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The Cowboy's Lament / The Bard of Armagh
Information abounds on the history of "The Cowboy's Lament," and there are many versions, variations, and parodies (and titles, such as "Streets of Laredo" and "The Dying Cowboy").
In Don Edwards' Classic Cowboy Songs, he includes a version and comments, "I heard a version by James Baker, who was known as "Iron Head" by his prison mates in the Texas State Penitentiary. His was the first African-based version I'd heard. I believe the version printed here is one of the most obscure versions known lyric-wise. I have tired to mix both the Irish and the African influences into the same song."
The respected reference book, Git Along Little Dogies, by John I. White, includes his comment, "Owen Wister, Lin McLean (...1898)...appears to have been the first to put these famous lines between the covers of a book. Ten years later, N. Howard Thorp included six stanzas and a chorus in his pioneer anthology Songs of the Cowboys ... using the title 'Cow Boys Lament.' In their book reviewing Thorp's work....Austin and Alta Fife describe 'The Cowboy's Lament' as 'The most famous of all cowboy songs' ... and devote forty-three pages to its long and colorful history."
In the book referred to by John I. White, Songs of the Cowboys..., edited by Austin E. and Alta S. Fife (1966), they note, "For his 1921 edition, Thorp abandoned the 1908 text for [John] Lomax's longer and smoother synthetic text, which has had much more influence upon the twentieth century singing of the song than it deserves. The seven stanzas of 1908 have a stamp of authenticity and realism that Lomax's bowdlerization loses."
Following are the versions that appear in Thorp's 1908 edition and the 1921 edition:
The Cow Boys Lament
'Twas once in my saddle I used to be happy
'Twas once in my saddle I used to be gay
But I first took to drinking, then to gambling
A shot from a six-shooter took my life away.
My curse let it rest, rest on the fair one
Who drove me from friends that I loved and from home
Who told me she loved me, just to deceive me
My curse rest upon her, wherever she roam.
Oh she was fair, Oh she was lovely
The belle of the Viliage the fairest of all
But her heart was as cold as the snow on the mountains
She gave me up for the glitter of gold.
I arrived in Galveston in old Texas
Drinking and gambling I went to give o'er
But, I met with a Greaser and my life he has finished
Home and relations I ne'er shall see more.
Send for my father, Oh send for my mother
Send for the surgeon to look at my wounds
But I fear it is useless I feel I am dying
I'm a young cow-boy cut down in my bloom.
Farewell my friends, farewell my relations
My earthly career has cost me sore
The cow-boy ceased talking, they knew he was dying
His trials on earth, forever were o'er.
Chor. Beat your drums lightly, play your fifes merrily
Sing your dearth march as you bear me along
Take me to the grave yard, lay the sod o'er me
I'm a young cow-boy and know I've done wrong.
(from the 1908 edition of Songs of the Cowboys, typographical errors unchanged)
Songs of the Cowboys, compiled by N. Howard Thorp ("Jack" Thorp), Estancia, New Mexico, News Print Shop, 1908
Mark L. Gardner sings and plays "The Cow Boy's Lament" in the style it would have been heard in 1908, on a period instrument, on the CD that accompanies the 2005 Jack Thorp's Songs of the Cowboys (see our feature here).
The Cowboy's Lament
Authorship credited to Troy Hale, Battle Creek, Nebraska. I first heard it sung
in a bar-room at Wisner, Nebraska, about 1886. [Thorp's note]As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen,
Wrapped up in white linen and cold as the clay."Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,
Play the Dead March as you bear me along;
Take me to the graveyard, and lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm a young cowboy, and I know I've done wrong.
"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy,"—
These words he did say as I boldly stepped by.—
"Come sit beside me and hear my sad story;
I was shot in the breast and I know I must die.
"Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin,
Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song,
Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod over me,
For I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong."My friends and relation they live in the Nation,
They know not where their boy has gone.
He first came to Texas and hired to a ranchman,
Oh, I'm a young cowboy, and I know I've done wrong."Go write a letter to my gray-haired mother,
And carry the same to my sister so dear;
But not a word shall you mention
When a crowd gathers round you my story to hear.There is another more dear than a sister,
She'll bitterly weep when she hears I am gone.
There is another who will win her affections,
For I'm a young cowboy, and they say I've done wrong."Go gather around you a crowd of young cowboys
And tell them the story of this my sad fate;
Tell one and the other before they go further
To stop their wild roving before 't is too late."Oh muffle your drums, then play your fifes merrily;
Play the Dead March as you bear me along.
And fire your guns right over my coffin;
There goes an unfortunate boy to his home."It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing,
It was once in the saddle I used to be gay;
First to the dram-house and then to the card-house:
Got shot in the breast , I am dying to-day."Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin;
Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall;
Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall.
"Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly,
And give a wild whoop as you bear me along;
And in the grave throw me, and roll the sod over me,
For I'm a young cowboy, and I know I've done wrong."Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water
To cool my parched lips," the young cowboy said.
