Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Down on the Ol' Bar-GPhil LeNoir
T
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
He left his gal to run the ranch,
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
She wouldn’t let us chew nor cuss,
Had to keep slicked up like a city bus,
So round-up time was u-nan-i-muss
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
Found his clay pipe right in the stew,
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
But when we let that feller go
We married grief an’ we married woe,
For the gal opined she’d bake the dough,
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
We all blinked twict—seemed plumb unreal,
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
We had figs an’ fudge an whipped-up pru’in,
An’ angel cake all dipped in goo-in,
“My Gawd!” said Tex, “my stomick’s ruint”—
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
An’ pulled our freight for the lone prair-ee,
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.
For out on the range we could chew an’ cuss
An’ git real mean an’ bois-ter-uss,
Whar apron-strings they couldn’t rope us
Down on the ol’ Bar-G.