The Cowboys and their Poetry: a on'ry proposition

When one imagines a cowboy, or ‘The Cowboys’, it is almost sure to be a man on horseback wild and ornery with a lasso looping overhead, and afterwards raising hell in a saloon, drowning himself in whiskey. A more complete representation would include an image of “the bearded youth yearning West'', engaged in a deep study of Homer, the Bible, and Shakespeare around the fire after a long day of difficult work, composing and performing songs for eachother that came to them they know not whence or how, like the meandering chain of smoke connecting fire to fire. A degree of memorization characteristic of oral poetic cultures, the Cowboy would compose in his head as he rode through the days, only writing them down in rare moments of leisure. Memorization was a well regarded virtue, and one would be given no respect if he couldn’t recite from memory. Then between these moments of leisure, while out on the long cattle drives from Texas to Montana and back, a culture which would not unfairly be described as Greek:

Now camped along the river-fringing wood,

Three sullen, thunder-brewing, rainless days,

Those weathered men made merry in their ways

With tipple, euchre, story, jest and song.

The marksmen matched their cleverness; the strong

Wrestled the strong; and brawling pugilists

Displayed the boastful power of their fists

In stubborn yet half amicable fights.

And whiskey went hell roaring through the nights […]

This culture was not limited to the cowboys themselves, but permeated over the whole of the West in the 1870’s and 1880’s. The average ranch house boasted a large and refined library containing hundreds of books or more. 

“[...] those cowboys out of the old rock—many of whom read like monks in the great old literature shunted aside by all but a few readers—could mail in a dime with a tag from a Bull Durham tobacco pouch and get in return one of those 303 literary classics ranging from the old Greeks to books by early American authors whose copyrights had run out.” 

Immediately following the civil war cowboy poetry was mostly anonymous, but signed poetry began appearing in western newspapers during the 1870s, and many were well known and recited across the entire west well before the 20th century. In 1905 there appeared a mammoth (7lb) publication, the prose and poetry of the livestock industry of the United States, sponsored by the national livestock historical association, intended to be the first of three. Western Livestock was a magazine of great popularity, subscribed to by thousands of ranch families all over the west, and (for example) Bruce Kiskaddon’s (1878-1949) poetry was often clipped, carried in purses and wallets and pocket notebooks, pasted into scrapbooks, and memorized.

The first major collection of cowboy poetry was William Chittenden’s Ranch Verses, published in 1893. The dedication read: “The verses in this little volume are offsprings of solitude—born in idle hours of a Texas ranch near Anson.” The first important collector of cowboy poetry and song was Jack Thorp, who started a song-collecting trek in New Mexico that led him into Texas and Oklahoma. These songs along with some of his own were published as Songs of the Cowboys in 1908. Thorp paid a local printer to print two thousand copies.

The greatest literary influence on the poetry of the cowboys was undoubtedly the Bible. Badger Clark often referred to Old Testament persons in his poems; “Bachin” is about Adam, and the “Old Cow Man” is about Job. This is the last stanza of “From Town” as the puncher, riding up the rocky trail from town, reflects on days of yore: 

Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves, 

Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn’t fight,

Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years’ crop of calves,

And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,

There has been a taste for battle ‘mong the men that follow cattle

And a love of doin’ things that’s wild and strange,

And the warmth of Laban’s words when he missed his speckled herds

Still is useful in the language of the range.

And The cowboy’s soliloquy by Allen Mccandless:

My ceiling the sky, my carpet the grass,

My music the lowing of herds as they pass;

My books are the brooks, my sermons the stones,

My Parson’s a wolf on a pulpit of bones.

