Life on the Trail

 

Hi, my name is Tom Morgan

A cowboy of note

With my old battered hat

And my weather-beaten long coat

I have ridden the range

For almost fifty years

A life full of laughter

Along with some tears

With two trusty colt forty-fives

That hangs down by my side

And they have come in pretty handy

As I have ridden far and wide

My fellow cowboys and me

Have traveled many a mile

Throughout our lifetimes

With good cheer and a smile

Trail herding steers

A few thousand head at a time

Over thousands of miles

In the dust and the grime

Sleeping out under the Moon and the Stars

My faithful horse Old Blackie and me

Covered up in my blanket against the wind and the rain

And with Steers as far as the eye could see

 

Always on the lookout against rustlers and the like

Waking up with a stiff back and a fart

Looking forward to reaching the end of the drive

Heading straight for a bath and fun with a bawdy house tart

Though life was hard in the saddle

My backside sore day by day

Many an adventure was had

In a sad kind of way

Rounding up strays, that had a mind of their own

Or fighting off Indians gone bad

All of that hard tack, bacon and beans did us no good at all

And the loneliness at night rather sad

But I had always wanted to be a cowboy

Since I was a child

Ran away from home at fourteen

I was restless and wild

Got into a gunfight at the age of eighteen

With an outlaw named Bad Jack Mc'Graw

But my hands were faster as I went for my guns

I beat him hands down to the draw

You never forget the first time you kill another man

No matter how bad he might be

As the bullets quickly ripped into his chest, body oozing life

All I could think of was stopping him killing me

 

Though it was a fair gunfight

He had drawn down on me first

From that sad afternoon

I was forever cursed

As being the man who had killed Bad Jack Mc'Graw

Now known as the fastest gun alive

I disappeared into the shadows settling for life on the range

So as to have a better chance to survive

Because there’s always someone faster, quicker on the draw

Your life can be cut very short have no fear

And I wanted to live more than anything else at eighteen

Not killed by someone’s six-guns you might hear

So I took up a cowboy’s life, found me a reliable horse

That’s how me and Old Blackie got acquainted you see

Now we have been together for many a year

Against the world just him and me

Now we ride the range, inseparable, always together 

Against the elements we struggle, the heat and the rain

But though our life is hard and full of excitement and danger

We live it daily, again and again

Pony Express

 

My name is Richard Egan

I’m eighteen years of age

if I was in a comic book

I would leap out from the page.

 

My adventures would enthral you

keep you on your toes

what you would make of me

Dear God only knows.

 

The date is January 27th in the 1860th year

the advert wanted men

who said they knew no fear

Pony Express riders, anyone could apply

being young and daring

I thought I’d give it a try

 

The job was to deliver mail

between Missouri and California

to arrive in ten days time

rough riding through the vast terrain

I would need to be in my prime.

 

With my trusty army colt revolvers

hanging by my side

with a sheath knife just for back up

I’d cross the great divide.

 

A trusty steed was needed

who could run and run all day

strong in heart and sound of limb

he’d be there come what may.

 

With Wild Bill Hickock and Buffalo Bill

I had some famous friends

they went on to fame and fortune

that where the story ends.

 

Stabbed twice and shot four times

left to die on two occasions

but made it through along with the mail

to me they were just abrasions.

 

Me, I rode for a number of years

fighting Indians the elements and the pain

risking life and limb

with very little gain.

 

Except my special self respect

for doing something well

because when the mail was delivered

the townsfolk thought it swell.

 

I was one of the lucky ones

lived beyond my teens

now an old man of many years

have lived to tell the tale it seems.

 

Chawathka

 

The Indian brave rides all alone

Beneath the mountains made of stone

Under the clouds that go sailing by

With heavy heart and occasional tear he will cry

Lost many tribesmen during the Indian wars

Though white men he killed by the scores

A war of hate from both sides

That’s why a lonely path he now rides

A fearless warrior, a commanding chief

Who had to lead his people through all the grief

See women and children killed at will

Many terrible sights he see’s still

Now he wanders in his buckskin clothes day and night

With his feather in his hair an awesome sight

With his trusted pony his only friend

He will now roam until his end

Chawathka, a last remnant of the Great Plains war

Now he rides and thinks what was it all for

Was it worth all the sacrifice

His people paid a terrible price

As they fought for freedom from the whites

But he still has nightmares during his lonely nights

And he will wander until his dying day

Under the Sun and Moon, riding every which way

The Last Gunfight

 

My name is Wild Bill

a gunfighter at will

I live by the gun

friends, family I have none

 

Kill or be killed I may

is the order of the day

two guns in my belt, one each side

butt ends pointing out quite wide

 

In Dodge City  I am the law

the fastest guns you ever saw

live by my wits and slight of hand

to stay alive in this fair land

 

