Some sigh for cooks of boyhood days, but none of them for me;
One roundup cook was best of all t was with the X-Bar-T.
And when we heard the grub-pile call at morning, noon, and night,
The old Dutch oven never failed to cook the things just right.
T was covered oer with red-hot coals, and when we fetched her out,
The biscuits there were of the sort no epicure would flout.
I aint so strong for boyhood grub, cause, summer, spring, or fall,
The old Dutch oven baked the stuff that tasted best of all.
Perhaps t was cause our appetites were always mighty sharp
The men who ride the cattle range aint apt to kick or carp;
But, anyway, I find myself a-dreaming of that bread
The old Dutch oven baked for us beneath those coals so red.
