The following poems are from Barker's book, Buckaroo Ballads, published by him in 1928.
Jest Plain Ol' Cowboy!
by S. Omar Barker Copyright 1928 He wears a sixgun, cusses cows, Gits durnk an' raises Hades-- But in a crowded bus he bows An' gives his seat to ladies. Bright colored, gaudy shirts he wears, He shuns a standup colar, But when yuh're broke he gladly shares With you his last lone dollar. He tops a bronco, yellin' wild As some ol' tiger spittin', But treats a broke hoss calm an' mild As if it was a kitten. He's got no use fer stickin' sheep; He hates 'em like blue murder, Yet goes fer nights without his sleep To look fer some lost herder. At church he ain't much often seen-- His church is in the open-- His code leaves out what all is mean In livin', ridin', ropin'. Though skeered of nary man that lives, He's one plumb peaceful feller. He claims a square deal like he gives-- He ain't no shade of yeller. He ain't by no means any saint. He jest does what he can To be plain cowboy. Folks there ain't No truer gentleman!
The Bronc Buster's Epitaph
by S. Omar Barker Copyright 1928 Lies here where winds, sun rays an' rains Come beatin' o'er his head, A bowleg son o' western plains Whose name was Fork 'em Fred. The bronco-stompers' grand cham-peen, He never pulled no leather. He come out knockin' on 'em clean-- Some hundreds altogether. Life bucked him off--most likely down-- Fer he was wild an' rowdy. Too r'arin' fer to wear a crown Or tell St. peter howdy. Here lies pore Fred--no, that ain't right! I'll bet yuh, onthe level, He's raisin' hell in hell tonight Bronc-stompin' some pore Devil!
The Ballad of Tenderfoot Tate
by S. Omar Barker Copyright 1928 Now hark to the ballad of Tenderfoot Tate: He come to a finish right unfortunate. It wasn't no noble two-gun man that killed him, Nor neither was no sun-fishin' bronco that spilled him. We mourns as we plants him six foot under ground, Regrettin' to state they's some parts we ain't found. Two horns it was croaks him--not like Sousa toots on-- He dies on the run--only one of his boots on. Hi! Sing him a tune, cowboy! Roll 'em along! Pore mushgizzard Tenderfoot--rouse him a song! He first come to DRag Arrow asking for work. The boss takes him on as a brandin' pen clerk, Whose duties (which ain't guessed from the label) Is usin' a shovel to sweep out the stable. At first he done noble. It looked like he'd be As fine a barn cownboy as ever you see! Plumb on until brandin' we had no suspicion Of Tenderfoot Tate's true official position. Hi! Hit up a tune boys, and ease 'em along! Fer Tenderfoot Tate's tender heart sing a song! He goes on the roundup when brandin' time came, Not needed nor wanted, but there jest the same. Cook Wing Tu he puts him to stirrin' up gruel... "Oh, cowboys!" he tells us, "Calf brandin' is cruel!" There's less painful ways fer to label a cow-- My mission out here is to learn you boys how, Fer I'm the vice-president, up in Seattle, Of the 'Big Brother Club to Prevent Painin' Cattle!" Hi! Beller a tune boys, and roll 'em along! The dogie's big brother says brandin' is wrong! Next day when we're ropin' some calves off their maws, Along comes old Tate with a pail in his paws. It's full o' white paint! In his pockets is brushes! We all starts to laughin', then right sudden hushes. "Come ketch me a calf!" yells the Tenderfoot squirt. "I'll put on his label a way it won't hurt!" Then doggone his hide for a no-count gazimbo, He kicks out our fire! Oh, the pore crazy bimbo! Hi! Rope him a calf, cowboy! Sing him a song! He's gonna do right what we've allus done wrong! "Soh, bossy!" he croons when we've ketched him a calf, A-easin' up clost--say two feet and a half-- From the bellerin' calfy's rebellious rear section, And reachin' his bruch in a likewise direction. "Nice calfy!" he says as he starts fer to paint A nice painless brand--but the nice calfy ain't As nice as he thought, though he's shore a nice kicker! The Tenderfoot's quick, but the calf's foot is quicker! Hi! Sing fer the tender heart Tenderfoot saint. Out labellin' dogies with brushes and paint! One kick splatters pain till it drips from his snoot, Another comes down on pore Tenderfoot's boot, And stands there a-mashin' and sqwashin' his toes off, The nice calfy's tail meanwhile switchin' his nose off! Our Tenderfoot saint starts to beller and cuss-- Oh, his fix is quite bad but it soon gets quite wuss! The mamma longhorn hears the bawls of her baby-- Comes bellerin' murder--I ain't meanin' maybe! Hi! Rouse him a tune, cowboy! Sing him a song! Come hark to my balland, it ain't very long! "Soh, bossy!" we yells, but that mamma cow hits Both horns in his pants jest about where he sits. Old Tenderfoot Tate "gits fer Vegas", but ceases To run when the mamma cow hooks him to pieces! We mourns as we plants him six foot in the clay, And goes back to brandin' the old cruel way. So fur we ain't joined, since the day of Tate's battle, No "Big Brother Club To Prevent Painin' Cattle!" Hi! Rouse up a tune, cowboy! Roll 'em along! He's painted and sainted--yip--here ends his song!