As I was walking one morning for pleasure,
I spied a cowpunch riding alone.
His hat was thrown back,
and his purse was attained.
And as he approached,
he was singing this song.
Whoopty,
ay-oh,
get along, little doggies.
It's your misfortune, ain't none of my own.
Whoopty, ay-oh,
get along, little doggies.
You know that my own will be your new home.
Your mama was raised way down in Texas,
where the Jimson wheat and the sandbirds grow.
But we'll fill you up
on prickly pear choya till you are ready for Idaho.
Whoopty, ay-oh, get along, little doggies.
It's your misfortune, ain't none of my own.
Whoopty,
ay-oh, get along, little doggies.
You know that my own will be your new home.
It's early in the spring when we round up the doggies.
We mark them,
and we brand them,
and bob off their tails.
Round up the horse, load up the chuck wagon,
send them little doggies out on the long trails.
Whoopty, ay-oh,
get along, little doggies.
It's your misfortune, ain't none of my own.
Whoopty, ay-oh, get along, little doggies.
You know that my own will be your new home.
All you
beasts do
for Uncle Sam's Indians, it's beef, beef, beef.
I hear them cry,
get along,
get along,
little doggies.
This time next week,
you're going to boil and cry.
Whoopty, ay-oh, get along, little doggies.
It's your misfortune, ain't none of my own.
Whoopty,
ay-oh, get along, little doggies.
You know that my own will be your new home.