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Ranch and Range |
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DOC PIERCE'S CHOICE
My friend. Doc Pierce—well, Doc an' me Set in the hotel, an' there be An orchestray a-playin' of Some highfalootin' dream o' love. Says Doc: "That's music, I suppose— An Injun thinks a hat is clothes— But shucks! it hain't the kind that stays An* makes you think o' other days; An' makes you go to feelin' sad B'cause you can't help feelin' glad; An* makes you go to feelin' glad B'cause you can't help feelin' sad.
"Now-days real music they don't know, These long-haired dudelets with the bow, A-pawin' an' a-twistin' 'round, Be jes' emittin' of a sound. Their souls don't talk thro' them there strings, They hain't got folks to dreamin* things— I say these fancy fiddlers, now, O' makin* music don't know how!
"One time I trails," Doc Pierce goes on, "Up from the South, out West I'm gone, An' drifts around from camp to camp, Until one night old Nature's stamp Falls on my heart—an' I, well, I Am that homesick I want to die. |
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