"Tell us how it happened any way John," Bud Perkins said.
"Give us the story of it."
"Go on John. Sing about the cowboy," Peter Slater coaxed.
"It iss a teffle of a good song, that," chuckled Tonald.
"Well," John began, clearing his throat, "here it's for
you. I've ruined me voice drivin' oxen though, but here's
the song."
It was a song of the plains, weird and wistful, with an
uncouth plaintiveness that fascinated these lonely
hill-dwellers.
As I was a-walkin' one beautiful morning,
As I was a-walkin' one morning in May,
I saw a poor cowboy rolled up in his blanket,
Rolled up in his blanket as cold as the clay!
The listener would naturally suppose that the cowboy was
dead in his blanket that lovely May morning; but that
idea had to be abandoned as the song went on, because
the cowboy was very much alive in the succeeding verses,
when--
Round the bar bummin' where bullets were hummin'
He snuffed out the candle to show why he come!
Then his way of giving directions for his funeral was
somewhat out of the usual procedure but no one seemed to
notice these little discrepancies--
Beat the drum slowly boys, beat the drum lowly boys,
Beat the dead march as we hurry along.
To show that ye love me, boys, write up above me, boys,
"Here lies a poor cowboy who knows he done wrong."
In accordance with a popular custom, John SPOKE the last
two words in a very slow and distinct voice.
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