Old Whiskers was a character
Who went by the name of Smith;
And always he was braggin’
’Bout the outlaws he rode with.
The old folks said that George Smith
Was just one of many names;
And he told how he once rode with
The band of Jesse James.
He said he was Dad’s cousin
But he lied and lied…and lied.
They didn’t know he was married
Until his wife had died.
He was stubborn as a mule
With a mind no one could budge;
But he was big and steely-eyed
With the bearing of a judge.
He had long snow-white whiskers
And a gold chain on his vest;
And we liked to listen to him
When he told about the West.
Of wagon trains and mining towns
And cattle drives…and such;
And about a lot of other things
That didn’t amount to much.
He would tell of fightin’ Indians
And the buffalos he chased,
And the outlaws…and the sheriffs,
And the soldiers that he faced.
He would go to church on Sundays
Even when the snow was deep.
He’d listen to the singin’
Then he would fall asleep.
He said he hated Preachers
Who kept lyin’ to the Lord.
He said that they were just as bad
As the coward “Robert Ford.”
One day he got a letter
From a little town out West.
He said that he was needed
By a daughter he loved best.
For a while he was unhappy,
All too soon…Old Whiskers…was gone
But there are those who missed him;
And his memory lives on.