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BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT,

WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK CLIPPER AND DEDICATED TO BUFFALO BILL.

IN THE MOUNTAINS, British Columbia,

March 8, 1879 }

The following verses on the life and death of poor old Buffalo Chips are founded entirely on facts. His death occurred on September 6, 1876, at Slim Buttes. He was within three feet of me when he fell, uttering the words credited to him in my poem.

Yours truly

CAPT. JACK CRAWFORD.

The evenin' sun was settin' sun droppin' slowly in the

west.

An' the soldiers tired and tuckered out in the

camp would find that rest

Which the settin' sun would bring 'em, for they

marched since break o' day--

Not a bite to eat 'cept horses as were killed upon the way;

For, ye see, our beans an' crackers an' our pork

[illegible] sight.

An' the boys expected rashuns when they struck

our camp that night;

For a little band had started for to bring some

cattle on,

An' they struck an Indian village, which they

captured jest at dawn.

Well, I war with that party when we captured

them ar Sioux,

An' we quickly sent a courier to tell old Crook the

news.

Old Crook! -- I should say gener'l, cos he war with

the boys--

Shared his only hard-tack. our sorrows and our

joys;

An' that's the kind o' soldier as the prairy likes

terget.

An' every man would trump death's ace fur Crook

or Miles, you bet.

But I'm kinder off the racket, cos these gen'rals
gets enough

O'praise without my chippin' so I'll let up on
that puff;

Fer I want ter tell a story 'bout a mate o' mine as
fell,

Cos I loved the hones fellow, an' he done his

dooty well;

Buffalo Chips we called him, but his other name

was White,

I'll tell yer how he got that name, an' reckon I am

right.

Ye see, a lot o' bigbugs an' officers came out

One time ter hunt there buffalo and fish fer speckeld

trout.

Well. Little Fill--ye've heered o' him, a dainty

little cuss,

As rode his charger twenty miles to stop a little

muss.

[illegible]

[illegible]

"You go an' flud them fuffaler, and see you get

'em right."

So WHite he went an' found 'em, an' he found 'em

such a band

As, he said, would set 'em crazy, and Little Fill

looked bland;

But when the outfit halted, one bull was all war

there,

Then Fill he called him "Buffaler Chips," an' he

swore a little sware.

Well, White he kinder liked it cos the gen'ral

called him Chips,

An' he uster wear two shooters in a belt above

his hips.

Then he said, "Now look ye, gen'ral, since ye've

called me that ar name,

Jest around them little sand-hills is yer dog-oned,

pesky game;"

But when the hunt war over, an' the table spread

fer lunch.

The gen'ral called fer glasses, an' wanted his'n

punch;

An' when the punch was punished, the gen'ral

smacked his lips,

BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT,

WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK CLIPPER AND DEDICATED TO BUFFALO BILL.

IN THE MOUNTAINS, British Columbia,

March 8, 1879 }

The following verses on the life and death of poor old Buffalo Chips are founded entirely on facts. His death occurred on September 6, 1876, at Slim Buttes. He was within three feet of me when he fell, uttering the words credited to him in my poem.

Yours truly

CAPT. JACK CRAWFORD.

The evenin' sun was settin' sun droppin' slowly in the

west.

An' the soldiers tired and tuckered out in the

camp would find that rest

Which the settin' sun would bring 'em, for they

marched since break o' day--

Not a bite to eat 'cept horses as were killed upon the way;

For, ye see, our beans an' crackers an' our pork

[illegible] sight.

An' the boys expected rashuns when they struck

our camp that night;

For a little band had started for to bring some

cattle on,

An' they struck an Indian village, which they

captured jest at dawn.

Well, I war with that party when we captured

them ar Sioux,

An' we quickly sent a courier to tell old Crook the

news.

Old Crook! -- I should say gener'l, cos he war with

the boys--

Shared his only hard-tack. our sorrows and our

joys;

An' that's the kind o' soldier as the prairy likes

terget.

An' every man would trump death's ace fur Crook

or Miles, you bet.

But I'm kinder off the racket, cos these gen'rals
gets enough

O'praise without my chippin' so I'll let up on
that puff;

Fer I want ter tell a story 'bout a mate o' mine as
fell,

Cos I loved the hones fellow, an' he done his

dooty well;

Buffalo Chips we called him, but his other name

was White,

I'll tell yer how he got that name, an' reckon I am

right.

Ye see, a lot o' bigbugs an' officers came out

One time ter hunt there buffalo and fish fer speckeld

trout.

Well. Little Fill--ye've heered o' him, a dainty

little cuss,

As rode his charger twenty miles to stop a little

muss.

[illegible]

[illegible]

"You go an' flud them fuffaler, and see you get

'em right."

So WHite he went an' found 'em, an' he found 'em

such a band

As, he said, would set 'em crazy, and Little Fill

looked bland;

But when the outfit halted, one bull was all war

there,

Then Fill he called him "Buffaler Chips," an' he

swore a little sware.