This text comes from Songs of the Cowboys, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
I took a trip this summer to the market,
And I struck an Eastern city where they sell you tubs of beers;
I was feelin' pretty yowlish and I could n't say my name,
When I wound up somehow 'nuther at a high-toned polo game.
There were sunburned doods cavortin' on some ponies in a lot,
And they whacked a little ball till it traveled like a shot;
I could n't savvy, nohow, and I vowed that I was through,
When I spied a feller ridin' on a pony that I knew.
It was that there buckskin bronco that I rode for the Circle Bar;
He was clipped and oiled and powdered, but I knew each old-time scar;
I had lost him when Bear Hawkins played an extra ace and jack,
And I'd allus had a longin' fer to git that pony back.
Well, he sorter stopped and snorted when I give an old-time "Yip!"
And he bucked until his rider hit the ground upon his hip;
And he came a-runnin' to me and I jumped upon his back,
And he pitched for sheer enjoyment when I hit his flank a whack.
Well, I rode across the open and I stooped down on the run,
And picked up the polo mallet (fer the player he was done),
And I hit that ball a crack, sir, and it sailed plum o'er the fence,
And the crowd just howled with pleasure, fer they thought the sport immense.
Well, it cost me just six hundred fer to git my little bronk,
And to have that player patched up from his heels to injured conk;
But I got my old cow-pony — and jest hear this one thing more:
Don't whisper "polo" to him or he'll buck like Satan, shore!