Wouldn't do at all.

So Bratt, he said, no Bogy

Could scare one of his stamp, If he had men like Cody

Or Likens, in his camp. He'd hunt the scattered Dogies

And as he found his pals, He'd round 'em up and drive 'em in

To his Home Ranch Corrals.

I wonder if the old boys.

Join in the "round up mill :" I wonder if the bronchos

Are linin' the corral: And girls with merry laughter.

And boys with shouts of glee, Swing "a-la-man" at Livingston

To the tune of Fiddler Lee.

The old grout house is crumbled,

And soddies of the west, Where gatherings were welcome

When roundup outfits passed, Are gone ; and gone the fiddler

Who played the prancin' tune. When "the night herd was runnin' "

'Til the settin' of the moon.

I wonder if the mess house

Is like it used to be ; I wonder if the bunk house

Is calling you and me. I wonder if the old boys

Arc plavin' seven up.

HISTORY OF WESTERN NEBRASKA

And callin' Collins, bring 'em in An overbrimmin' cup.

D'ye reckon that is why they

Are tearin' down The Slope. Like rippin' into Sidney,

Or down on Antelope. D'ye reckon there's a Camp Clarke,

A Hartville or Cheyenne, A waitin' for us yonder where

The other boys have gone.

Is Jim Moore there a playin'

A game of solitaire, Or is he ridin' "the Express,"

And fannin' through the air? For many a long gone year he's been