Come all you jolly skinners, and listen to my song,
There are not many verses, it will not detain you long:
It's concerning some young fellows who did agree to go
and spend one summer pleasantly of the range of the buffalo.
'Twas in the town of Jacksboro in the spring of Sev'nty three,
A man by the name of Crego came stepping up to me,
Saying, "How do you do, young fellow, and how would you like to go
And spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the buffalo?"
"It's me being out of employment, this to Crego I did say:
"This going out on the buffalo range depends upon the pay.
But if you will pay good wages and transportation, too,
I think, sir, I will go with you to the range of the buffalo."
"Yes, I will pay good wages, give transportation, too,
Provided you will go with me and stay the summer through:
But if you should grow homesick, come back to Jackboro,
I won't pay transportation from the range of the buffalo."
It's now our outfit was complete - seven able-bodied men,
With navy six and needle gun - our troubles did begin:
Our way it was a pleasant one, the route we had to go,
Until we crossed Pease River on the range of the buffalo.
It's now we've crossed Pease River, our troubles have begun.
The first dam tail I went to rip, Christ! How I cut my thumb!
While skinning the dam old stinkers our lives they had no show,
For the Indians watched to pick us off while skinning the buffalo.
He fed us on such sorry chuck I wished myself most dead,
It was old jerked beef, croton coffee and sour bread.
Pease River's as salty as hell fire, the water I could never go -
O God! I wished I had never come to the range of the buffalo.
Our meat it was buffalo hump and iron wedge bread,
And all we had to sleep on was a buffalo robe for a bed:
The fleas and graybacks worked on us, O boys, it was not slow,
I'll tell you there's no worse hell on earth than the range of the buffalo.
Our hearts were cased with buffalo hocks, our souls were cased with steel.
And the hardships of that summer would nearly make us reel.
While skinning the damned old stinkers our lives they had no show.
For the Indians waited to pick us off on the Hills of Mexico.
The season being near over, old Grego he did say,
The crowd had been extravagant, was in debt to him that day,
We coaxed him and we begged him and still it was no go -
We left old Crego's bones to bleach on the range of the buffalo.
Oh, it's now we've crossed Pease River and homeward we are bound,
No more in that hell-fired country shall ever be found.
Go home to our wives and sweethearts, tell others not to go,
For God's forsaken the buffalo range and the damned old buffalo.
Pablo Milanés, uno de los más importantes trovadores de los últimos años, ha fallecido esta noche a los 79 años, tras permanecer ingresado en Madrid durante más de una semana, informaron medios oficiales.
En las noches tristes, escribo. Dormir no apetece ni apremia. La tristeza se canaliza y empieza a formar palabras, y las palabras se me venden como necesarias, y yo las compro y las consumo creyendo que las voy creando. Nunca he sido fumador. Fumo palabras y entre el humo de las noticias voy rodeando la imagen de un rostro muy familiar.