|
When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane
And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,
Richer and statelier then you'll reign,
Mother of men whom the world will praise.
And your sons will love you and sigh for you,
Labor and battle and die for you,
But never the fondest will understand
The way we have loved you, young, young land.
| —[Frontispiece.] |
| FACING PAGE |
|
When my feet is in the stirrups
And my hawse is on the bust.
| [14] |
|
There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick.
| [18] |
|
We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed.
| [24] |
|
The taut ropes sing like a banjo string
And the latigoes creak and strain.
| [40] |
|
I wait to hear him ridin' up behind.
| [68] |
|
There's land where yet no ditchers dig
Nor cranks experiment;
It's only lovely, free and big
And isn't worth a cent.
| [80] |
|
Born of a free, world-wandering race
Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.
| [82] |