Charles Goodnight and Oliver Loving established the firs cattle trail from San Antonio to Wyoming around 1880. This is Bruce's kindly portrayal of a used-up cowhand whose only hope of staying employed was to join the drive as a cook: "Our Old Woman." To my mind, Bruce is one of America's greatest poet-musicians historians.
We made this recording at the request of Kendall and Jaqui Morse, and Dan Schatz, who produced a 2-CD collection of Bruce's songs sung by many musicians called "Singing Through the Hard Times", which was later nominated for a Grammy award.
Gordon - Vocal & baritone guitar
Bruce Boege, ukulele & recording*
The January Men And Then Some: Will Brown, Bill Huntington, Jamie Huntsberfer, Cindy Kallet, John Pincince, Bob Richardson, Carol Rohl, Judith Simpson, Gordon Bok
Too old to wrangle or ride on the swing,
You beat the triangle and you curse everything.
If dirt was a kingdom, they you'd be the king.
On the Goodnight Trail, on the Loving Trail,
Our Old Woman's lonesome tonight.
Your French harp blows like the low bawling calf.
It's a wonder the wind don't tear off your skin.
Get in there and blow out the light.
With your snake oil and herbs and your liniments, too,
You can do anything that a doctor can do,
Except find a cure for your own god damned stew
On the Goodnight Trail, on the Loving Trail,
Our Old Woman's lonesome tonight.
Your French harp blows like the low bawling calf.
It's a wonder the wind don't tear off your skin.
Get in there and blow out the light.
I know that some day I'll be just the same,
Wearing an apron instead of a name.
There's nothing can change it, there's no one to blame
For the desert's a book writ in lizards and sage,
Easy to look like an old torn out page,
Faded and cracked with the colors of age.
On the Goodnight Trail, on the Loving Trail,
Our Old Woman's lonesome tonight.
Your French harp blows like the low bawling calf.
It's a wonder the wind don't tear off your skin.
Get in there and blow out the light.
The cookfire's gone out and the coffee's all gone,
The boys are up and they're raising the dawn.
And you're still sitting there, lost in a song.
On the Goodnight Trail, on the Loving Trail,
Our Old Woman's lonesome tonight.
Your French harp blows like the low bawling calf.
It's a wonder the wind don't tear off your skin.
Get in there and blow out the light.