DOGIE DOGGERELS AND LUGUBRIOUS LYRICS

ILLUSTRATIONS BY RICHARD TORST “poor thing, but mine own,” is the principle underlying our interest in our folk-songs. Be the literary merit as it may, these belong to us; they are part of us. Homely and unpoetic, many of them vulgar, they represent the operation of instinct and tradition. They are chiefly interesting because of the light they throw on the conditions of pioneer life and more particularly because of the information they contain concerning that unique and romantic figure in modern civilization, the American cowboy.

The field of American folk-songs may be roughly divided into Negro, lumberjack, mountaineer, sea, and cowboy songs. That interest in American folk-songs has increased may be shown by the fact that there are now more than one hundred books on folk-songs in the Library of Congress.

There is a much larger and varied public than one would imagine for the folk-poetry of the West and Southwest, the cowboy songs, the songs of the border outlaws, prospectors, hoboes, and other lonely outriders of civilization.

Cowboy songs are truly distinctive since they seem to spring up as quietly and mysteriously as does the grass of the plains. They are the product of the plains, having virtues and sentiments peculiar only to the cowboy. Cut off as he was from all newspapers and books, the cowboy was forced to provide himself with something to fill the hours of loneliness. Therefore, he created songs, the songs of the range, the campfire, the Indian fight, the round-up, and the cattle drives, songs that yet haunt ghost-like the old northward trending trails now dim and grass-grown and half-forgotten. Over ninety percent of the cowboy songs come from the southwestern border states, Arizona, Texas and New Mexico, a much smaller number being distributed among the northern states, Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, the Dakotas, and the other states in which the cowboy ranged.

The rhythm and movement of the songs follow a simple ballad pattern and their diction is full of the vitality of the soil, and the life that produced them. The songs differ in dialect, rhythm, and phrasing, having taken on the characteristics and spirit of the section in which they were continually sung. Profanity, so prevalent among cowboy ballads, has an Homeric quality that pleases rather than repulses. The broad sky, the limitless plains, the open free life, taught the cowboy simplicity and directness. He spoke plainly the impulses of his heart.

The world of cowboy songs is less imaginary than actual for the reason that the cowboy lived in a concrete world, where, if he valued his life, he would not sink too much into imagination. He deserted the world at times only to dream of a cowboy heaven, translated into his own occupation.

The authors were, for the most part, nameless derelict bards of the dance-halls and cow-camps, who at the end claimed authorship of the same song. Yet they produced true ballads born of the soil, unstiffened by print, and moulded not by any trained singer, but by many nameless amateurs.

Their titles are particularly interesting in their ability to whet our imagination. They run the gamut from "California Joe," "A Mormon Song," "The Arizona Boys," "Utah Carroll," "Sam Bass of Indiana," to "The Dying Cowboy," "A Midnight Stampede," and "When Bob Got Throwed." On the long trek from Texas to Fort Dodge, a particular group of songs grew up. One of these, "The Old Chisholm Trail," is as long as its namesake, having more verses than any one man knew. A typical verse ran: Come along, boys, and listen to my tale, And I'll tell you of my troubles on the Old Chisholm Trail. Coma ti youpe, youpe ya, youpe ya, Coma ti yi youpe, youpe yay.

In order to keep the ranks compact, to urge the stragglers on, the cowboy put into music his sharp rhythmic yells and shrill cries: It's whooping and yelling and driving the dogies, Oh, how I wish you would go on, It's whooping and punching and go on, you little dogies, For you know Wyoming will be your new home.

That this was not a very pleasant task is apparent from the lyrics of a song which ran: Oh, misery shore does grow complete And weds itself to fate unkind; And I'm the goat that has to beat These drags along behind.

Dogie songs are perhaps the most beautiful lyrics one encounters in cowboy literature. Technically speaking, a dogie was a stray yearling to whom no little affection was attached by the cowboy. During the long night watches, the night guards, as they rode round and round the herd, improvised lullabies, whose purpose was to quiet the animals and soothe them to sleep. Or perhaps merely to furnish a cover for the myriads of sounds common to the range at night. A typical verse of a dogie song went: Oh, say, little dogies, when you goin' to lay down And quiet this forever siftin' around? My limbs are weary, my seat is sore, Oh, lay down, dogies, like you've laid before, Hi-oo, hi-00-0000.

Reaching the shipping point after a long trek was a happy moment in the cowboy's life, and, accordingly, he sang: And when we reach the shipping point, the boss he pays us up. We loaf around the city and take a parting cup. When noisy crowds do gather we think of our native home. And back to our dear old Texas never more to roam.

