This text comes from Songs of the Cowboys, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
My country, ’t is of thee,
Land where things used to be
So cheap we croak.
Land of the mavericks,
Land of the puncher’s tricks,
Thy culture-inroad picks
The hide of this peeler-bloke.
Some of the punchers swear
That what they eat and wear
Takes all their calves.
Others vow that they
Eat only once a day
Jerked beef and prairie hay,
Washed down with tallow salves.
These salty dogs but crave,
To pull them out the grave,
Just one Kiowa spur.
They know they still will dine
On flesh and beef the time;
But give us, Lord divine,
One “hen-fruit stir.”
Our father’s land, with thee,
Best trails of liberty,
We chose to stop.
We don’t exactly like
So soon to henceward hike,
But, hell, we’ll take the pike
If this don’t stop.