He wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,
And leggins of fancy fringed leather;
He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots
And he's happy in all kinds of weather.

He's fond of his horse - 't is a bronco, of course
For, oh, he can ride like the Devil;
He is old for his years, and he always appears
To be foremost at round-up or revel.

He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look
Of a man that to fear is a stranger;
Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve
In his wild life of duty and danger.

He gets little to eat and he guys tenderfeet
And for Fashion - oh, well, he's 'not in it!'
He can rope a gay steer when gets on his ear,
At the rate of two-forty a minute!

His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West,
Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;
Ah, he knows all the tricks, when he brands 'Mavericks,'
But his learning's not gained from your scholars.

He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,
And he hates and despises a coward.
Yet the cowboy you'll find unto woman is kind,
Though he'll fight till by death overpowered.

Hence I say unto you, give the cowboy his due,
And be kinder, my friends, to his folly;
For he's generous and brave, though he may not behave
Like your dudes, who are so melancholy.