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