g>tm anb Babble 
 Heatfrer 
 
 Cfiarlts SSabjjer Clarfe, f r. 
 
 Jllultt teb lip I. 3. Swffman
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO j 
 
 1
 
 SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
 
 "If hen the last free trail is a prim, jencid lain 
 And our f/r fires grow weeds throiit/h forgetful 
 Mays, 
 
 Richer and statelier then you ll reujn, 
 
 Mother of men whom the world will praise. 
 
 And your sons will lore yon and sigh for you, 
 
 Labor and battle and die for you, 
 But ne-rer the fondest will understand 
 The way -we hare lored you, youny, yoiint/ land.
 
 
 
 SUN AND SADDLE 
 LEATHER 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES BADGER CLARK, JR. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BV 
 L. A. HUFFMAN 
 
 BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK co., LIMITED
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1915 AND 1917, BY CHARLES BADGER CLARK, JR. 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Made in the United States of America 
 
 The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.
 
 TO MY FATHER, 
 
 who, in his long life, has seldom been 
 conscious of a man s rough exterior, 
 or unconscious of his obscurest virtue.
 
 A FEW WORDS FROM THE PUBLISHER 
 
 ABOUT MR. L. A. HUFFMAN, THE 
 
 "WESTERN REPRESENTATIVE" 
 
 Early last fall we were fortunate enough to 
 discover Mr. L. A. Huffman of Miles City, Mon 
 tana, the illustrator who in 1878 began to take pho 
 tographs with crude cameras which he made him 
 self. These same photographs were the first of the 
 now famous Huffman Pictures comprising nearly 
 six thousand historic subjects, beginning with the 
 Indians and buffaloes round about Fort Keogh on 
 the Yellowstone, where he was post photographer in 
 General Miles army in the stirring territorial days. 
 
 Mr. Huffman wrote us a letter, a very breezy one 
 for a man sixty-five or one hundred years young. 
 He had come across this little book of verse and 
 tried to buy it. He wanted only two hundred cop 
 ies at once. Later when we asked him if he would 
 be interested in our new edition, he promptly re 
 plied: 
 
 "Sure! I am interested to the extent of about 
 five hundred copies. If I had a down-town book 
 store instead of this old studio in sagebrush out- 
 5
 
 skirts of the old cow and horse town, I d easily 
 make it a thousand copies, and with the order I d 
 say something very pointedly respecting your selec 
 tion of a sales manager for the short grass country 
 where there is, thanks be! still room to back away 
 and call a man a liar. I have read some western 
 verse these last forty years. Here and there you 
 will find a twelver, then, dilution a-plenty! 
 
 "Only yesterday I read aloud The Old Cow 
 Man to an old cow man, and when I had finished 
 the stanza: 
 
 When my old soul hunts range and rest 
 
 Beyond the last divide, 
 Just plant me in some stretch of West 
 
 That s sunny, lone, and wide. 
 Let cattle rub my tombstone down 
 
 And coyotes mourn their kin, 
 Let hawses paw and tromp the moun 
 
 But don t you fence it in. 
 
 "He said in a choky voice and with more than a 
 
 hint of moisture in his eyes, Who in H is this 
 
 kid Clark, anyway? and he coughed up three bones 
 for copies of the book. Later by phone he ordered 
 three more copies and added, You can break me if 
 there s a dead poem in it. I read the hull twenty- 
 two. I don t know how Clark knowed, but he 
 knows! 
 
 Mr. Huffman is handling the sale of Sun and 
 Saddle Leather in Montana and the adjacent states. 
 6
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ridin 13 
 
 The Song of the Leather 15 
 
 A Bad Half Hour 17 
 
 From Town 19 
 
 A Cowboy s Prayer 21 
 
 The Christmas Trail 23 
 
 A Border Affair 26 
 
 The Bunk-House Orchestra 28 
 
 The Outlaw 30 
 
 The Legend of Boastful Bill 32 
 
 The Tied Maverick 35 
 
 A Roundup Lullaby 37 
 
 The Trail o Love 39 
 
 Bachin 41 
 
 The Glory Trail 43 
 
 Bacon 46 
 
 The Lost Pardner 47 
 
 7
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 God s Reserves 49 
 
 The Married Man 51 
 
 The Old Cow Man 54 
 
 The Plainsmen 57 
 
 The Westerner 59 
 
 8
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane 
 And our graves grow weeds through forgetful 
 Mays, 
 
 Richer and statelier then you II reign, 
 
 Mother of men whom the world will praise. 
 
