Then the leathers they squeal with the lunge and the swing
And I work to the livelier tune that they sing:
"Reach 'im! reach 'im! reach 'im!
If you lather your hawse to the heel!
There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick;
Never mind if it's rough and the bushes are thick—
Pull your hat down and fling in the steel!"
When I've rustled all day till I'm achin' for rest
And I'm ordered a night-guard to ride,
With the tired little moon hangin' low in the west