Classic Poem

In the old, old days when the West was young,
The Ranger rode the trail.
The thunder of hoof-beats was his song,
And the Right his Holy Grail.

He was tall and straight as Indian corn;
Weathered and brown as a berry.
His draw was as quick as the redstart's flight;
He was Law on the Texas prairie.

The sky was his roof; the earth his bed;
His saddle a ready pillow.
His friends were the quail, the wild curlew
And the shade of the button willow.

You say the Ranger rides no more?
Listen, some night, if you will
When the wind is soft as a bluebird's call,
And the prairies are dark and still,

And you may hear the pound of hoofs,
You may catch the fleeting shadow
Of a horse and rider charging across
The grassy moonlit meadow.

Through windy darkness and brittle dawn,
He follows his mighty quest,
For the trail he cut so long ago
Runs straight through the heart of the West.