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Got him down, and in the scrimmage
  Felt my lasso on the ground,
Tied his legs and bent him over,
  Bound him like he’s sittin’ down;
Hustled quick to mount my pony,
  Threw the loose end round the horn,
Thought I’d learn that Mr. Johnson
  He’d missed out in bein’ born. 
Then I dragged him on the prairie,
  Through a Turk’s Head cactus bed,
Prickly pears and shoestring bushes,—­
  ’Twasn’t decent what he said. 
He’s so dev’lish fond of settin’,
  Thought I’d fix his settin’ end
So’s he’d be more kinder careful
  Settin’ by that girl again.

[Illustration:  “Then I dragged him on the prairie Through a Turk’s Head cactus bed.”]

THE DISAPPOINTMENT

1

There’s a feeling in my bosom,
  Like a hound that’s lost the game,
After chasing over bunch grass
  Till his feet are sore and lame. 
I am standing by her dug-out,
  Open stands the sagging door;
Every grassblade speaks of Nancy,
  But she’s gone, to come no more. 
For her father and her mother,
  And her brothers, late last night,
Loaded up their prairie schooner,
  And vamoosed the ranch, ’fore light. 
‘Taint no use to stand here cussin’,
  But my heart slumps down like lead
When I think of losing Nancy
  And to know my dreams are dead.

2

It was here I held you, Nancy,
  When I showed you all my heart;
When I told you I would always
  Be your friend and take your part. 
Oh, I thought that in life’s lottery
  I had drawn the biggest prize,
When I kissed you there that evening
  And looked down into your eyes;
For I never had such feelin’s
  Fill my hide clean through and through
Such a hungry, starving longing,
  To be always close to you. 
But you’ve gone with all your family,
  And I’m left to mourn my loss,
While the posse hunts your daddie,
  ’Cause he stole Bill Kelly’s hoss.

3

Now, I don’t know where you’re roaming,
  And I don’t know where’ll you’ll land;
But I wish you knew my feelin’s,
  And ’twas clear just how I stand: 
How the good Lord, high in heaven,
  Put a throbbing heart in here,
But it starts to pumping backwards
  When it feels that you don’t keer. 
I’m a roving old jay-hawker,
  Never caught like this before,
But I’d give my last possession
  For a glimpse of you once more. 
If we lose your old fool father
  Folks ’round here can stand the loss,
He was raised in old Missoura,
  Or he’d never stole that hoss.

[Illustration:  “I am standing by her dug-out, Open stands the sagging door.”]

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