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| Ballad of a Trail-Weary Trail-Herder
The footsore dogies jam and crowd, And poke along, and bawl and bleat, Beneath a floatin', ashy cloud That fogs their millin' horns and meat And smudges up behind their feet Till I'm half-choked and worse than blind--- Oh, gosh, the alkali I eat A-ridin' here behind! To swing the lead I'd shore be proud--- Sa-ay, wouldn't it be sweet To get plumb free of this here shroud That's all messed up with noise and heat? Oh Misery shore grows complete And weds itself to Fate unkind When I'm the goat that has to beat These drags along behind! A week ago I would have vowed That drivin' trail-herd was a treat; I rode along a-singing loud And plannin' how my gal I'd meet In her ol' man's grape-arbor seat, But now---the trail's just "mill and grind," And love songs shorely obsolete, A-trailin' here behind. Old horse, no fool has got me beat For just plain softenin' of the mind--- But you kin hark to me repeat: Trial-herdin's hell behind! Bob Axtell, writing as "Reeves Axtell" |
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