Come all you range riders and listen to me,
I will relate you a story of the saddest degree,
I will relate you a story of the deepest distress,--
I love my poor Lulu, boys, of all girls the best.

When you are out riding, boys, upon the highway,
Meet a fair damsel, a lady so gay,
With her red, rosy cheeks and her sparkling dark eyes,
Just think of my Lulu, boys, and your bosoms will rise.

While you live single, boys, you are just in your prime;
You have no wife to scold, you have nothing to bother your minds;
You can roam this world over and do just as you will,
Hug and kiss the pretty girls and be your own still.

But when you get married, boys, you are done with this life,
You have sold your sweet comfort for to gain you a wife;
Your wife she will scold you, and the children will cry,
It will make those fair faces look withered and dry.

You can scarcely step aside, boys, to speak to a friend
But your wife is at your elbow saying what do you mean.
With her nose turned upon you it will look like sad news,--
I advise you by experience that life to refuse.

Come fill up your bottles, boys, drink Bourbon around;
Here is luck to the single wherever they are found.
Here is luck to the single and I wish them success,
Likewise to the married ones, I wish them no less.

I have one more request to make, boys, before we part.
Never place your affection on a charming sweetheart.
She is dancing before you your affections to gain;
Just turn your back on them with scorn and disdain.

HER WHITE BOSOM BARE

The sun had gone down
O'er the hills of the west,
And the last beams had faded
O'er the mossy hill's crest,
O'er the beauties of nature
And the charms of the fair,
And Amanda was bound
With her white bosom bare.

At the foot of the mountain
Amanda did sigh
At the hoot of an owl
Or the catamount's cry;
Or the howl of some wolf
In its low, granite cell,
Or the crash of some large
Forest tree as it fell.

Amanda was there
All friendless and forlorn
With her face bathed in blood
And her garments all torn.
The sunlight had faded
O'er the hills of the green,
And fierce was the look
Of the wild, savage scene.

For it was out in the forest
Where the wild game springs,
Where low in the branches
The rude hammock swings;
The campfire was kindled,
Well fanned by the breeze,
And the lig