by H. D. Sloan
Over from a land called Scotland
Where the natives like their meat,
Came this rugged breed of cattle
That, my friends, you cannot beat.
From the stories told on Scotsmen,
They are thrifty folk indeed.
So they naturally raised cattle
That they did not have to feed.
I see cowmen in this country
Hauling hay and freeze their nose.
If their cattle were Highlanders,
They could sit and toast their toes.
But were of a different stock.
Every spring before the snow left
He would have his cows in hock.
Borrowed money to buy feed with,
Boy! Was he in a rut.
If he tried to save a dollar
Then they died from hollow-gut.
He would cry and cuss his banker
'Cause he'd pound his desk and shout,
Seems like every time he saw him
He would have his stinger out.
Told me when he met Saint Peter,
(If up there the cowmen dwell)
He would ask him if it snowed there,
If it did he'd go to Hell.
If my friend had raised Highlanders,
He would now be riding high.
And would never doubt the climate
Of that big Range in the sky.