Knibbs' sensitivity is impressive and inspirational. His imagery makes me feel like I am standing "Where the Ponies Come to Drink." I feel the wrath of "Maw", I ride with "The Bigelow Boys" and I can smell the rain in "Rainmaker." Thanks for publishing Cowboy Poetry, Classic Rhymes by Henry Herbert Knibbs.
— Red Steagall, Western Entertainer, Fort Worth, Texas

There are two windows at the cowboy poetry bank. The first involves writing verses trying to explain spending one's formative years following cows around, in all kinds of weather, for less than minimum wage. Mr. Knibbs paid his dues at the second window by writing well enough to be adopted by the cowboys. Every time a ranch kid peeks out from under an oversize hat at a cowboy poetry audience, pauses a moment to gather words written over half a century ago, and recites in a clear strong voice, "Now walking John was a big rope horse from over Morongo way," Mr. Knibbs' dues are paid in full again. Buy this book; it's worth the freight.
— Vess Quinlan, Cowboy Poet, San Acacio, Colorado

It wasn't many years ago a person had to actively work at collecting cowboy poetry. It just wasn't readily available. You used book finders, traded, copied and spent a lot of time and money to assemble, at best, a small collection. With Mason and Janice Coggin on the job that is all changing. Once again they poured over a myriad of material to assemble "the best of" and have, in my opinion, succeeded wonderfully. I believe that through their efforts Henry Herbert Knibbs' poetry will find the much larger following it rightly deserves. When poems pass the Coggins' test they are worth knowing.
— Waddie Mitchell, Cowboy Poet, Elko, Nevada

The western poetry of Henry Herbert Knibbs serves as a wonderful inspiration for all young aspiring poets. It also gives each of us in this genus, the challenge of a high standard to reach for. Thank you, Mason and Janice, for increasing the exposure of this rich legacy.
— Dolan Ellis, Arizona Folklore Preserve, Hereford, Arizona

Henry Herbert Knibbs 1874 - 1945 was born in Clifton, Ontario, Canada to affluent American parents. He was encouraged to read the works of Longfellow, Lord Byron, Whittier, Tennyson and Edgar Allen Poe while developing a love for the fiddle and its music.

His introduction to horses and livestock on his grandparentsÕs farm in Pennsylvania stuck with him throughout his life. He never graduated from college but attended Woodstock College at age 14, then Bishop Ridley College for three years and studied English at Harvard. He moved to California in 1901 where he wrote his first novel, Lost Farm Camp.

Knibbs' poetry books include, First Poems, 1908, Songs of the Outlands: Ballads of the Hoboes and Other Verse, 1914, Riders of the Stars: A Book of Western Verse, 1916, Songs of the Trail, 1920, Saddle Songs and Other Verse, 1922 and Songs of the Lost Frontier, 1930. He also authored 13 Western novels and a series of articles printed in the Saturday Evening Post, Red Cross Magazine, Current Opinion, West, Western Stories and Adventure. Knibbs spent his last few years as owner/operator of a violin shop in Banning, California. His autobiography, A Boy I Knew remains unpublished.

Henry Herbert Knibbs was a scholar who aspired to be a Western writer and poet. There is no doubt that he put more research and thought into his writing than either Kiskaddon or Barker. He was not born into ranch life, but became a Western writer through his great efforts. As a result, he left a legacy of profound cowboy poetry for our pleasure.

HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS
Boomer Johnson

Now Mr. Boomer Johnson was a gettin' old in spots,
But you don't expect a bad man to go wrastlin' pans and pots;
But he'd done his share of killin' and his draw was gettin' slow,
So he quits a-punchin' cattle and he takes to punchin' dough.

Our foreman up and hires him, figurin' age had rode him tame,
But a snake don't get no sweeter just by changin' of its name.
Well, Old Boomer knowed his business - he could cook to make you smile,
But say, he wrangled fodder in a most peculiar style.

He never used no matches - left em layin' on the shelf,
Just some kerosene and cussin' and the kindlin' lit itself.
And, pardner, I'm allowin' it would give a man a jolt
To see him stir frijoles with the barrel of his Colt.

Now killin' folks and cookin' ain't so awful far apart,
That musta been why Boomer kept a-practicin' his art;
With the front sight of his pistol he would cut a pie-lid slick,
And he'd crimp her with the muzzle for to make the edges stick.

He built his doughnuts solid, and it sure would curl your hair
To see him plug a doughnut as he tossed it in the air.
He bored the holes plum center every time his pistol spoke,
Till the can was full of doughnuts and the shack was full of smoke.

We-all was gettin' jumpy, but he couldn't understand
Why his shootin' made us nervous when his cookin' was so grand.
He kept right on performin', and it weren't no big surprise
When he took to markin' tombstones on the covers of his pies.

They didn't taste no better and they didn't taste no worse,
But a-settin' at the table was like ridin' in a hearse;
You didn't do no talkin' and you took just what you got,
So we et till we was foundered just to keep from gettin' shot.

When at breakfast one bright mornin', I was feelin' kind of low,
Old Boomer passed the doughnuts and I tells him plenty:
"No, All I takes this trip is coffee, for my stomach is a wreck."
I could see the itch for killin' swell the wattle on his neck.

Scorn his grub? He strings some doughnuts on the muzzle of his gun,
And he shoves her in my gizzard and he says, "You're takin' one!"
He was set to start a graveyard, but for once he was mistook;
Me not wantin' any doughnuts, I just up and salts the cook.

Did they fire him? Listen, pardner, there was nothin' left to fire,
Just a row of smilin' faces and another cook to hire.
If he joined some other outfit and is cookin', what I mean,
It's where they ain't no matches and they don't need kerosene.

—Henry Herbert Knibbs

Limited & Numbered Edition - $19.95
ISBN 0-9662091-1-7