| 'Twas in the town o' Jacksboro, in the spring o' seventy-three
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| A man by the name o' Crego come steppin' up to me
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| Said how d’you do young fellers, and how’d you like to go
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| And spend one summer pleasantly on the range o' the buffalo
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| It’s me bein' out of employment, to ol' Crego I did say
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| This goin' out on the buffalo range, depends upon the pay
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| But if you’ll pay good wages, and transportation too
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| I think sir I will go with you to the range o' the buffalo
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| Well it’s now we’ve crossed Pease River boys, our troubles they have begun
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| First old stinker that I cut — Christ how I cut my thumb
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| While skinnin' the dog-gone ol' buffalo, our lives they had no show
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| For the Indians watched to pick us off, while skinnin' the buffalo
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| The season bein' near over, ol' Crego he did say
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| The crowd had been extravagant, was in debt to him that day
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| We coaxed him an' we argued, but still it was no go
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| We left his damned ol' bones to bleached on the range o' the buffalo
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| It’s now we’ve crossed Pease River, and homeward we are bound
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| No more in that old fire country, will ever we be found
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| Go back to our wives and sweethearts, tell others not to go
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| For God’s forsaken the buffalo range, and the damn ol' buffalo |