Oh, the horses, roan and bay,
Without either corn or hay,
But a little mess o' dirty oats that wouldn't feed a colt;
Who could blame 'em if they'd bite
Through the picket-ropes at night?
When a man or horse is hungry, ain't he bound to try and bolt?
When the trail got light and thin
And the ridges walled us in,
And the flankers had to scramble with their toes and finger-nails,
While the wind across the peaks