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'Twas in the town o' Jacksboro, in the spring o' seventy-three |
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A man by the name o' Crego come steppin' up to me |
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Said how d'you do young fellers, and how'd you like to go |
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And spend one summer pleasantly on the range o' the buffalo |
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It's me bein' out of employment, to ol' Crego I did say |
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This goin' out on the buffalo range, depends upon the pay |
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But if you'll pay good wages, and transportation too |
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I think sir I will go with you to the range o' the buffalo |
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Well it's now we've crossed Pease River boys, our troubles they have begun |
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First old stinker that I cut - Christ how I cut my thumb |
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While skinnin' the dog-gone ol' buffalo, our lives they had no show |
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For the Indians watched to pick us off, while skinnin' the buffalo |
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The season bein' near over, ol' Crego he did say |
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The crowd had been extravagant, was in debt to him that day |
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We coaxed him an' we argued, but still it was no go |
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We left his damned ol' bones to bleached on the range o' the buffalo |
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It's now we've crossed Pease River, and homeward we are bound |
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No more in that old fire country, will ever we be found |
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Go back to our wives and sweethearts, tell others not to go |
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For God's forsaken the buffalo range, and the damn ol' buffalo |
