Farewell to Greer County, farewell to the West, I'll travel back East to the girl I love best, I'll travel back to Texas and marry me a wife, And quit corn bread for the rest of my life. ROSIN THE BOW I live for the good of my nation And my sons are all growing low, But I hope that my next generation Will resemble Old Rosin the Bow. I have traveled this wide world all over, And now to another I'll go, For I know that good quarters are waiting To welcome Old Rosin the Bow. The gay round of delights I have traveled, Nor will I behind leave a woe, For while my companions are jovial They'll drink to Old Rosin the Bow. This life now is drawn to a closing, All will at last be so, Then we'll take a full bumper at parting To the name of Old Rosin the Bow. When I am laid out on the counter, And the people all anxious to know, Just raise up the lid of the coffin And look at Old Rosin the Bow. And when through the streets my friends bear me, And the ladies are filled with deep woe, They'll come to the doors and the windows And sigh for Old Rosin the Bow. Then get some fine, jovial fellows, And let them all staggering go; Then dig a deep hole in the meadow And in it toss Rosin the Bow. Then get a couple of dornicks, Place one at my head and my toe, And do not forget to scratch on them, "Here lies Old Rosin the Bow." Then let those same jovial fellows Surround my lone grave in a row, While they drink from my favorite bottle The health of Old Rosin the Bow. THE GREAT ROUND-UP When I think of the last great round-up On the eve of eternity's dawn, I think of the past of the cowboys Who have been with us here and are gone. And I wonder if any will greet me On the sands of the evergreen shore With a hearty, "God bless you, old fellow," That I've met with so often before. I think of the big-hearted fellows Who will divide with you blanket and bread, With a piece of stray beef well roasted, And charge for it never a red. I often look upward and wonder If the green fields will seem half so fair, If any the wrong trail have taken And fail to "be in" over there. For the trail that leads down to perdition Is paved all the way with good deeds, But in the great round-up of ages, Dear boys, this won't answer your needs. But the way to the green pastures, though narrow, Leads straight to the home in the sky, And Jesus will give you the passports To the land of the sweet by and by. For the Savior has taken the contract To deliver all those who believe, At the headquarters ranch of his Father, In the great range where none can deceive. The Inspector will stand at the gateway And the herd, one by one, will go by,-- The round-up by the angels in judgment Must pass 'neath his all-seeing eye.