Is taken directly from As You Like It:

And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in everything:

I would not change it. (II, i, 15-18)

Teddy Roosevelt tells of a miserable night when he and some of the cowboys who worked on his outfit were getting ready to bed down. They could see in the distance, where the cattle were beginning to drift out of control with the storm: “Just as we were preparing to turn into bed, with the certainty of a night of more or less chilly misery ahead of us, one of my men, an iron-faced personage, whom no one would ever have dreamed had a weakness for poetry, looked towards the plain where the cattle were, and remarked, ‘I guess there’s “racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea” now, sure.’” The cowboy was quoting a line from “Lochinvar,” a song sung by a character in Marmion by Sir Walter Scott, who was a favorite of the cowboys, as with all those who dealt with life on horseback, from the Achaeans to the Arthurian knights. The phrase “another one bites the dust” comes to us by way of a cowboy quoting Homer as translated by Samuel Butler in the 19th century.  They learned from Homer the three noble virtues: to be a doer of deeds, a speaker of words, and a breaker of horses (in the Lattimore translation of the Iliad the epithet “breaker of horses” is used 53 times).

This gave way to the code of the west: bravery, loyalty, steadfastness, honesty, honor, and courtesy, especially to women and the elderly [chivalry]. And love, courting, and family also play an important role in the poetry. Coupled with this was the stubborn refusal of nature and animals to be mastered by humans, such as in “High-Chin Bob” or “Yavapai Pete”, and a grief at the loss of the Wild West in the face of industrialization, as in “The Old Cow Man”:

Close and closer cramps the wire.
There's hardly any place to back away
And call a man a liar.
Their house has locks on every door;
Their land is in a crate.
These ain't the plains of God no more,
They're only real estate.

A selection of poems, passages, and sayings which I believe capture the wit and spirit of the cowboys, which I will preface with two notes I think will aid in understanding and appreciation: (i) The cowboys saw no distinction between song and poem, performances were always recited, never read, so the way a poem reads is not necessarily a reflection on how it sounded when recited (listen to the recording of ‘Pitch, you wild outlaw, pitch’ and compare for an idea of the possible difference) (ii) They thought it appropriate that utilitarian objects be given richly textured surfaces and that this surface texturing itself be a visible sign of the artistry and control of the maker, whereas more serious subjects were usually treated with far less ‘ornate’ and boastful language, or else with silence:

---

Carlos Ashley: “I have never considered myself to be a real poet. Just a rhymer; some call it doggerel. Most so-called poets fall into this category, even a few famous ones [...] Some critics put Longfellow on that list. Now who is a “real” poet? There are many, but as an example, how about the Richmond mystic, Edgar Allan Poe?”


A cowboy who liked to compare English translations of Homer said about a puncher who had taken up farming: “there's no way in hell anybody could ever get me yoked to a Sisyphus rock like that.” 


Cowboy in Church

I heard the church-bell ringing, I didn’t know ‘twas Sunday,
For on the plains we scarcely knew a Sunday from a Monday.
Although the goodly parson in his vestry garb arrayed
Was dressed the same as I was in the trappings of his trade.
But at that last great roundup when before the throne we stand,
When it is decided what will be our final brand,
I have a hunch that we’ll be judged by what we are inside,
And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgement bide.


The Glory Trail (High-Chin Bob)

'Way high up the Mogollons,
Among the mountain tops,
A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones
And licked his thankful chops,
When on the picture who should ride,
A-trippin' down a slope,
But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride
And mav'rick hungry rope.
"Oh, glory be to me," says he,
"And fame's unfadin' flowers!
All meddlin' hands are far away;
I ride my good top-hawse today
And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J—
Hi! kitty-cat, you're ours!"
That lion licked his paw so brown
And dreamed soft dreams of veal—
And then the circlin' loop swung down
And roped him 'round his meal.
He yowled quick fury to the world
Till all the hills yelled back;
The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled
And Bob caught up the slack.
"Oh, glory be to me," laughs he.
"We hit the glory trail.
No human man as I have read
Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,
Nor ever hawse could drag one dead
Until we told the tale."
'Way high up the Mogollons
That top-hawse done his best,
Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,
From canyon-floor to crest.
But ever when Bob turned and hoped
A limp remains to find,
A red-eyed lion, belly roped
But healthy, loped behind.

