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On the Trail of Love |
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TRUE LOVE
Oh, true love don't ne'er stampede at what folks think or say, An' ridicule jes' simply spurs him on; You can pitch an' r'ar an' jolt, but when once he gets a holt, You might as well admit that you is gone.
I'm free to mention that she's a lady workin' at The very best hash foundry in the town; I'm here to likewise say that fer sweet an' winnin' way, The best of them can't hope to call her down.
There's the "400" here what sniffle some an' sneer, An' think ace high above her they stand scored, 'Cause she's packin' Irish stew to a famine-stricken crew Or shootin' vulgar biscuits 'cross a board.
When roundup's thro' an' done, I rides back here on the run— She waits on one star boarder after that; I'm certain that-o-way an' I stakes my life she'll say; "Jes' wait until I gets my Sunday hat."
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