Echoes of the Trail Performers' Poems

I've never heard a cowboy
   sing out "woopie ti yi yo."
I've thought this situation over
   and there's things I'd like to know.
Where do these sayin's come from
   that no cowboy ever said?
I ain't never heard one say these things;
   I just guess it's things I've read.

And "ridin' down the canyon
   just to see the sun go down"?
Why! If he's ridin' out for pleasure
   he'd just ride on into town.
Cowboys get accused of things,
   and some just ain't true of course.
I bet you've never seen a cowboy
   stoop so low as to kiss his horse.

No cowboy ever come back:
   " When you say that to me, smile!"
It's most likely that he'd break his jaw
   and just lay him in the aisle.
"Pilgrim" ain't a word he'd use;
   he don't "mosey" anywhere.
His revolver only shoots six times,
   And no cowboy packs a pair.

That guitar he's a-strumming,
   as he rides along the trail;
I've always wondered where he puts it
   when he "ties up at the rail."
I've never seen a cowboy
   drinkin' "red-eye" by the shot.
I believe cold beer's his usual drink;
   bourbon also hits the spot.

I suppose some folks think they
   need to sweeten up the pot
and add some color to the cowboy
   just to make him what he's not.
Cowboys don't need buildin' up
   to show off their natural trait.
Although they're rough around the edge,
   that's the part that makes 'em great.

Whiskey Pete
by Gail T. Burton

She was just a little button,
   the day her Mama died,
and Whiskey Pete, the Cowboy,
   grit his teeth but never cried.
He just stood there at the grave side,
   red eyed with whiskey breath,
tryin' to figure what to do;
   couldn't face the pain of death.

Next day he stumbled from his bed
   in an alcoholic haze,
facing the reality
   that he had a child to raise.
With no words he fixed her breakfast,
   cleaned the house up by-and-by,
read stories to his daughter;
   still the cowboy didn't cry.

He was "Whiskey Pete the Cowboy,"
   he'd been called that since his youth.
He'd earned the name they called him,
   if you really want the truth.
But he'd won the heart of someone;
   someone decent, full of life.
And tho' she knew his failings,
   she had still become his wife.

And he loved her with a passion
   that he couldn't hold inside,
and with the baby's coming
   he was all filled up with pride.
But he'd never stopped his drinkin',
   he was "Whiskey Pete," ya' see.
He's cowboy rough and ready
   and he's cowboy tough and free.

But that evening found him silent,
   thinking through the life ahead;
The job she'd left unfinished
   and the things his wife had said.
So next day he dressed his daughter,
   fixed her breakfast, combed her hair,
took her with him out to work
   ridin' on a gentle mare.

They fed cattle in the winter,
   checked on cows when calves were due,
greased windmills in the spring time
   while the months and seasons flew.
They learned to cook together,
   even learned to sew a bit
while altering tack and clothing
   so they'd get better fit.

He's still Whiskey Pete the Cowboy,
   tho' he didn't drink at all,
now he's always "Mister Mom,"
   4-H, church, and basketball.
Oh, they laughed a lot together,
   but sometimes he dried her tears,
and they kept ridin' side by side
   as the months turned into years.

He was rough and he was ready
   and the girl rode by his side,
but every bit a lady
   with her daddy there to guide.
He would help her with her homework,
   wash her clothes or braid her hair,
answer questions 'bout her life;
   always dealin' on the square.

They sat their caps for Whiskey Pete,
   but no girl could find his heart.
He was raisin' up a daughter --
   and were seldom far apart.
He often thought about his wife,
   as he watched the evening sky,
and oft times felt her presence.
   Still the cowboy didn't cry.

Then like a fairy tale he came,
   tho' he'd been there all her life.
A rancher's son, a cowboy;
   she became a rancher's wife.
This young girl was now a woman
   with no flaw that you could see;
A tribute to her mother;
   you could trust this guarantee.

Wedding bells were softly ringing,
   as he walked her down the aisle,
and Whiskey Pete the Cowboy
   was decked out in his best smile.
Then he gave her hand in marriage
   as the cowboy pledged his love,
and knew the match was perfect;
   like arrangements made above.

The child was on her honeymoon,
   the house all quiet again,
and Whiskey Pete the Cowboy
   felt that old familiar pain.
He stood there with a photograph
   of the one who'd been his bride
and he said, "We've done our best."
   After twenty years ... he cried.

Pard
   by Donna Penley

He saved my life one stormy night, when the rain was pourin' down;
   Hailstones big as fighter's fists, lightnin' striking all around.

