Old Hank

Driftin' along the rim-rock, old Camp-robber and I,

Out on a scoutin' trip, circlin' the flat land dry,

Cuttin' the sign of the cattle, watchin' which way they

drift,

Pullin' 'em out of the bog holes, givin' the weak ones a lift,

Throwin' 'em back on the home range, each day in a different

place,

In slickers en leggins of leather, through sand-storms that

blister your face. . . ..

Boss in the ranch house rides easy-his days of worry are

gone,

For he made his pile in the old trail days, the days of the

old long-horn.

Yep, I'm only a worn-out old puncher-though the boss

thinks a heap of me!

For I was with him on the Pecos, in the Raid of Seventy-

three! ....

Then he married, en got him religion, en tells you how you

mustn't do wrong;

How a brand is the cow-man's protection-then he'll deal

you a gospel song!

But I'll tell you Old Hank was the slickest that ever laid

line on a steer,

Or burnt over a brand with a runnin'-iron, or worked on

an old cow's ear!

'Course, friends, all this talk's confidential-I wouldn't want

Old Hank to see

That I haven't changed my damned religion, since the Trail

Herd of Seventy-three!