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He always sings raggy music to the cattle as he swings back and forward in the saddle, on a horse - a pretty good horse! He's got a syncopated gaiter, and you ought to hear the meter to the roar of his repeater; how they run - yes run! - when they hear that he's 'a-comin', cause the western folks all know, he's a high-falootin', rootin, tootin', son of a gun from ol' Wyoming, Ragtime Cowboy, Talk about your Cowboy, Ragtime Cowboy Joe.
Come on, Cowboys, gold and brown!
Show them how, boys, hold them down!
Start right now, boys, don't' delay,
Break away, win today.
Take that ball, and one, two, three!
Carry on triumphantly -- Come on and fight!
Fight! Fight, you Cowboys, fight!
Come on and fight to victory!
Where the western lights' long shadows
Over the boundless prairies fling
And the mountain winds are vocal
With thy dear name, Wyoming.
There it is brown and yellow
Floats in loving loyalty,
And the College throws its portals
Open wide to all men free.
And so our songs we bring.
Our Alma Mater sing,
To her our hearts shall cling,
Shall cling forever more.
Yonder we can see it standing,
Circled by purple hills,
While the flaming fire of sunset
Every Western window fills;
'Tis the College! Ah, we know it!
Shrine of many joys and tears,
And the rays that light upon it
Are prophetic of its years.