The Range of the Buffalo It happened in Jacksboro, boys, in the year of seventy-three, A man by the name of Crego came stepping up to me, Says, "How do you do, young fellow, and how would you like to go And spend one summer season on the range of the buffalo?" It's me bein' out of employment, boys, to Crego I did say, "This goin' out on the buffalo range depends upon the pay. But if you will pay good wages, give transportation, too, I think, sir, I will go with you and stay the summer through. It's now we've crossed Pease River, boys, our troubles just begun, The first damned tail I went to rip, Christ, how I cut my thumb, While skinning the damned old stinkers our lives they had no show, For the Indians waited to pick us off on the range of the buffalo. Our hearts were cased in buffalo hocks, our souls were cased in steel, The hardship of that summer would nearly make us reel, The water was salty as hell fire, the beef I could not go, And the Indians waited to pick us off on the range of the buffalo. The season being over, boys, old Crego he did say, That we had been extravagant, were in debt to him that day, We coaxed him and we begged him, but still it was no go, So we left his damned old bones to bleach on the range of the buffalo. It's now we've crossed Pease River, boys, and homeward we are bound. No more in that hellfired country will ever we be found, Go back to our wives and sweethearts, tell others not to go, For God's forsaken the buffalo range, and damn all buffalo.