Page:Songs of the cowboys (IA songsofcowboys00thor).pdf/33

For want of an oven I cook bread in a pot,
And sleep on the ground for want of a cot.

My ceiling the sky, my floor is the grass,
My music is the lowing herds as they pass;
My books are the brooks, my sermons the stones;
My parson the wolf on his pulpit of bones.

And then, if cooking is not complete,
You can't blame me for wanting to eat.
But show me a man that sleeps more profound
Than the big puncher-boy stretching out on the ground.

My books teach me ever consistence to prize,
My sermons that small things I should not despise;
My parson remarks from his pulpit of bones
That fortune favors those who look out for their own.

And then between me and love lies a gulf wide:
Some lucky fellow may call her his bride.
My friends gently hint I am coming to grief,
But men must make money and women have beef.

But Cupid is always a friend to the bold,
And the best of his arrows are pointed with gold.
As society bans me, so savage I dodge,
And the Masons would ball me out of their lodge.

If I had hair on my chin I might pass for the goat
That bore all the sins in the ages remote;
But why it is I cannot understand,
That each of the patriarchs owned a big brand.