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HIGH CHIN BOB

 

    'WAY high up in the Mokiones, among the mountain tops,

    A lion cleaned a yearling's bones and licks his thankful chops;

    And who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope,

    But High Chin Bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope.

        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "an' fame's unfadin' flowers;

        I ride my good top hoss today and I'm top hand of Lazy-J,

        So, kitty-cat, you're ours!"

    The lion licked his paws so brown, and dreamed soft dreams of veal,

    As High Chin's rope came circlin' down and roped him round his meal;

    She yowled quick fury to the world and all the hills yelled back;

    That top horse gave a snort and whirled and Bob took up the slack.

        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "we'll hit the glory trail.

        No man has looped a lion's head and lived to drag the critter dead

        Till I shall tell the tale."

    'Way high up in the Mokiones that top hoss done his best,

    'Mid whippin' brush and rattlin' stones from canon-floor to crest;

    Up and down and round and cross Bob pounded weak and wan,

    But pride still glued him to his hoss and glory spurred him on.

        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "this glory trail is rough!

        But I'll keep this dally round the horn until the toot of judgment

        morn

        Before I'll holler 'nough!"

    Three suns had rode their circle home, beyond the desert rim,

    And turned their star herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim;

    And whenever Bob turned and hoped the limp remains to find,

    A red-eyed lion, belly roped, but healthy, loped behind!

        "Oh, glory be to me," says Bob, "he caint be drug to death!

        These heroes that I've read about were only fools that stuck it

        out

        To the end of mortal breath."

    'Way high up in the Mokiones, if you ever camp there at night,

    You'll hear a rukus among the stones that'll lift your hair with

        fright;

    You'll see a cow-hoss thunder by--a lion trail along,

    And the rider bold, with his chin on high, sings forth his glory song:

        "Oh, glory be to me!" says he, "and to my mighty noose.

        Oh, pardner, tell my friends below I took a ragin' dream in tow,

        And if I didn't lay him low, I never turned him loose!"

                             _From oral rendition._