Classic Poem

A mile below Blue Canyon on the lonely Pinon trail,
Near the little town of Sanctos, nestled in a quiet dale,
Is the grave of a young cowboy whose name is now unknown
Save by a few frontiersmen who call the spot their own.

He was as fine a rider as ever forked a steed,
He was brave and kind and generous, never did a dirty deed,
Curly Joe, the name he went by, was enough, none cared to know
If he ever had another, so they called him Curly Joe.

'Bout a mile from the Sanctos village lived an ex-grandee of Spain
And his daughter, bonny Enza, called the White Rose of the Plain.
Curly loved this high-born lassie since that time so long ago
When he found her on the mountains, lost and blinded by the snow.

But coquettish was fair Enza, 'tis a woman's foolish trait
That has blasted many a manhood like the harsh decrees of fate.
When pressed in earnest language, not flowery but sincere,
For an answer to his question she smiled and shed a tear.

When she answered, “Really, Joe boy, quite wearisome you grow.
Your sister, sir, forever, but your wife, no never, Joe.”
Not another word was spoken, in a week poor Joe was dead,
Killed by a bucking bronco, or at least that's what they said.

For many a year the tombstone that marked this cowboy's grave
In quaint and curious language this prophetic warning gave:
“Never hope to win the daughter of the boss that owns the brand,
For I tried it and changed ranges to a far and better land.”