"Oh, glory be to me," grunts he.
"This glory trail is rough,
Yet even till the Judgment Morn
I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,
For never any hero born
Could stoop to holler: ''Nuff!'"
Three suns had rode their circle home
Beyond the desert's rim,
And turned their star-herds loose to roam
The ranges high and dim;
Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross
Bob pounded, weak and wan,
For pride still glued him to his hawse
And glory drove him on.
"Oh, glory be to me," sighs he.
"He kain't be drug to death,
But now I know beyond a doubt
Them heroes I have read about
Was only fools that stuck it out
To end of mortal breath."
'Way high up the Mogollons
A prospect man did swear
That moon dreams melted down his bones
And hoisted up his hair:
A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,
A lion trailed along,
A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,
Yelled out a crazy song.
"Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,
"And to my noble noose!
Oh, stranger, tell my pards below
I took a rampin' dream in tow,
And if I never lay him low,
I'll never turn him loose!"


Pitch, You Wild Outlaw, Pitch

You been roped and saddled and bridled and straddled,
	I’ve spurred you and quirted you, too.
You squealed and cavorted and sunfish and snorted
	As ‘round the corral we both flew.
Your temper is sassy, your actions are classy,
	For buckin’ you sure got an itch.
Course, I’ll never trust you till after I bust you,
	So pitch, you wild outlaw, pitch.
Your eyes are a-burnin’ and you are a-yearnin’
	To git me down there in the dirt.
So hop to it feller, there’s no streak of yeller
	Beneath my old blue denim shirt.[…]
You are a jimdandy, you’re tough and you’re sandy,
	The way that you do it is rich.
So keep on a-humpin’ your back up and jumpin’,
	And pitch, you wild outlaw, pitch.
In spite of your kickin’, you’ll still find me stickin’, 
	So let me just hand you this hunch.
You got me disgusted, you’re gonna git busted,
	Jist rode to a frazzle and sich.
If you only knew it, you’d give and come to it,
	But pitch, you wild outlaw, pitch.


Yavapai Pete

Now Yavapai Pete was a cowpuncher neat,
From Arizona's fair clime.
Lived in his saddle and punched most the cattle
From here to the Mexican line.

His ridin' was sassy, his ropin' was classy,
He liked to mix, mingle, and maul;
Not much of thinker, was more of a drinker,
And could uphold his end in a brawl.

A face like a hatchet, a head made to match it,
And a nose like a pelican's beak;
His legs were all bowed and he was pigeon-toed,
With a chin that was plum mild and meek.

He'd been in the weather, his skin was like leather,
His hands were all horny and rough;
You could see by his stride he was just made to ride,
And no broncho for him was too tough.

A very good hand with a whole lot of sand,
And a voice like a bellerin' bull.
Pretty much on the brag, and at chewin' the rag
He was a while corral full.

He once told a tale of hittin' the trail,
A-huntin' new ranges to ride;
They'd hung up a bounty in Yavapai County
For whoever could bring in his hide.

He rode to a ranch and asked if by chance
They needed a good buckeroo.
They said he was rough, but not tough enough,
As a bronk peeler he wouldn't do.

Then he rode o'er a rise and battin' his eyes,
A-lookin' down into a swale,
He'd come to the lair of a she grizzly bear,
And she was a-holdin' the trail.

Then he mounted that bear with a handful of hair,
For a quirt used a real rattlesnake,
He rode with a rush out thru the buck-brush,
A-swarin' that beast the would break.

To the ranch they did do where Pete hollered "whoa."
Then asked the boss what he'd pay—
"My mount is docile fer I've rode her a mile,
And we're a-huntin' a job today."

The boss called his stack, said "Come to the shack.
You look like you might be alright.
That growlin' old bear, yure ridin' right there,
Et up my old range boss last night."

Old Yavapai Pete he couldn't be beat
At lootin', shootin', and sin.
The chuck-wagon deck was a sorrowful wreck
When Yavapai Pete butted in.

