| Way high up in
|
| The Sierry Peaks
|
| Where the yellow-jack pines grow tall
|
| Old Buster Jiggs and Sandy
|
| Bob
|
| Had a round-up camp last fall
|
| Well they took along their running
|
| Irons
|
| Maybe a dog or two
|
| And they 'lowed thy’d brand every long-eared calf
|
| That came
|
| Within their view
|
| Now every little long-eared dogie
|
| That didn’t push up by
|
| Day
|
| Got his long ears whittled and his old hide scorched
|
| In a most artistic
|
| Way
|
| One fine day, says Buster Jiggs
|
| As he throws his seago down
|
| «I'm tired
|
| Of cowpiography
|
| And I think I’m a goin' into town.»
|
| Well they saddled up, and they
|
| Hit a lope
|
| For it warn’t no sight of a ride
|
| And them was the days that a good
|
| Cow-punch
|
| Could oil up his insides
|
| Well they started in at Kentucky Bar
|
| At
|
| The head of Whisky Row
|
| And they wound her up at the Depot House
|
| About forty drinks
|
| Below
|
| Well they sets 'em up and they turns around
|
| And they started in the other
|
| Way
|
| And to tell the God-forsaken truth
|
| Them boys got drunk that day
|
| They was
|
| On their way, goin' back to camp
|
| A-packin' that awful load
|
| When who should they meet but
|
| The Devil himself
|
| Come a-traipsin' down the road
|
| He says, «You ornery cowboy
|
| Skunks
|
| You better go hunt for your holes
|
| 'Cause I’ve come up from Hell’s rim
|
| Rock
|
| Just to gather in your souls
|
| «The Devil be damned,» says Buster
|
| Jiggs
|
| «Us boys is a little bit tight;
|
| But you don’t go gatherin' no cowboys'
|
| Souls
|
| Without one helluva fight.»
|
| Now Buster Jiggs could ride like hell
|
| And
|
| Throw a lasso, too
|
| So he threw it over the Devil’s horns
|
| And he took his dallies
|
| True
|
| Now Sandy Bob was a reata man
|
| With his gut-line coiled up neat;
|
| But he
|
| Shook her out and he builds a loop
|
| And he roped the Devils hind feet
|
| Well they
|
| Stretches him out and they tails him down
|
| While the running-irons were getting hot
|
| And
|
| They cropped and swallow-forked his ears
|
| And they branded him up a lot
|
| Well they
|
| Trimmed his horns way down to his head
|
| Tied ten knots in his tail for a joke
|
| Then they
|
| Went off and left him there
|
| Tied up to a little pin oak
|
| Now when you’re high in the
|
| Sierry Peaks
|
| And you hear one hell of a wail
|
| Well you know it’s just the Devil
|
| Himself
|
| Yellin' 'bout them knots in his tail |