Come give me your attention and see the right and wrong,
It is a simple story and it won't detain you long;
I'll try to tell the reason why we are bound to roam,
And why we are so friendless and never have a home.
My home is in the saddle, upon a pony's back,
I am a roving cowboy and find the hostile track;
They say I am a sure shot, and danger I always knew;
Now I often heard a story, which I'll relate to you.
In Eighteen-hundred and Sixty-three a little emigrant band
Was massacred by Indians, bound West by overland;
They scalped our noble soldiers, and the emigrants had to die,
And the only living captives were two small girls and I.
We were rescued from the Indians by a brave and noble man,
Who trailed the thieving Indians and fought them hand to hand;
He was noted for his bravery while on an enemy's track;
He had a noble history, his name is Texas Jack.
Old Jack could tell a story, if he were only here.
Of the trouble and the hardships of the Western pioneer;
He would tell you how our fathers and mothers lost their lives,
And how our aged parents were scalped before our eyes.
I am a roving cowboy, I've worked upon the trail,
I've shot the shaggy buffalo and heard the coyote's wail;
I have slept upon my saddle, all covered by the moon;
I expect to keep it up my friends, until I meet my doom.
I am a roving cowboy, my saddle is my home,
I'll always be a cowboy, no difference where I roam;
And like our noble heroes my help I'll volunteer,
And try to be of service to the Western pioneer.
~ Ezra Barheight, who lived it as it happened
