Way high up in the Syree peaks
   where the yellow pines grow tall,
Sandy Bob and Buster Jiggs
   had a round-up camp last fall.

They took along their runnin’ irons
   and maybe a dog or two,
And they ‘lowed they’d brand every long-eared calf
   that came within their view.

Well, many a long-eared dogie
   that didn’t hush up by day
Had his long ears whitteled and his old hide scorched
   in a most artistic way.

Then one fine day said Buster Jiggs,
   as he throwed his cigo down:
"I 'm tired of cowpiography
   and I ‘lows I ‘m goin’ to town."

They saddles up and they hits them a lope,
   fer it weren’t no sight of a ride,
And ‘them was the days when an old cowhand
   could oil up his insides.

They started her out at Kentucky bar
   at the head of the Whisky Row,
And they winds her up at the Depot House,
   some forty drinks below.

They sets her up and turns her around
   and goes her the other way,
And to tell you the God-forsaken truth,
   them boys got drunk that day.

Well, as they was a-headin’ back to camp
   and packin’ a pretty good load,
Who should they meet but the Devil himself
   come prancin’ down that road.

Now the Devil he said: "You cowboy skunks,
   you better go hunt your hole,
‘Cause I come up from the hell’s rim-rock
   to gather in your souls."

Said Buster Jiggs: "Now we ‘re just from town
   an’ feelin' kind o’ tight,
And you ain’t get no cowboy souls
   without some kind of a fight."

So he punched a hole in his old throw-rope
   and he slings her straight and true,
And he roped the Devil right around the horn,
   he takes his dallies true.

Old Sandy Bob was a reata-man
   with his rope all coiled up neat,
But he shakes her out and builds him a loop
   and he roped the Devil’s hind feet.

They threw him down on the desert ground
   while the irons was a-gettin’ hot,
They cropped and swallow-forked his ears
   and branded him up a lot.

And they pruned him up with a dehorning saw
   and knotted his tail for a joke,
Rode off and left him bellowing there,
   tied up to a little pin-oak.

Well, if you ever travel in the Syree peaks
   and you hear one helluva wail,
You ‘ll know it ‘s nothin’ but the Devil himself,
   raisin’ hell about the knots in his tail.

Teamwork between two ways to use a lariat.

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Veröffentlicht 2007-11-11   /   Heiner Fischle, Hannover