Rich brown hair, Amber eyes; Angel fit For paradise. Helpmate Where trouble’s rife, Guides me through The busy strife. Ruby lips, Angelic form; Pretty hands, Soft and warm. Disposition That’s superb, Always has A gentle word. Sweetest smiles That cheer my life. Rosy cheeks-- That’s my wife.
Always stern, Likes no fun; Sits and reads When home he’ll come. Says the light Is awful dim; Tells me not To bother him. Smokes his pipe, Don’t say a word; Says boys should be seen, Not heard. Makes me go To bed at eight, While he and ma Both sit up late. Looks at me So awfully grave; Tells me that I must behave. Thinks of no one ’Cepting ma. Oh! he’s cranky-- That’s my pa.
They started out all bright and gay, The circuit they were going to play; The manager to each man said-- “We’re dated forty weeks ahead; Next week we play at Omaha, With our great play, ‘Escaped from the Law.’”
At Omaha you hear folks tell, Actors came to a hotel, Hung their lithographs all around, Played to empty seats and jumped the town; Left their trunks all filled with straw, And that same night escaped from the law.
Everything seems to go wrong; Actors’ shoes are almost gone. Trudging down the track alone, A thousand miles away from home; Counting ties the last we saw Of the company called, “Escaped from the Law.”
You call us wild--just tell me why; ’Cause we look sort of rough? You’ll find the boys in this here camp A good long ways from tough. We got no use for lawyers; Judge Lynch we all respect, But no one needs to fear the Judge If he carries hisself correct.
There was that man Tim Haskins-- Tim you know’s a scamp-- Well, he took us for tenderfoots And tried to run the camp. Joe Grant took objections, then ’Fore anyone could tell, Haskins knifed him through the heart And struck him again as he fell.
That set our blood to biling; We were sore as we could be. We dragged Tim to yon canon And strung him to a tree. You’ll see him as you’re passing; He’s near the road down there-- Unless he’s served as dinner For wolves or grizzly bear.
Now, back East this ain’t justice, But as like as like can be, If Tim had got a court trial The jury would have set him free. We don’t want no law like that, So when a man’s a pest We hook him to the nearest tree, In the wild and woolly West.