Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LOVE LYRICS OF A COWBOY, by ROBERT V. CARR


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LOVE LYRICS OF A COWBOY, by                    
First Line: It hain't no use fer me to say
Last Line: "dog-gone a clock!"" is what I say."
Subject(s): Cowboys; Love; Ranch Life; West (u.s.); Southwest; Pacific States


IT hain't no use fer me to say
There's others with a style an' way
That beats hers to a fare-you-well,
Fer, on the square, I'm here to tell
I jes can't even start to see
But what she's perfect as kin be.
Fer any fault I finds excuse —
I'll tell you, pard, it hain't no use
Fer me to try to raise a hand,
When on my heart she's run her brand.

The bunk-house ain't the same to me;
The bunch jes makes me weary — Gee!
I never knew they was so coarse —
I warps my face to try to force
A smile at each old gag they spring;
Fer I'd heap ruther hear her sing
"Sweet Adeline," or softly play
The "Dream o' Heaven" that-a-way.
Besides this place, most anywhere
I'd ruther be — so she was there.

She called me "dear," an' do you know,
My heart jes skipped a beat, an' tho'
I'm hard to feaze, I'm free to yip
My reason nearly lost its grip.
She called me "dear," jes sweet an' slow,
An' lookin' down an' speakin' low;
An' if I had ten lives to live,
With everything the world could give,
I'd shake 'em all without one fear
If 'fore I'd go she'd call me "dear."

You wonders why I slicks up so
On Sundays, when I gits to go
To see her — well, I'm free to say
She's like religion that-a-way.
Jes sort o' like some holy thing,
As clean as young grass in the spring;
An' so before I rides to her
I looks my best from hat to spur —
But even then I hain't no right
To think I look good in her sight.

If she should pass me up — say, boy,
You jes put hobbles on your joy;
First thing you know, you gits so gay
Your luck stampedes and gits away.
An' don't you even start a guess
That you've a cinch on happiness;
Fer few e'er reach the Promised Land
If they starts headed by a band.
Ride slow an' quiet, humble, too,
Or Fate will slap its brand on you.

The old range sleeps, there hain't a stir.
Less it's a night-hawk's sudden whir,
Or cottonwoods a-whisperin' while
The red moon smiles a lovin' smile.
An' there I set an' hold her hand
So glad I jes can't understand
The reason of it all, or see
Why all the world looks good to me;
Or why I sees in it heap more
Of beauty than I seen before.

Fool talk, perhaps, but it jes seems
We're ridin' through a range o' dreams;
Where medder larks the year round sing,
An' it's jes one eternal spring.
An' time — why time is gone — by gee!
There's no such thing as time to me
Until she says, "Here, boy, you know
You simply jes have got to go;
It's nearly twelve." I rides away,
"Dog-gone a clock!" is what I say.





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