Growling about the boss was a favorite sport, and formed the basis for yards of song, such as "The DadBlamed Boss," which ran: Oh, here I am, a-settin' on my hoss, An' spoonin' these old cows Fer that dad-blamed boss.

Occasionally a half-stewed rider came to town from the range, and in order to blow off steam, would boast: I'm wild and woolly and full of fleas; I'm hard to curry above the knees; I'm an' ol' she-wolf from Bitter Creek And it's my main night to h-o-w-l.

A little more sober, but just as boastful, he sang:

I'm a rowdy cowboy just off the stormy plains. My trade is cinching saddles and pulling bridle reins; Oh, I can tip the lasso; it is with graceful ease; I rope a streak of lightning and ride it where I please.

Many cowboy songs are gloomy, death playing the most important part, with the dying one's last words a close second. These are all knee-deep in pathos, and the more tears they were able to elicit, the more popular they were. Such lugubrious lyrics as "The Cowboy's Lament," "Lorena," and "Oh, Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie" are good examples. The last of the songs mentioned, which is a parody on the English sea chanty, "Oh, Bury Me Not on the Dee Deep Blue Sea," oozes woe from beginning to end. It tells of a cowboy who did not want to be buried on the prairie, but in a church yard. After eight mournful verses, his dying request was denied: 'Oh, bury me not,' and his voice failed there. They heeded not his dying prayer. In a narrow grave, just six by three, They laid him there on the lone prairie.

Texas, the home of so many of the cowboys, proved to be a fruitful source for song. Its balmy climate was praised by such lines as: Work down in Texas, Is all the year around. You'll never catch consumption By sleeping on the ground.

The naive death-bed repentance is another typical cowboy song. Songs of morality, with the usual warning to others who might be led astray, were great favorites. The sad end of many a rough rider is depicted in the following: It was once in the saddle, I used to go dashing; It was once in the saddle, I used to go gay. First to the dram house, Then to the card houseGot shot in the breast I'm dying today.

Apparently similar to the Robin Hood theme was the practice of sympathetically recounting the exploits of outlaws. The cream of the collection is Jesse James. In Western ethics, whether a criminal or not, the cowboy would mourn the death of a hero, laud his bravery, and sympathize with him. This strange human sympathy is aptly illustrated in: Jesse James was a lad who killed many a man; He robbed the Danville train. But that dirty little coward, That shot Mister Howard, Has laid poor Jesse in his grave.

The cowboy frequently sang of his sweetheart. In a jocular mood, he often added: There was a little gal And she lived with her mother. All the devils out of Hell Couldn't scare up another.

Often one runs across a lyric of great beauty, as: When the curtains of night Are pinned back by the stars, And the beautiful moon sweeps the sky; I'll remember you, Love, In my prayers.

The cowboy was not usually regarded as being religious, but he did sing of God in the familiar terms of the range: They say He'll never forget you, That He knows every action and look. So for safety you'd better keep branded, Have your name on His big Tally Book.

He often dreamed of a cowboy heaven translated into his own occupation, and concluded: And I'm scared that I'll be a stray yearling, A maverick unbranded on high; And get cut in the bunch with the 'rusties,' When the Boss of the riders goes by.

That he sometimes thought of a future life is indicated in the lines: Last night as I lay on the prairie And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet bye and bye.

Finally, there are the comic songs, for the cowboy was not always the serious person. A great favorite of the chuck-wagon cooks on the Chisholm Trail was "Little Ah Sid." It tells of a little Chinese boy, probably a member of the camp, who mistook a bumble bee for a butterfly, and attempted to catch it. He did, and in the last stanza gave vent to his feelings by: 'Ky-yee, ki-yay, ki-yippi, ki-yam!' As he hurriedly rose from the spot 'Ki-yee, ki-yam Um Mellican man, Un bullifly velly dam hot!' As these songs explain, the cowboy sang to enliven his work, as he followed the trail, as he rode the range, as he rested about the campfire, or as he stood guard during the stillness of the night. He sang what he did, what he saw, what he felt, and of the men he knew. The cowboy was more often gay than sad, and never tired of laughing at his own trials when he first began to learn the ways of horses and cows. The cowboy's life was an active one, allowing little place for sentiment and less for moralizing. His songs were best suited to the lope of his horse, or to the taste of the comrades he met about the chuck-wagon. All in all, cowboy songs are social documents. Their value lies in their real treatment of settings and everyday scenes. They may be accepted as naive records of the hard and free life of the range, yet they marvelously celebrate such adventures as belong to soil, pioneer hardships, dangers and fun.