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RANCH AND RANGE |
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THE OLD COWBOY'S LAMENT
The range's filled up with farmers an' there's fences ev'rywhere, A painted house 'most ev'ry quarter mile; They's raisin' blooded cattle an' plantin' sorted seed, An' puttin' on a painful lot o' style.
There hain't no grass to speak of an* the water holes are gone, The wire of the farmer holds them tight; There's little use to law 'em an' little use to kick, An' mighty sight less use there is to fight.
There's them coughin' separaters an' their dirty, dusty crews, An' wagons runnin* over with the grain; With smoke a-driftin' upward like a hearse plume in the air, The story of its shadow sure is plain.
The wolves have left the country an' the long-horns are no more, An' all the game worth shootin' at is gone; An' it's time fer me to foller, 'cause I'm only in the way, Anl I'd better be a-movin'—movin' on. |
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