Classic Poem

There is some that like the city —
Grass that's curried smooth and green,
Theayters and stranglin' collars,
Wagons run by gasoline —
But for me it's hawse and saddle
Every day without a change,
And a desert sun a-blazin'
On a hundred miles of range.

Just a-ridin', a-ridin' —
Desert ripplin' in the sun,
Mountains blue along the skyline —
I don't envy anyone
When I'm ridin'.

When my feet is in the stirrups
And my hawse is on the bust,
With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin'
From a cloud of golden dust,
And the bawlin' of the cattle
Is a-comin' down the wind,
Then a finer life than ridin'
Would be mighty hard to find.

Just a-ridin', a-ridin' —
Splittin' long cracks through the air,
Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,
Rippin' up the prickly pear
As I'm ridin'.

I don't need no art exhibits
When the sunset does her best,
Paintin' everlastin' glory
On the mountains to the west;
And your opery looks foolish
When the night bird starts his tune
And the desert's silver mounted
By the touches of the moon.

Just a-ridin', a-ridin',
Who kin envy kings and czars
When the coyotes down the valley
Are a-singin' to the stars,
If he's ridin'?

When my earthly trail is ended
And my final bacon curled
And the last great roundup's finished
At the Home Ranch of the world
I don't want no harps nor halos,
Robes nor other dressed up things —
Let me ride the starry ranges
On a pinto hawse with wings!

Just a-ridin', a-ridin' —
Nothin' I'd like half so well
As a-roundin' up the sinners
That have wandered out of hell,