The sun is sorta coaxin' and the road is clear And the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear. It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. [Footnote 5: A song current in Arizona, probably written by Berton Braley. Cowboys and miners often take verses that please them and fit them to music.] OLD PAINT[6] REFRAIN: Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne,-- My foot in the stirrup, my pony won't stand; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, I'm off for Montan'; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. I'm a ridin' Old Paint, I'm a-leadin' old Fan; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. With my feet in the stirrups, my bridle in my hand; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. Old Paint's a good pony, he paces when he can; Goodbye, little Annie, I'm off for Cheyenne. Oh, hitch up your horses and feed 'em some hay, And seat yourself by me so long as you stay. My horses ain't hungry, they'll not eat your hay; My wagon is loaded and rolling away. My foot in my stirrup, my reins in my hand; Good-morning, young lady, my horses won't stand. Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. [Footnote 6: These verses are used in many parts of the West as a dance song. Sung to waltz music the song takes the place of "Home, Sweet Home" at the conclusion of a cowboy ball. The "fiddle" is silenced and the entire company sing as they dance.] DOWN SOUTH ON THE RIO GRANDE From way down south on the Rio Grande, Roll on steers for the Post Oak Sand,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho. You'd laugh fur to see that fellow a-straddle Of a mustang mare on a raw-hide saddle,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho. Rich as a king, and he wouldn't be bigger Fur a pitchin' hoss and a lame old nigger,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho. Ole Abe kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger, 'Til he bust hisself 'bout a lame old nigger,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho. Old Jeff swears he'll sew him together With powder and shot instead of leather,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho. Kin cuss an' fight an' hold or free 'em, But I know them mavericks when I see 'em,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho. SILVER JACK[7] I was on the drive in eighty Working under Silver Jack, Which the same is now in Jackson And ain't soon expected back, And there was a fellow 'mongst us By the name of Robert Waite; Kind of cute and smart and tonguey Guess he was a graduate. He could talk on any subject From the Bible down to Hoyle, And his words flowed out so easy, Just as smooth and slick as oil, He was what they call a skeptic, And he loved to sit and weave Hifalutin' words together Tellin' what he didn't believe.