The dust riz fast an' furious, we all just galloped round, Till the scenery got so giddy, that Z Bar Dick was downed. We buckled to our partners, an' told 'em to hold on, Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn. Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir 'ee! That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me. I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill, Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill. McAllister ain't nowhere! when Windy leads the show, I've seen 'em both in harness, an' so I sorter know-- Oh, Bill, I sha'n't forget yer, and I'll oftentimes recall, That lively-gaited sworray--"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball." _Larry Chittenden in_ "_Ranch Verses."_ A DANCE AT THE RANCH FROM every point they gaily come, the broncho's unshod feet Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat; The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind-- Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind. The dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones, Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers, And pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears. Within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly gathered throng Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song; The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain. The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow, Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low; Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret Until their ears are greeted with the warning words, "All set! S'lute yer pardners! Let 'er go! Balance all an' do-ce-do! Swing yer girls an' run away! Right an' left an' gents sashay! Gents to right an' swing or cheat! On to next gal an' repeat! Balance next an' don't be shy! Swing yer pard an' swing 'er high! Bunch the gals an' circle round! Whack yer feet until they bound! Form a basket! Break away! Swing an' kiss an' all git gay! Al'man left an' balance all! Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall! Swing yer op'sites! Swing agin! Kiss the sagehens if you kin!" An' thus the merry dance went on till morning's struggling light In lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night, And broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes. The cowboys to the ranges speed to "work" the lowing herds, The girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds, And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree