Sam Hunter's Trail Hands

Here's an old poem my mom had in her collection of stuff. Jake Spoon was my great-great (or is it great-great-great?) uncle who worked for Sam Hunter and the Mayberry Cattle Company.

Sam Hunter's Trail Hands
by Rance Pettett

Sam Hunter's our boss; we call him the best
That ever drove cattle o'er the trail in the West.
He's good to the boys, for they are all well-trained;
They will stay with the cattle through the cold, stormy rain.

Sam, oh, Sam, Boss Man, Boss Man,
Give us the fingers of your right hand.
Sam Hunter, Sam Hunter, won't sleep on a cot;
He's the best old boss Maberry's got.

George Pearl works on the point on the left,
For he's second boss and Sam Hunter's pet.
He's a daisy old pointer; he has been up the trail;
He cares for nothing but whiskey and ale.

Rance Pettett works on the point on the right;
He and Henry Carver did once like to fight.
That's all the row we've had on the trail;
The boss fired Henry at Vernon, and home he did sail.

Theordore Brockmann looks pale and careworn.
If he'd tell us his troubles, we'd help him to mourn.
He works in the swing behind George Pearl,
And whistles and sings all the time of his girl.

Poor Henry Carver was getting so weak.
He went to the boss to get a night's sleep.
The good old boss did grant his request;
He went to the wagon to get a night's rest.

John Cowsert's a flanker on the right flank;
If you give him advice, you he will thank.
He whistles a tune, says he's cold as a wedge,
As he's jogging along on old Straight Edge.

Tom Pettit's a flanker, so I am told;
His feet in the stirrups and shivering with cold.
He rides up the flank, but returns too soon,
Gets with the drags and augurs Jake Spoon.

Jake Spoon is the flank puncher, so slowly he rides;
He punches the dogies from center to side.
Jake is an old puncher, has been there before;
Has punched the dogies in gone days of yore.

Will Corder's the horse wrangler, a kid you all know:
He wrangles the horses wherever they go,
He was a fast old lad when he began to round up,
He combed his head over a skillet of chuck.

John Gentry's the cook, he's getting quite bold;
He sets out the chuck, and it's always cold.
The boys don't like it, but John doesn't care;
He's a bad looking man; him the boys all fear.

This was composed on the lone cow trail
By one whose initials I'll give without fail;
This one individual you may nevermore see,
But his initials, dear friends, are J.R.P.