Here’s to all old timers, Bob,
They weren’t all square it’s true,
Some cashed in with their boots on —
Good old friends I knew.

Here’s to the first ones here, Bob,
Men who broke the trail
For the tenderfoot and boozer
Who come to the country by rail.

Here’s to the man with the gold pan
Whose heart wasn’t hard to find,
It was big as the country he lived in,
And good as the metal he mined.

Here’s to the rustler that packed a notched gun
And didn’t call killins’ sins.
If you’d count the cows and calves in his herd
You’d swear all his bulls had twins.

Here’s to the skinner with a jerk line
Who could make a black snake talk,
And could string his team up a mountain road
That would bother a human to walk.

Here’s to the crooked gambler
Who dealt from a box that was brace.
Would pull from the bottom in stud hoss
An’ double cross friends in a race.

Here’s to the driver that sat on the coach
With six reins and the silk in his grip,
Who’d bet he could throw all the ribbons away
An’ herd his bronk team with his whip.

Here’s to the holdup an’ hoss thief
That loved stage roads and hosses too well,
Who asked the stranglers to hurry
Or he’d be late for breakfast in hell.

Here’s to the whacker that swung a long lash
An’ his bulls bawled with fear when he spoke.
He’d swear on a hill he wouldn’t drop trail
‘til every bull starved in the yoke.

So here’s to my old time friends, Bob,
I drink to them one and all,
I’ve known the roughest of them, Bob,
But none that I knew were small.

Here’s to Hell with the boozer,
The land is no longer free,
The worst old timer I ever knew,
Lookin’ damn good to me.

Sentiments of your friend,
C.M. Russell, 1911