The earliest printed text?

The Longton (Kans.) Gleaner (Dec. 30, 1881), p. 2:


                     THE DYING COW-BOY
                            --
                  (Published by request)

        As I rode down by Tom Sherman’s bar-room,
        Tom Sherman’s bar-room so early one day,
        It was there I spied a once handsome cow-boy,
        He was draped in white linen as though for the grave.

        Chorus.
        Beat the drum lowly, and play the fife slowly,
        Oh! play the dead march as you bear me along.
        Bear me to the graveyard and lay the sword o’er me,
        I am a young ranger [sic], I know I’ve done wrong.

        I see by your outfit that you are a cow-boy;
       These words he said as I went riding by,
        Come sit down by me and hear my sad story;
        I’m shot through the breast and I know I must die.
        
       Go bear this message to my gray-headed mother.
        And drop the news gently to my sister dear.
        But not one word of this place do you mention,
        When they gather around you my story to hear.

        But there is another as dear as my sister,
        Will bitterly weep when she hears I’m gone                  
        But there is another may win her affection,
        I am a young ranger], I know I’ve done wrong.

        Once in my saddle I used to go dashing.
        Once in my saddle I used to look gay;
        I first took to drinking then took to gambling,
        Got into a fight, and now to my grave.

        Go gather around you a crowd of gay cow-boys,
        And tell them the tale of their comrade’s sad fate.
        Tell each and all to take timely warning
        And quit their wild ways before it is too late.

        Go bring to me a cup of cold water,
        To bathe my flushed temples, the poor fellow said.
        But ere I had reached him the spirit had left,
        It had gone to the giver, the cow-boy was dead.

                        LAST CHORUS.

       We’ll beat the drum lowly, we’ll play the fife slowly,
        We’ll play the dead march as we bear him along,
       We all love our comrade, so brave and so handsome,
        We all love the cow-boy, although he did wrong.


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A little later:


Hope [Kans.] Herald (Jan. 6, 1887):

                         THE DYING COWBOY

       As I went walking by Tim Sharon's saloon,
       Tim Sharon's saloon one morning in May.
       Oh! who should I spy but a handsome young cowboy,
       All wrapped in white flannel as cold as the clay.

                            Chorus.

       Then beat your drum slowly, boys, play your fife lowly,
       Play the dead march as they carry me on,
       Take me to the churchyard and throw the sod o'er me,
       For I'm only a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

       These words he said as I passed by him.
       I see by your outfit that you're a cowboy,
       Come sit down beside me, and hear my sad story,
       I'm only a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

       I, once in my saddle, I used to look dashing,
       I, once in my saddle, I used to look brave,
       I then took to gambling and then took to rambling,
       Got into a fight and was sent to my grave.

       Go carry the news to my grey-headed parents,
       Go carry the news to my sister so dear,
       But never a word of displeasure do you mention,
       As they gather around my sad story to hear.

       And then there is one that is dearer than sister,
       Who'll bitterly weep when she knows I gone,       [sic
       Perhaps she may have one more worthy than I am,
       But she loved her young cowboy although he did wrong.

       Go gather together a group of young cowboys,
       Tell all my sad story and all my sad fate,
       Tell them to quit rambling and then to quit gambling,
       And then to repent before it is too late.

       Go bring to me a cup of cold water
       To cool my hot temple the cowboy said,
       But when they returned with a cup of cold water,
       The spirit departed [,] the cowboy was dead.