My love is a rider and broncos he breaks,
But he's given up riding and all for my sake;
For he found him a horse and it suited him so
He vowed he'd ne'er ride any other bronco.
My love has a gun, and that gun he can use,
But he's quit his gun fighting as well as his booze;
And he's sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope,
And there's no more cow punching, and that's what I hope.
My love has a gun that has gone to the bad,
Which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad;
For the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low,
And it wobbles about like a bucking bronco.
The cook is an unfortunate son of a gun;
He has to be up e'er the rise of the sun;
His language is awful, his curses are deep,—
He is like cascarets, for he works while you sleep.