Today an outlaw has come to town

swearing loudly he’s going to gun me down

so at noon out on the street

is when he wants us both to meet

 

Its eleven o’clock, so off I stride

my two trusty pistol’s safely at my side

to Sara Jane’s parlour to partake

some coffee and a slice of cake

 

Enjoy my repast until I am ready

and make sure my hands are steady

one minute to twelve so out I go

into the street no crowd in tow

 

Walk out into the Sun to meet my foes

Texas Jack as his name goes

has two compadres at his side

walk towards them, no place to hide

 

Twenty yards apart we stop and stare

three against one, not very fair

they make their move so I draw my gun

in seconds, three dead men lay in the Sun

 

As I walk away the undertaker Joe Luck

moves towards me saying that’s a buck

to bury them up in boot hill

buried deep so quiet, so still

 

The Stage arrives I climb inside

now I just need to ride

Deadwood my next destination you see

unknown to me, oblivion is my destiny

 

Abilene

 

She is a dance hall singer in old Abilene

The toughest town the west’s ever seen

With a body for breakfast every day of the week

Where even the sheriff  is rarely found

Those that were are now underground

Boot Hill in littered with the flotsam of the west

Whose tales of daring are exaggerated at best

But Belle was the star of the Old Pokey Saloon

Where life began at midnight and ran until noon

Wild Bill Hickock a frequent guest

Tried his luck at the tables two guns in his vest

Many a time he had to draw fast

More than his cards or his life wouldn’t last

But Belle was above this her voice like a dream

To many a cowboy   an Angel it would seem

So long in the saddle riding the range as they may

To the cowboys she was such a relief  at the end of the day

Many man tried to molest her it seems

But in reality she was just part of their every day dreams

Because she was in love with the sheriff,  Luke Longhorn,  her beau

It was he she returned to after each show

As time went by they married had kids galore

But most of the others became memories of western folklore

 

Belle

She is a dance hall singer in old Abilene

The toughest town the west’s ever seen

With a body for breakfast every day of the week

Where even the sheriff  is rarely found

Those that were are now underground

Boot Hill in littered with the flotsam of the west

Whose tales of daring are exaggerated at best

But Belle was the star of the Old Pokey Saloon

Where life began at midnight and ran until noon

Wild Bill Hickock a frequent guest

Tried his luck at the tables two guns in his vest

Many a time he had to draw fast

More than his cards or his life wouldn’t last

But Belle was above this her voice like a dream

To many a cowboy   an Angel it would seem

So long in the saddle riding the range as they may

To the cowboys she was such a relief  at the end of the day

Many man tried to molest her it seems

But in reality she was just part of their every day dreams

Because she was in love with the sheriff,  Luke Longhorn,  her beau

It was he she returned to after each show

As time went by they married had kids galore

But most of the others became memories of western folklore

Johnny Rhondo

 

The fastest gun alive am I

never intend to quit or die

I’ve killed men for fun and fame

to me it’s just an exciting game.

 

Two forty-fives one on each side

hang on my hips, make sure they slide

from there holsters, real quick but straight

if I draw slow it will be to late.

 

When bullets fly and hit there mark

death arrives, your world is dark

never intend that it should be me

so a killer I will always be.

 

But luck runs out sometimes its true

someone is faster, more daring than you

if I meet my match my maker will

bury me deep up on Boot Hill

 

I walk a path that will always mean

Friends are never what they seem

always aware of the price on my head

and a lot of people wish me dead.

 

It’s a lonely life that’s for sure

sometimes I wish for something more

but realize that can never be

to kill is the only way to be free.

 

Pinkerton men are on my trail

I ride for miles through snow and hail

reach Abilene a frontier town

no doubt someone will try to gun me down.

 

Hitch my horse outside the store

bullets needed, must get more

as I walk across the street

theirs is no sound, that kinda neat.

 

In a moment more I will know why

as the bullets begin to fly

Pinkerton's have lain in wait

now I know my final fate. 

 

As I draw and fire my gun

bullets hit me one by one

slump to my knees down in the street

my chest hurts now I see the blood secrete.

 

In the dirt my life fuel drains

I feel further darting pains

as more bullets hit the mark

things cloud over, it becomes dark.

 

My spirit rises and looks down

at the figure on the ground

I realize it must be me

my dead body I can see.

 

The end comes to us all in time

but mine came whilst I was in my prime

at thirty one, just for the papers page

Johnny Rondo died in a rage.

 

Twenty or more years ago

that scene happened I can’t let go

if you visit Abilene

a ghostly figure can be seen.

 

In the street just walking tall

six guns quiet they’ve done it all

a whispering figure who can it be

don’t worry folks its only me.