Before I turned, the spirit had left him
And gone to its Giver—the cowboy was dead.We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,
And bitterly wept as we bore him along;
For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome;
We all loved our comrade, although he'd done wrong(from the 1921 edition of Songs of the Cowboys)
Songs of the Cowboys, compiled by N. Howard Thorp ("Jack" Thorp)
with an introduction by Alice Corbin Henderson. Boston, New York, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1921See our feature and selections from this book here.
Here is one short version of the 18th century Irish ballad, "The Bard of Armagh" (also known as "The Unfortunate Rake," "Phelim Brady," and by other titles).
The Bard of Aramagh
"Oh, list to the lay of a poor Irish harper,
And scorn not the strains of his old withered hand,
But remember the fingers could once move sharper
To raise the merry strains of his dear native land;
It was long before the shamrock our dear isle's loved emblem.
Was crushed in its beauty 'neath the Saxon Lion's paw
I was called by the colleens of the village and valley
Bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh."See another version, with audio, here: http://ingeb.org/songs/ohlistto.html
There are a number of recordings that present both "The Bard of Armagh" and "The Cowboy's Lament," including including Michael Martin Murphey's outstanding version on his Cowboy Classics Playing Favorites II CD; Cowboy Celtic's version on their Cowboy Ceilidh CD; and another by Ken and Lynne Mikell on their Shamrocks and Horseshoes recording.
Reflections of an Irish Cowboy
It's a road leading nowhere for as far as you can see,
winding its way through an early morning haze
It's a meadow looking greener in the spring and summer rains,
the cattle and some sheep that share the graze
It's the clouds that hand so low you feel you can touch them,
the smell of early morning on the breeze
It's the wind that never stops, it blows for days on end,
wild and raw, but sometimes gentle as the rocking of the sea
The sun peeks through those broken clouds to dry the earth again,
and burns away the mist it's clear and free
It's a sentimental journey I take often in my mind
to a place that's ever home sweet home to me.It's the faces of the children in the schoolyard as they play,
I close my eyes and see it like it was yesterday
I see that little stream still flowing, never changing, cool and clear,
I'm caught up in old memories of a place I still hold dear.
The smoke-blackened chimneys that have warmed hearth and home
of the ageless little cottages built of gray native stone
And I can't forget the music, I hear 'pipes and fiddles play,
"Londonderry Air" still haunts me as I go along my way.
I remember the taste of the whiskey that set my mind awhirl,
'tis said it was invented so the Irish couldn't rule the world.
But with a heart as heavy as the famine on the land
I left behind that little island to ne'er return again.And knowing I was leaving everything I loved behind,
I faced a storm-tossed ocean not knowing what I'd find.
Watched the green fields fade behind me and I boldly looked away
to face the first part of the journey that brought me where I am today.
This new life on the prairie, this place they call "the West,"
God knows, it's strange and different, but I think it's for the best.
The days pass by so swiftly, it's the nights that move so slow,
I think back to bonnie Ireland and wish I hadn't had to go.
But I had to make some choices so I told them all goodbye
I think of that sad parting and a tear dimes in my eye.
It's those memories I carry through the years that turn me old
even out here on this prairie, it's always Ireland in my soul.© 2001, Doc Stovall
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
See our feature about Doc Stovall here.
Fair Blows the Wind
Fair blows the wind across these wide plains
Dear Lord how he misses sweet Rose
The love of his life from fair Dublin town
This bonnie young lass he loves so
He's lonesome tonight out on the long trail
Thinking of home and sweet Rose
The cattle are resting, the moon's sinking low
But his mind is on Ireland and Rose
CHORUS
He's singing, "Irish Rose, my sweet Irish Rose
Across the ocean of blue
Fair blows the wind across these wide plains
Blowing my love back to you"
Fair blows the wind across these wide plains
Thousands of miles from sweet Rose
She cried when he left, "I'll be waiting for you."
Then she kissed him and gave him a rose
CHORUS
He's singing, "Irish Rose, my sweet Irish Rose
Across the ocean of blue
Fair blows the wind across these wide plains
Blowing my love back to you"
BRIDGE
Fair blows the wind across these wide plains
He's thinking tonight of sweet Rose
The love of his life from fair Dublin town
This bonnie young lass he loves so...
CHORUS
He's singing, "Irish Rose, my sweet Irish Rose
Across the ocean of blue
Fair blows the wind across these wide plains
Blowing my love back to you"
My wild Irish Rose...© 1998, Gary Prescott, Line Camp Music, BMI, All rights reserved.
From the Embers of Time CD by Jean Prescott
Named the "Best Western Song" in 2005 by the Academy of Western Artists
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
See our feature about Jean Prescott here.
Johnny Has Gone for a Cowboy
She sits alone in her rocking chair,
a Spanish comb in her golden hair,
the gift of a lover so fine and fair.
Her Johnny has gone for a cowboy.
He came to her on a summer's day.
