As I was walking one morning for pleasure,
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I spied a cow-puncher aridin’ along.
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His hat was throwed back and his spurs were ajinglin’,
and as he approached
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he was singin’ this song:
CHORUS:
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Whoop-ee ti-yi-yo, git along little dogies, It’s
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your misfortune and none of my own.
D G D G D
Whoop-ee ti-yi-yo, git along little dogies,
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You know that Wyoming will be your new home.
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It’s early in spring that we round up the dogies,
We mark them and brand
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them and bob off their tales. We round up our horses,
load up the
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chuck wagon, and then throw the dogies out onto the trail.
CHORUS
3: It’s whooping and yelling
and drivin’ the dogies
And oh how I wish
you wuld only go on!
It’s whooping and punching,
go on, little dogies,
You know that Wyoming
will be your new home.
CHORUS
4: Some boys, they go up on
the trail just for pleasure,
But that’s where they get it
most awfully wrong.
You haven’t a notion
the trouble they give us,
It takes all our time
to keep moving along.
CHORUS
5: Your mother was raised
way down in Texas,
Where the jimson weed
and the sandburs grow.
We’ll fill you up
on prickly pear and cholla,
Then throw you on
the trail to Idaho.
CHORUS
