Wall, little Phil, ye’ve heerd on him, a dainty little cuss As rode his charger twenty miles to stop a little muss; Well, Phil he said ter Johnathin, whose other name war White, “You go an’ find them buffaler, an’ see you get ’em right.” So White he went an’ found ’em, an’ he found ’em sech a band As he sed would set ’em crazy, an’ little Phil looked bland; But when the outfit halted, one bull was all war there. Then Phil he call him “Buffalo Chips,” an’ swore a little swear.
Wall, White he kinder liked it, cos the gener’l called him Chips, An’ he us’ter wear two shooters in a belt above his hips. Then he said, “Now, look ye, gener’l, since ye’ve called me that ar’ name, Jist around them little sandhills is yer dog-gone pesky game!” But when the hunt war over, an’ the table spread for lunch, The gener’l called for glasses, an’ wanted his in punch; An’ when the punch was punished, the gener’l smacked his lips, While squar’ upon the table sot a dish o’ _buffalo chips_.
The gener’l looked confounded, an’ he also looked for White, But Johnathin he reckon’d it war better he should lite. So he skinned across the prairy, cos ye see he didn’t mind A _chippin’_ any longer while the gener’l saw the _blind_; Fer the gener’l would _a raised him_, if he’d jist held up his hand, But he thought he wouldn’t _see him_, cos he didn’t hev the sand; An’ he rode as fast--aye, faster--than the gener’l did that day, Like lightin’ down from Winchester some twenty miles away.
Wall, White he had no cabin, an’ no home to call his own, So Buffaler Bill he took him an’ shared with him his home. An’ how he loved Bill Cody! By gosh! it war a sight Ter see him watch his shadder an’ foller him at night; Cos Bill war kinder hated by a cussed gang o’ thieves, As carried pistols in thar belts, an’ bowies in thar sleeves. An’ Chips he never left him, for fear he’d get a pill; Nor would he think it mighty hard to die for Buffalo Bill.
We us’ter mess together, that ar’ Chips an’ Bill an’ me, An’ ye oughter watch his movements; it would do ye good ter see How he us’ter cook them wittles, an’ gather lots o’ greens, To mix up with the juicy pork an’ them unruly beans. An’ one cold chilly mornin’ he bought a lot o’ corn, An’ a little flask o’ likker, as cost fifty cents a horn. Tho’ _forty yards_ war nowhar, it was finished soon, ye bet; But, friends, I _promised some one_, and I’m strong teetotal yet.