(The Cowpuncher to His Pony)
You bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun,
Ye're a hard little beast to break,
But ye're good fer the fiercest kind of run
An' ye're quick as a rattlesnake.
You jolted me good when first we met,
In the dust of the bare corral,
An' neither one of us will ferget
The fight that we fit, old pal.
But now--well, say, old hoss, if John
D. Rockefeller shud come
With all of the riches his paws are on
An' want to buy you, you bum,
I'd laugh in his face an' pat yer neck,
An' say to him loud an' strong,
"I wouldn't sell you this durned old wreck
Fer all of yer cash--so long!
Fer we have slept on the barren plains,
An' cuddled against the cold,
We've been through tempests of drivin' rains
When the heaviest thunder rolled;
We've raced with fire on the "lone prairee,"
An' run from the mad stampede;
An' there ain't no money can buy from me
A pard of yer style an' breed.
So I reckon we'll stick together, pard,
Till one of us cashes in.
Ye're wiry an' tough an' mighty hard,
An' homlier, too, than sin;
But yer head's all there an' yer heart's all right,
An' you've been a good pardner, too.
An' if you've a soul it's clean and white--
You ugly old scoundrel, you!