Little Joe the Wrangler,
he'll wrangle nevermore.
His days with the remuda, they're all done.
It was long about last April,
he rode into our camp.
Just a little Texas stray and all alone.
It was long late in the evening when he rode
into our camp,
on a little old brown pony he called Shaw.
In his brogand shoes and coveralls,
a harder looking kid,
you never in your life have seen
before.
His saddle was a southern cack,
built many years ago,
an okay spur on one foot idly hung.
With his bedroll in a cotton sack,
was loosely tied behind,
and a canteen from the saddle
horn he'd slung.
Said he had to leave his home because his pa had married twice,
his new ma beat him
every day or two.
So he saddled up old Shaw one night and lit a shut this way,
thought he'd try and paddle now his own canoe.
Said he'd try to do the best he
could if we'd only give him work,
but we didn't know straight up about a cow.
So
the bossy cut him out a mountain kind to put him on,
and we knew he liked our little stray somehow.
Well he taught him how to herd the horses,
learned to know them all,
and to get them in the daylight if
he could.
And to follow the chuck wagon,
and always hitch the team,
and to help the carcinero Russell
would.
We'd driven to Red River,
and the weather it was fine.
We were camped down on
the south side in a bend,
when a norther started blowing,
and we called the extra guard,
because
it took all hands to hold the cattle in.
Now little Joe the wrangler was called out with
all the rest,
and barely had the kid got to the herd.
When the cattle they stampeded,
like a hailstorm on they flew,
with all of us riding for the lead.
Between the streaks
of lightning we could see a horse ahead.
It was little Joe the wrangler in the lead.
He
was riding old blue rocket with his slicker o'er his head.
He was trying to check the
leaders and their speed.
We finally got them milling,
and they sort of quieted down.
The
extra guard back to the camp did go.
All but one of them was missing,
and we all knew at
a glance.
It was our little Texas stray boy,
Wrangler Joe. We found him there at sunup,
where old blue rocket fell,
in a washout some twenty feet below.
Beneath his horse mashed
to a pulp,
he spurred and run the knell,
for our little Texas stray boy, Wrangler Joe.
Now little Joe the wrangler,
he'll wrangle nevermore.
His days with the remuda, they're all done.
It was long about last April,
he rode into our camp,
just a little Texas stray,
and all