He fanned his gun fast but they got him at last,
And he died with his boots on his feet.
The wild West was rid of a dangerous kid
With the passin' of Yavapai Pete.


The Legend of Boastful Bill

One sweet mornin' long ago,
Ten of us was throwed right freely
By a hawse from Idaho.
And we thought he'd go a-beggin'
For a man to break his pride
Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin',
Boastful Bill cut loose and cried --

"I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;
I fulfill my earthly mission with a quirt;
I kin ride the highest liver
'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,
And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."

So Bill climbed the Northern Fury
And they mangled up the air
Till a native of Missouri
Would have owned his brag was fair.
Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
And the wind it flapped his shirt,
Loud above the hawse's squealin'
We could hear our friend assert

"I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke.
Someone hand me up the makin's of a smoke!
If you think my fame needs bright'nin'
W'y I'll rope a streak of lightnin'
And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke."

Then one caper of repulsion
Broke that hawse's back in two.
Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
Skyward man and saddle flew.
Up he mounted, never laggin',
While we watched him through our tears,
And his last thin bit of braggin'
Came a-droppin' to our ears.

"If you'd ever watched my habits very close
You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross.
I have kep' my talent hidin';
I'm too good for earthly ridin'
And I'm off to bust the lightnin's, --
Adios!"

Years have gone since that ascension.
Boastful Bill ain't never lit,
So we reckon that he's wrenchin'
Some celestial outlaw's bit.
When the night rain beats our slickers
And the wind is swift and stout
And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
We kin sometimes hear him shout --

"I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;
I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky.
Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders
While we're rippin' clouds to flinders.
If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!"
Stardust on his chaps and saddle,
Scornful still of jar and jolt,
He'll come back some day, astraddle
Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.
And the thin-skinned generation
Of that dim and distant day
Sure will stare with admiration
When they hear old Boastful say --

"I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed.
Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best.
Huh, you soft and dainty floaters,
With your a'roplanes and motors --
Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!"


from The Passing Trail

There was a sunny, savage land
Beneath the eagle's wings,
And there, across the thorns and sand,
Wild rovers rode as kings.
Is it a yarn from long ago
And far across the sea?
Could that land be the land we know?
Those roving riders we?
The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane,
How comes it, pard of mine?
Within a day it slipped away
And hardly left a sign.
Now history a tale has gained
To please the younger ears --
A race of kings that rose, and reigned,
And passed in fifty years!
Dream back beyond the cramping lanes
To glories that have been --
The camp smoke on the sunset plains,
The riders loping in
Loose rein and rowelled heel to spare,
The wind our only guide,
For youth was in the saddle there
With half a world to ride.
The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane,
Dead is the branding fire.
The prairies wild are tame and mild,
All close-corralled with wire.
The sunburnt demigods who ranged
And laughed and lived so free
Have topped the last divide, or changed
To men like you and me. [...]

“I was full-growed with nine rows of jaw teeth and holes bored for more. There was spurs on my feet and a rawhide quirt in my hand, and when they opens the chute I come out a-riding a panther and a-roping the long-horned whales. I’ve rode everything with hair on it, and I’ve rode a few things that was too rough to grow any hair. I’ve rode bull moose on the prod, the grizzlies and long bolts of lightning. Mountain lions are my playmates and when I feels cold and lonesome, I sleeps in a den of rattlesnakes ‘cause they always makes me nice and warm. To keep alive I eat stick dynamite and cactus.”

“If that son-of-a-bitch don’t go to hell, there ain’t no use in having one.”

“Some minds let more out than in.”

“He’s like the stuffed fish—shoulda kept his mouth shut.”

There was a cowboy who was asked by a proper sort of Englishman, “Tell me, my good man, where is your master?” He replied, “That son-of-a-bitch ain’t been born yet.”

---

The cowboy was hired to go out and tend to cattle, to be in the right place on horseback at the right time. His was perhaps the highest skill for the lowest pay in the country. And intertwined with all this was a calling, a way, an idea of self and tribe that will be understood by but a few until the end of time.