All day on the prairie in the saddle I ride, not even a dog boy's to trot by my side.
My fire I must kindle with chips gathered round, and boil my own coffee without being ground.
I wash in the pool and I sleep on a sack, I carry my wardrobe on my back.
For want of an oven I cook bread in a pot, and sleep on the ground for want of a cot.
My ceiling is the sky, my floor is the grass, my music is the lowing,
I've herds as they pass, my books are the brooks, my sermons the stones,
my parson is a wolf on his pulpit of bones.
And then if my cooking's not very complete, you can't blame me for wanting to eat.
But show me a man who sleeps more profound than the big puncher,
or a boy who sleeps on the ground.
My books teach me ever consistence to prize, my sermons, that small things I should not despise.
My parson remarks from his pulpit of bones, that fortune favors those who look out for their own.
Between me and love lies a gulf very wide,
some lucky fellow may call her his bride.
My friends gently hint I am coming to grief, but men must make money, and women have beef.
But why it is I can ne'er understand, for each of the patriarchs owned a big brand.
Abraham immigrated in search of a rich man, and Abraham was a rich man.


When water was scarce, he wanted a change.
Old Isaac owned cattle in charge of Esau, and Jacob punched cows for his father-in-law.