“H OLD on, I say, conductor!
Don't start that bullgine yet.
We re goin' to have some music,
An' have 'er now, ye bet!
An' don't ye touch that throttle—
I mean you, engineer—
Fer if ye try to start 'er
We'll rope yer iron steer.

“You passengers keep quiet,
An' hold yer both hands down,
But don't ye try to flourish
Them pop-guns used in town.
We don't want gold ner jewels,
Ner any precious notes,
Except from Sousa's bugles
An' them sweet singers' throats.

“Bring out yer band thar, Sousa,
An' toot yer big bazoo,
We 've come fer high-tone music
An' bound to see 'er through.
We 're jest a lot o' cowboys,
Way out here on the plain,
That never heard ye, Sousa;
That's why we stopped yer train.”

Then Sousa played his waltzes,
Receiving loud hurrahs!
They never were played better,
Nor got such wild applause;
And when the great soprano
Sang “Home, Sweet Home,” each head
Was instantly uncovered;
The cowboys' leader said:

“We don't hear much o' seraphs
An' all them sort o' things,
Leastwise—beggin' yer pardon—
Not them as carries wings;
But if angels up in heaven
Are anything like you
We 'd like to spend a lifetime
Jest roundin' up a few.

“Rough arguments with bullets,
That settles all disputes,
Get cowboys in the fashion
Of dyin' in their boots;
We never know that blessin'—
The touch o' woman's hand;
An' as for their caresses,
We 've clean forgot the brand;

“But you 've accomplished somethin'
That I hain't seen fer years;
You struck these cowboys tender
An' got 'em sheddin' tears.
If they could hear your singin'
Once in awhile, each pal
Would, in the final round-up,
Get in the right corral.

“Yer singin' was far sweeter
Than that of any bird;
An' now we're goin' to give ye
Applause ye never heard.”
Whereat a hundred cowboys
With pistols, each a pair,
Leaped to their waiting mustangs,
Fast firing in the air!