There's a cotton muse
in the bunkhouse tonight
There's a pinto's
head hangin' low
His furs and shouts hang on the wall
If he's gone,
where'd the good cowboys go?
There's a range for every cowboy,
where the foreman takes
care of his own.
There'll be an empty saddle tonight,
but he's happy up there, I know.
He was riding the range
last Saturday noon
When a norther had started to blow
His head in his chest
heading into the west
He was stopped by a cry soft and low
That a crazy young calf
had strayed from his maw
And was lost in the snow and the storm.
He lay in a heap at the end
of the draw,
Huddled all in a bunch to keep warm.
Lampy hobbled his feet,
tossed him over his horse,
And started again for the Shire
But the wind got cold and
the snow piled up
And poor Lampy strayed from his tribe
He arrived at three in the morning
and put the maverick to bed.
He flopped in his bunk,
not able to move.
This morning Olympe was dead.
There's a cot unused
in the bunkhouse tonight.
There's a penthose head hanging low.
His spurs and chaps hang
on the wall,
Limpy's gone where the
good cowboys go.
There's a place for every cowboy
who has that kind of love.
And someday he'll ride open,
though again,
on that range up there above.