our cattle range. Bless the round-ups year by year, And don't forget the growing steer; Water the lands with brooks and rills For my cattle that roam on a thousand hills. Prairie fires, won't you please stop? Let thunder roll and water drop. It frightens me to see the smoke; Unless it's stopped, I'll go dead broke. As you, O Lord, my herd behold, It represents a sack of gold; I think at least five cents a pound Will be the price of beef the year around. One thing more and then I'm through,-- Instead of one calf, give my cows two. I may pray different from other men But I've had my say, and now, Amen. THE MINER'S SONG[4] In a rusty, worn-out cabin sat a broken-hearted leaser, His singlejack was resting on his knee. His old "buggy" in the corner told the same old plaintive tale, His ore had left in all his poverty. He lifted his old singlejack, gazed on its battered face, And said: "Old boy, I know we're not to blame; Our gold has us forsaken, some other path it's taken, But I still believe we'll strike it just the same. "We'll strike it, yes, we'll strike it just the same, Although it's gone into some other's claim. My dear old boy don't mind it, we won't starve if we don't find it, And we'll drill and shoot and find it just the same. "For forty years I've hammered steel and tried to make a strike, I've burned twice the powder Custer ever saw. I've made just coin enough to keep poorer than a snake. My jack's ate all my books on mining law. I've worn gunny-sacks for overalls, and 'California socks,' I've burned candles that would reach from here to Maine, I've lived on powder, smoke, and bacon, that's no lie, boy, I'm not fakin', But I still believe we'll strike it just the same. "Last night as I lay sleeping in the midst of all my dream My assay ran six ounces clear in gold, And the silver it ran clean sixteen ounces to the seam, And the poor old miner's joy could scarce be told. I lay there, boy, I could not sleep, I had a feverish brow, Got up, went back, and put in six holes more. And then, boy, I was chokin' just to see the ground I'd broken; But alas! alas! the miner's dream was o'er. "We'll strike it, yes, we'll strike it just the same, Although it's gone into some other's claim. My dear old boy, don't mind it, we won't starve if we don't find it, And I still believe I'll strike it just the same." [Footnote 4: Printed as a fugitive ballad in _Grandon of Sierra_, by Charles E. Winter.] JESSE JAMES