Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten! Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see; Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin' Like a gent and lady, same as you and me. _Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all! _Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle..._ But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball. _Henry Herbert Knibbs._ PART III COWBOY TYPES _DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples-- When there's water in its bed; Where no man is ever drunken-- All prefer mescal instead; Where no lie is ever uttered-- There being nothin' one can trade; Where no marriage vows are broken 'Cause the same are never made._ THE COWBOY HE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that, And leggins of fancy fringed leather; He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots, And he's happy in all kinds of weather; He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course, For oh, he can ride like the devil; He is old for his years and he always appears Like a fellow who's lived on the level; He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look Of a man that to fear is a stranger; Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve For his wild life of duty and danger. He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet, And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it; He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear At the rate of two-forty a minute; His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West, Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars; Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks, But his knowledge is not got from your scholars; He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal, And he hates and despises a coward; Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kind Though he'll fight till by death overpowered. Hence I say unto you,--give the cowboy his due And be kind, my friends, to his folly; For he's generous and brave though he may not behave Like your dudes, who are so melancholy. _Anonymous._ BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch, 'Tis said--an' we know who 'tis-- "Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch, An' uses us in his biz." Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss, An' you'd sure admit that's right, If you happened--an' unbeknown to us-- Around, of a Sunday night. Th' week-day manners is stowed away, Th' jokes an' the card games halts, When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to play A toon--an' it ain't no waltz. It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight, It delves through th' toughest crust, It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight, Till we've got ter sing--er bust!