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The buffalo hunters
Come all you pretty fair maids, these lines to you I
write;
We're going on the range in which we take delight,
We're going on the range as we poor hunters do,
While those tender-footed fellows do stay at home with you.
Our game it is the antelope, the buffalo, elk and
deer;
They roam these broad prairies without the least of fear;
We rob them of their robes in which we think no harm,
To buy us chuck and clothing for to keep our bodies warm.
The buffalo is the largest and the noblest of the van,
He sometimes refuses to throw us up his hands,
With shaggy mane uplifted, and face toward the sky,
As if to say, "I'm coming, so hunter mind your eye!"
All the day long we go tramping around,
In search of the buffalo that we may shoot them down;
Armed with out trusty rifle and belt of forty rounds,
We send them up Salt River to their happy hunting grounds.
While armed with Sharps rifle or Needle gun so true
We cause the "buff" to bite the dust for they send their
bullets through;
For when we come upon them, if our guns have no defects,
We cause them to throw up their hands and pass us in their checks.
Our houses are made of buffalo hides, we build them
tall and round;
Our fires are made of buffalo chips, our beds are on the ground.
Our furniture is the camp kettle, the coffee pot and pan;
Our chuck is buffalo beef and bread intermingled well with sand.
Our neighbors are the Cheyenne, the Arapaho and Sioux;
Their mode of transportation is the buffalo hide canoe.
And if they all should emigrate I'm sure we wouldn't care,
For a peculiar way they have of raising hunters' hair.
The hunters are jolly fellows, they like their lager
beer,
The hunters are jolly fellows, they drink their whiskey clear;
And now you've heard my song you must not think it queer,
If I take a drink of whisky or a glass of lager beer.
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