When my feet are in the stirrups
And my horse is on the bust;
When his hoofs are flashin' lightnin'
From a golden cloud o' dust;
And the bawlin' of the cattle
Is a-comin' down the wind,—
Oh, a finer life than ridin'
Would be mighty hard to find,
Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
Splittin' long cracks in the air,
Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,
Rootin' up the prickly pear.
I don't need no art exhibits
When the sunset does his best,
[p. 188] Paintin' everlastin' glories
On the mountains of the west.
And your operas look foolish
When the night bird starts his tune
And the desert's silver-mounted
By the kisses of the moon,
Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
I don't envy kings nor czars
When the coyotes down the valley
Are a-singin' to the stars.
When my earthly trail is ended
And my final bacon curled,
And the last great round up's finished
At the Home Ranch of the world,
I don't want no harps or haloes,
Robes or other dress-up things, —
Let me ride the starry ranges
On a pinto horse with wings,
Just a-ridin', just a-ridin',
Splittin' chunks o' wintry air,
With your feet froze to your stirrups
And a snowdrift in your hair.
(As sent by Elwood Adams, a Colorado
cowpuncher.) See "Sun and Saddle
Leather," by Charles Badger Clark, Jr.
THE END OF THE TRAIL
SOH, Bossie, soh!
The water's handy heah,
The grass is plenty neah,
An' all the stars a-sparkle
Bekaze we drive no mo'—
We drive no mo'.