We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed.

The taut ropes sing like a banjo string

And the latigoes creak and strain.

I wait to hear him ridin' up behind.

There's land where yet no ditchers dig

Nor cranks experiment;

It's only lovely, free and big

And isn't worth a cent.

Born of a free, world-wandering race

Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.

There is some that likes the city—

Grass that's curried smooth and green,

Theaytres 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-coming' 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 haloes,

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,

And a-ridin'.

When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky

Through the desert so empty and bright,

When I'm watchin' the miles as they go crawlin' by

And a-hopin' I'll get there by night,

Then my hawse never speaks through the long sunny day,

But my saddle he sings in his creaky old way:

"Easy—easy—easy—

For a temperit pace ain't a crime.

Let your mount hit it steady, but give him his ease,

For the sun hammers hard and there's never a breeze.

We kin get there in plenty of time."

When I'm after some critter that's hit the high lope,

And a-spurrin' my hawse till he flies,

When I'm watchin' the chances for throwin' my rope

And a-winkin' the sweat from my eyes,

Then the leathers they squeal with the lunge and the swing

And I work to the livelier tune that they sing:

"Reach 'im! reach 'im! reach 'im!

If you lather your hawse to the heel!

There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick;

Never mind if it's rough and the bushes are thick—

Pull your hat down and fling in the steel!"