The Dying Cowboy - Frank Fairfield

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The Dying Cowboy Lyrics

As I went out walking through Austin's fair city
Through Austin's fair city one morning in May
Was there I spoke to a handsome cowboy
All wrapped in white linen and cold as the clay

I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy
These words he did speak as I boldly stepped by
Come sit done beside me and hear my sad fortune
For I'm shot in the breast and I know I must die

Was once in the saddle, I used to go dashing
Was once in the saddle I used to ride on
But then turned to drink and then to card playing
Was shot by a gambler and now I must die

Oh Beat the drum slowly, oh play the fife lowly
Play the dead march as you carry me along
Take me to the graveyard and throw the sod o'er me
For I'm just a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong

Go break the news gently to my gray haired mother
Whisper it softly to my sister so dear
But there is yet one far dearer than mother
Who'd fairly weep if she knew I were here

Come gather round me that set of jolly cowboys
To listen to me softly as I live my sad fate
And each of you ride and take warning
And quit the wild roving before it's too late

Six jolly cowboys to balance my coffin
Six pretty girls Lord to sing me a song
Take me to the graveyard and throw the sod o'er me
For I'm just a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong

Beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly
Play the dead march as you carry me along
Take me to the graveyard and throw the sod o'er me
For I'm just a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong

Lyrics provided by LyricsEver.com

You can call him a traditionalist. But we wont. You can call him nostalgic. But we wont.

He is Frank Fairfield. A musician. A Banjo picker. A fiddle hummer. A song singer. We’ve heard him described as someone who was discovered at a farmers market out in California, as if he were some long lost treasure or mythical land. As we see it, it isn’t some deep yearning for a time long forgotten that drives Frank Fairfield, he isn’t trying to be something that no longer exists, because in fact, he DOES exist. The music he plays, creates, performs is the music that carried all of us, from all over the world, to the place (wherever that place may be) we are now. He plays the American landscape, the one he himself sees and experiences. He goes about it with the only tools necessary, as any good craftsman would. Its not some ship filled with Spanish doubloons, or some ancient Amazon city of Gold, its Frank Fairfield. A musician. A Banjo picker. A man not competing with time, only living in his own. Read more on Last.fm. User-contributed text is available under the Creative Commons By-SA License; additional terms may apply.

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Frank Fairfield