The night rolls west, the east is gray,
The tent is struck, they mount, away;
They ride for life the livelong day,
They sweep the long grass in their track,
And one leads on, and one looks back.
What scenes they pass'd, what camps at morn,
What weary columns kept the road;
What herds of troubled cattle low'd,
And trumpeted like lifted horn;
And everywhere, or road or rest,