Chat without sighin

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The language is true to his free-roving spirit and gives insight to the code he lived by -- the things he expected of himself." According to Austin and Alta Fife, Clark wrote it while living on a ranch near Tombstone, Arizona, and it was first published in The Pacific Monthly, December of 1906. White, in Git Along Little Dogies, notes that Tex Ritter used to recite the poem against the music of "The Cowboy's Dream," and that Clark had it stolen from him and put on postcards as "Anonymous" so many times that he made a collection of more than sixty thievings from his original.

'Way high up the Mogollons, Among the mountain tops, A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones And licked his thankful chops, When on the picture who should ride, A-trippin' down a slope, But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride And mav'rick hungry rope.

We loved each other in the way men do And never spoke about it, Al and me, But we both knowed, and knowin' it so true Was more than any woman's kiss could be. He'd miss the sunny range he used to ride, And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.

We knowed--and if the way was smooth or rough, The weather shine or pour, While I had him the rest seemed good enough-- But he ain't here no more! It's no use thinkin'--all I'd think or say Could never make it clear.

[...] Thorp remarks: "This song was brought to Santa Fe by Henry Herbert Knibbs, who got it from Southern Arizona, where it was sung by the cowboys." John A.

Lomax also prints a "cowboy version" of "The Glory Trail" in Wonder why I feel so restless; Moon is shinin' still and bright, Cattle all is restin' easy, But I just kain't sleep tonight.

Oh I just kaint stand it thinkin; Of the things that happened then. Bunch the deserts together, Hang three suns in the vault; Scorch the lizards to leather, Strangle the springs with salt.

I fly with a buzzard feather, I dig me wells with a spur, And snakes may famish and fry But I Cross that desert to her! I seem the only thing on earth that cares 'Cause Al ain't here no more!

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'" Three suns had rode their circle home Beyond the desert's rim, And turned their star-herds loose to roam The ranges high and dim; Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross Bob pounded, weak and wan, For pride still glued him to his hawse And glory drove him on.'Way high up the Mogollons A prospect man did swear That moon dreams melted down his bones And hoisted up his hair: A ribby cow-hawse thundered by, A lion trailed along, A rider, ga'nt but chin on high, Yelled out a crazy song.

Just let me live my life as I've begun And give me work that's open to the sky; Make me a pardner of the wind and sun, And I won't ask a life that's soft or high.

Let me be easy on the man that's down; Let me be square and generous with all.

One night when I was washing my pots and kettles I heard the boys around the fire discussing a cow-puncher over in the mountains, who, the week before, had roped a bobcat and 'drug' it to death.

The boys spent some time swapping expert opinions on the incident, so it stuck in my mind, incubated, and eventually hatched out The Glory Trail.

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