These fighting days are over; The Indian yell resounds No more along the border; Peace sends far sweeter sounds. But we found great joy, old comrades, To hear, and make it die; We won bright homes for gentle ones, And now, our West, good-bye. THE LONE BUFFALO HUNTER It's of those Texas cowboys, a story I'll tell; No name I will mention though in Texas they do dwell. Go find them where you will, they are all so very brave, And when in good society they seldom misbehave. When the fall work is all over in the line-camp they'll be found, For they have to ride those lonesome lines the long winter round; They prove loyal to a comrade, no matter what's to do; And when in love with a fair one they seldom prove untrue. But springtime comes at last and finds them glad and gay; They ride out to the round-up about the first of May; About the first of August they start up the trail, They have to stay with the cattle, no matter rain or hail. But when they get to the shipping point, then they receive their tens, Straightway to the bar-room and gently blow them in; It's the height of their ambition, so I've been truly told, To ride good horses and saddles and spend the silver and gold. Those last two things I've mentioned, it is their heart's desire, And when they leave the shipping point, their eyes are like balls of fire. It's of those fighting cattle, they seem to have no fear, A-riding bucking broncos oft is their heart's desire. They will ride into the branding pen, a rope within their hands, They will catch them by each forefoot and bring them to the sands; It's altogether in practice with a little bit of sleight, A-roping Texas cattle, it is their heart's delight. But now comes the rising generation to take the cowboy's place, Likewise the corn-fed granger, with his bold and cheeky face; It's on those plains of Texas a lone buffalo hunter does stand To tell the fate of the cowboy that rode at his right hand. THE CROOKED TRAIL TO HOLBROOK Come all you jolly cowboys that follow the bronco steer, I'll sing to you a verse or two your spirits for to cheer; It's all about a trip, a trip that I did undergo On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh. It's on the seventeenth of February, our herd it started out, It would have made your hearts shudder to hear them bawl and shout, As wild as any buffalo that ever rode the Platte, Those dogies we were driving, and every one was fat. We crossed the Mescal Mountains on the way to Gilson Flats, And when we got to Gilson Flats, Lord, how the wind did blow; It blew so hard, it blew so fierce, we knew not where to go, But our spirits never failed us as onward we did go,-- On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona oh.