N. Howard Thorp

From “Cowboy Songs”

WHAT’S become of the punchers

We rode with long ago?—

The hundreds and hundreds of cowboys

We all of us used to know?

Sure, some were killed by lightning,

Some when the cattle run;

Others were killed by horses

And some with the old six-gun;

Those that worked on the round-up,

Those of the branding-pen,

Those who went out on the long trail drive

And never returned again.

We know of some who have prospered,

We hear of some who are broke,

My old pardner made millions in Tampa,

While I’ve got my saddle in soak!

Sleeping and working together,

Eating old “Cussie’s” good chuck,

Riding in all kinds of weather,

Playing in all kinds of luck;

Bragging about our top-hosses,

Each puncher ready to bet

His horse could outrun the boss’s,

Or any old hoss you could get!

Scott lies in Tularosa,

Elmer Price lies near Santa Fe,

While Randolph sits here by the fire-side

With a “flat-face” on his knee.

’Gene Rhodes is among the high-brows,

A-writin’ up the West;

But I know a lot of doin’s

That he never has confessed!

He used to ride ’em keerless

In the good old days

When we both worked together

In the San Andrays!

Building big loops we called “blockers,”

Spinning the rope in the air;

Never a cent in our pockets,

But what did a cow-puncher care?

I’m tired of riding this trail, boys,

Dead tired of riding alone—

B’lieve I’ll head old Button for Texas,

Towards my old Palo Pinto home!