The cattle bawled in pain and fright, then they began t' run;
   An' the little horse beneath me knew his work had just begun.
Not waiting for a cue from me, he made a calculated move;
   Ran down th' leaders of th' herd, his bravery did prove!

We turned th' cattle then, th' storm was almost past;
   But neither I nor th' mustang saw the deep crevasse --
It seemed a long time that we fell, but we landed in soft ooze.
   "Thank God for the rain," I said. We were only cut an' bruised.

Th' steers that we had turned looked down at us an' bawled;
   "Come on, Pard," I told th' horse, "Ya have ta give your all."
And give his all he did. We fought our way t' higher ground;
   An' hour of slippin' and slidin', we finally came around
To the place where we had fallen. Lookin' down I felt a chill.
   If we had fallen anwhere's else, we'd a both been killed.

We limped our way back to th' ranch, mighty glad to be alive;
   An' when I told our story, I told th' boys with pride --
"This here little mustang's gonna leave th' string,
   'Cause I'm buying him from the boss when I get paid this spring."
Yes, he saved my life on a stormy night when the' rain was fallin' down,
   Hailstones big as fighter's fists, and lightnin', cloud t' ground!
Now little Pard belongs t' me. He's in my personal string.
   An' I know that if I ask 'im, he can do most anything!

Y' Ain't No Cowboy Yet
   By Donna Penley

You got a look about y', son, that th' city girls adore;
   Those boot cut jeans an' palm weave hat --
But, a cowboy's so much more!

You think you're quite a hand, t' hear y' talk and blow;
   But, yore boots are too shiny an' y' smell too good --
So here's some things I wanta know:

Do y' know one end of a horse from another?
   Can y' use that lariat? If y' can't tie a calf in under ten,
Then y' ain't no cowboy yet!

Do y' know th' names of th' boss' best cows?
   Know th' date their calves are due?
Know how to doctor a dogie while mama's there, wantin' a piece o' you?

Do y' get along with yore regular mount, like yore two minds have met?
   Can y' count on him t' come through in a pinch?
If not, ya ain't no cowboy yet!

Well, pard, I could expound -- on an' on I'd go;
   But there's more t' bein a cowboy
Than dancin' to Cotton Eyed Joe.

So I wish y' well in yore endeavors;
   I'm glad that we two met --
But I'll tell y' pard, here's my true opinion --

Y' AIN'T NO COWBOY YET!

Fletcher, the Cow Catcher
   By Donna Penley

We spent long days together, ol' Fletcher an' me;
   Workin cattle on a ranch -- We were a team, you see!
No steer could get away from us, or leave th' herd behind.
   Fletch an' me was a team. You could say we were of one mind.

There were times I ate while on th' run; workin cattle was our life.
   Sometimes Fletcher didn't get his oats 'til way into th' night.
Then came th' day that cowboyin' didn't seem like so much fun;
   An' me an' Fletcher realized that a new life had begun.

So Fletcher an' I, we parted ways, an' sad it was, that day;
   His broomstick tail almost worn out, from draggin' all that way.
I look in on him now an' then, give his head a pat;
   Tell him about my real horse, an' he's happy with all that!

Ol' Fletcher rests in a corner, his paint still bright an' gay --
   Waitin' for another little wrangler t' take him out to play.
But I'll never forget those magic days we worked cattle in th' sun --
   An' if there's a stick horse heaven, ol' Fletcher's place is won!

The Cowboy Country Salute
   By Cliff Sexton, 11/19/97

Have you ever noticed
   When you travel farm an' ranch roads
The salutation you receive?
   It's the Cowboy Country code. When you meet a feller
   Comin' the other way,
An' he waves a salute,
   To wish you a good day. An' when you send a letter,
   You post a greeting at the top,
Why not do the same when
   You're off of the black top? It seems like, to me,
   It's a natural thing to wave.
Shows folks you respect 'em,
   An' that you're well behaved. RESPECT ... ummh, there's a word
   We need to practice more.
If we'd show more of IT,
   Folks might not act so sore. Respect in farm country is
   A nod, a wave, a tip of the hat.
City folks and town people
   Don't seem to understand that. They see other folks as obstacles,
   Just objects in their way.
By recognizin' an' respectin' folks,
   They'd learn the Cowboy Country way. Be it far from me to say
   The city folks are wrong,
But out on the ranch roads
   Where folks wave to show their respect
IS WHERE I'M PROUD TO CALL HOME