Got that one, too....

The Man With The Big Hat — Steve Fromholz

Narrator:
In a bar in Arizona, on a sultry summer day,
A cowboy came in off the road just to pass the time away.
He pulled a stool up to the bar and pushed his hat back on his head.
I listened to the stories told to the words that cowboy said. He said...

Cowboy:
I could tell you stories ’bout the Indians on the plain,
Talk about Wells Fargo and the comin’ of the trains,
Talk of the slaughter of the buffalo that roamed,
Sing a song of settlers, come out looking for a home.

CHORUS (both)
Now the man with the big hat is buying,
Drink up while the drinking is free.
Drink up to the cowboys a-dead or a-dying,
Drink to my compadres and me.
Drink to my compadres and me.

Narrator:
Well, his shirt was brown and faded and his hat was wide and black,
And the pants that once were blue were gray and had a pocket gone in back.
He had a finger missin’ from the hand that rolled the smoke,
He laughed and talked of cowboy life but you knew it weren’t no joke. He said....

Cowboy:
I seen the day so hot your pony could not stand,
And if your water bag was dry, don’t count upon the land,
And winters, I’ve seen winters when your boots froze in the snow,
And your only thought was leavin’, but you had nowhere to go.

CHORUS

Narrator:
Well he rested easy at the bar, his foot upon the rail,
And laughed and talked of times he’d had out living on the trail.
The silence was never broken as the words poured from his lips,
Quiet as the ’45 he carried on his hip. He said ...

Cowboy:
I rode the cattle drive from here to San Antone,
Ten days in the saddle, you know, and weary to the bone.
I rode from here to Wichita without a woman’s smile,
The campfire where I cooked my beans was the only light for miles.

CHORUS

Narrator:
Well, he rolled another cigarette as he turned toward the door.
I heard his spurs a-jingling as his boot heels hit the floor.
He loosened up his belt a notch, pulled his hat down on his head,
As he turned to say goodbye to me, this is what he said....

Cowboy:
Now the high-lines chase the highways, and the fences close the range,
And to see a working cowboy, that’s a sight that’s mighty strange,
But a cowboy’s life was lonely, and his lot was not the best,
But if it hadn’t been for men like me, there wouldn’t be no west.

CHORUS