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Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads

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THE COWBOY AT CHURCH (p. 246) Some time ago,—two weeks or more If I remember well,— I found myself in town and thought I'd knock around a spell, When all at once I heard the bell,— I didn't know 'twas Sunday,— For on the plains we scarcely know A Sunday from a Monday,— A-calling all the people From the highways and the hedges And all the reckless throng That tread ruin's ragged edges, To come and hear the pastor tell Salvation's touching story, And how the new road misses hell And leads you straight to glory. I started by the chapel door, But something urged me in, And told me not to spend God's day In revelry and sin. I don't go much on sentiment, But tears came in my eyes. It seemed just like my mother's voice Was speaking from the skies. I (p. 247) thought how often she had gone With little Sis and me To church, when I was but a lad Way back in Tennessee. It never once occurred to me About not being dressed In Sunday rig, but carelessly I went in with the rest. You should have seen the smiles and shrugs As I went walking in, As though they thought my leggins Worse than any kind of sin; Although the honest parson, In his vestry garb arrayed Was dressed the same as I was,— In the trappings of his trade. The good man prayed for all the world And all its motley crew, For pagan, Hindoo, sinners, Turk, And unbelieving Jew,— Though the congregation doubtless thought That the cowboys as a race Were a kind of moral outlaw With no good claim to grace. Is it very strange that cowboys are A rough and reckless crew When their garb forbids their doing right As Christian people do? That (p. 248) they frequent scenes of revelry Where death is bought and sold, Where at least they get a welcome Though it's prompted by their gold? Stranger, did it ever strike you, When the winter days are gone And the mortal grass is springing up To meet the judgment sun, And we 'tend mighty round-ups Where, according to the Word, The angel cowboy of the Lord Will cut the human herd,— That a heap of stock that's lowing now Around the Master's pen And feeding at his fodder stack Will have the brand picked then? And brands that when the hair was long Looked like the letter C, Will prove to be the devil's, And the brand the letter D; While many a long-horned coaster,— I mean, just so to speak,— That hasn't had the advantage Of the range and gospel creek Will get to crop the grasses In the pasture of the Lord If the letter C showed up Beneath the devil's checker board. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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