She knew at once that he would not stay.
She rued the hour he would ride away.
Her Johnny has gone for a cowboy.
She pledged her troth and she pledged her soul.
She pledged herself, entire and whole.
Her heart, it paid a shameful toll.
Her Johnny has gone for a cowboy.
She gave to him a love untold.
He took from her the silver and gold
to buy a mount full strong and bold.
Her Johnny has gone for a cowboy.
He spoke her soft and he spoke her fair.
He gave her a comb for her golden hair.
He rode away on a nightblack mare.
Her Johnny has gone for a cowboy.
She begged him stay but to no avail.
Her heart was lorn in her sad travail.
She lost her love to the cattle trail.
Her Johnny has gone for a cowboy.
'Neath the prairie sun and the prairie rain,
these long, long years her love is lain
in an unmarked grave on a grassy plain.
Her Johnny has gone for a cowboy.
She sits alone in her rocking chair,
a Spanish comb in her silver hair,
the gift of a lover so fine and fair.
Her Johnny has gone for a cowboy.© 2000, Jeff Streeby
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.Jeff tells us "This is based on a 15th century Irish widow's lament called "Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier." It has been set to music by Harry Wolf on his CD, This Ain't No Bull.
"Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier" is known by other names, including "Buttermilk Hill" and "Shule Aroon." One version is posted, with audio, here: http://www.earlyamerica.com/review/summer/johnny.html .
See our feature about Jeff Streeby here,
and his work-in-progress, Sunday Creek, here.
I Will Miss Ireland Forever
We buried me mother when I was seventeen,
Said good bye to County Kilkinney
Them me brothers and me sailed for America
When I left Ireland behind me.
Galen and Sean were fightin' Irish lads
They joined the horse soldier's army
I did the laundry for the officers and cads
When I left Ireland behind me.
Don't take me wrong, I left Ireland by choice.
But I miss the bloom on the heather,
And too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra in me mother's sad sweet voice,
Oh, I will miss Ireland forever.Galen died of fever when he was off at war,
Sean married a floozy called Meggy
He works on the railroad now, I don't see him no more
Since I left Ireland behind me.
Don't take me wrong, I left Ireland by choice.
But I miss the bloom on the heather,
And too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra in me mother's sad sweet voice,
Oh, I will miss Ireland forever.
I married a soldier, he seldom is around.
I bore him a red-headed daughter.
She stands by the river and wonders where it's bound
While I wash his clothes in the water.
Don't take me wrong, I left Ireland by choice.
But I miss the bloom on the heather,
And too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra in me mother's sad sweet voice,
Oh, I will miss Ireland forever.
I will miss Ireland forever.
© 1999, Juni Fisher/Red Geetar Music ASCAP
from Tumbleweed Letters
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
See our feature about Juni Fisher here.
An Irish Cowboy
There's a lilt of Irish laughter
'cross the prairie late tonight,
there's a melody of Ireland
'round the campfire's dimmin' light.
Though my mind is seein' shamrocks,
my eyes see scrub grass short
and I know that I'm in Texas,
but it's Ireland in my heart.
Neath a veil all bright and shiny
as I gaze up to the stars
tis the self-same sky I'm thinkin'
and it doesn't seem that far.
I can hear the gray wolf howlin'
like a banshee in the dark,
and I know that I'm in Texas
but it's Ireland in my heart.
All the herd is softly lowin'
on the wind I hear it now,
and it brings to mind a low Mass
for the sound's the same somehow.
And the smoke is slowly risin'
while the embers glow and spark,
and I know that I'm in Texas,
but it's Ireland in my heart.
Lord I thank You for all blessin's
and the life I live today.
I dreamed I'd be a ccowboy,
and you answered when I prayed.
And I love the path I've followed
though it meant I had to part,
and I'm proud to be in Texas
with Ol' Ireland in my heart.
© 2007, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
An Irish Cowboy's Song
Tis an Irish cowboy melody
'round the campfire's fadin' light
as a gentle air of fair colleen
calms a bedded herd tonight.
It's the end of day for beast and man
and a time for rest to come,
while a nighthawk rides around the herd
and a melody he hums.
Not a hand who lies upon that ground
is an Irishman asleep,
but ol' Erin's song's a welcomed one
for a nightly vigil's keep
For no fairer tune could take the place
of an Irish lullaby,
with a gentle grace and liltin' air
though a hundred angels try.
It's a gift that came from Ireland's sure
and it found a home out here,
as a part of cowboy life and lore
like the horse and longhorn steer
Not a rope, nor horse nor man out there
could have done the job alone,
nor controlled a restless herd each night
if it wasn't for a song.
Like an Irish cowboy melody
'round the campfire's fadin' light
as a gentle air of fair colleen
calms a bedded herd tonight.
© 2006, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.Read more of Rod Nichols' poetry here.
May those that love us, love us.
And those that don't love us,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn't turn their hearts,
May He turn their ankles
So we will know them by their limping.