 And your sons will love you and sigh for you, 
 
 Labor and battle and die for you, 
 
 But never the fondest will understand 
 
 The way we have loved you, young, young land, 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 When my feet is in the stirrups 
 
 And my hawse is on the bust. . . .14 
 
 There s a time to be slow and a time to be 
 
 quick. . . . . . . .16 
 
 We have gathered fightin pointers from the 
 
 famous bronco steed. . . . .20 
 
 The taut ropes sing like a banjo string 
 
 And the latigoes creak and strain. . . 30 
 
 / wait to hear him ridin up behind. . . 48 
 
 There s land where yet no ditchers dig 
 
 Nor cranks experiment; 
 It s only lovely, free and big 
 
 And isn t worth a cent. . . . -54 
 
 Born of a free, world-wandering race 
 
 Little we yearned o er an oft-turned sod. 58
 
 SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
 
 RIDIN 
 
 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-comin down the wind 
 Then a finer life than ridin 
 
 Would be mighty hard to find. 
 
 Just a-ridin , a-ridin 
 Split tin long cracks through the air, 
 Stirrin up a baby cyclone, 
 Rip pin up the prickly pear 
 As I m ridin . 
 13
 
 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 .
 
 THE SONG OF THE LEATHER 
 
 Wheri 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!" 
 15
 
 When I ve rustled all day till I m achin for rest 
 And I m ordered a night-guard to ride, 
 
 With the tired little moon hangin low in the west 
 And my sleepiness fightin my pride, 
 
 Then I nod and I blink at the dark herd below 
 And the saddle he sings as my hawse paces slow : 
 
 "Sleepy sleepy sleepy 
 We was ordered a close watch to keep, 
 
 But I ll sing you a song in a drowsy old key; 
 
 All the world is a-snoozin so why shouldn t we? 
 Go to sleep, pardner mine, go to sleep" 
 
 16
 
 / here s a time fo be stoic and a tune to be quick.
 
 A BAD HALF HOUR 
 
 Wonder why I feel so restless; 
 
 Moon is shinin still and bright, 
 Cattle all is restin easy, 
 
 But I just kaint sleep tonight. 
 Ain t no cactus in my blankets, 
 
 Don t know why they feel so hard 
 Less it s Waxblin Jim a-singin 
 
 "Annie Laurie" out on guard. 
 
 "Annie Laurie" wish he d quit it! 
 
 Couldn t sleep now if I tried. 
 Makes the night seem big and lonesome, 
 
 And my throat feels sore inside. 
 How my Annie used to sing it ! 
 
 And it sounded good and gay 
 Nights I drove her home from dances 
 
 When the east was turnin gray. 
 
 Yes, "her brow was like the snowdrift" 
 
 And her eyes like quiet streams, 
 "And her face" I still kin see it 
 
 Much too frequent in my dreams; 
 And her hand was soft and trembly 
 
 That night underneath the tree, 
 When I couldn t help but tell her 
 
 She was "all the world to me."
 
 But her folks said I was "shif less," 
 
 "Wild," "unsettled," they was right, 
 For I leaned to punchin cattle 
 
 And I m at it still tonight. 
 And she married young Doc Wilkins 
 
 Oh my Lord! but that was hard! 
 Wish that fool would quit his singin 
 
 "Annie Laurie" out on guard! 
 
 Oh, I just kaint stand it thinkin 
 
 Of the things that happened then. 
 Good old times, and all apast me! 
 
 Never seem to come again 
 My turn? Sure. I ll come a-runnin . 
 
 Warm me up some coffee, pard 
 But I ll stop that Jim from singin 
 
 "Annie Laurie" out on guard. 
 
 18
 
 FROM TOWN 
 
 We re the children of the open and we hate the 
 
 haunts o men, 
 
 But we had to come to town to get the mail. 
 And we re ridin home at daybreak cause the air 
 
 is cooler then 
 
 All cept one of us that stopped behind in jail. 
 Shorty s nose won t bear paradin , Bill s off eye is 
 
 darkly fadin , 
 
 All our toilets show a touch of disarray, 
 For we found that city life is a constant round of 
 
 strife 
 And we ain t the breed for shyin from a fray. 
 
 Chant your warwhoop, pardners dear, while the 
 
 east turns pale with fear 
 And the chaparral is tremblin all aroun 
 For we re wicked to the marrer; we re a midnight 
 
 dream of terror 
 When we re ridin up the rocky trail from town! 
 
 We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, 
 
 the centipede. 
 From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our 
 
 rights. 
 We have gathered fightin pointers from the famous 
 
 bronco steed 
 
 And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites. 
 So when some high-collared herrin jeered the garb 
 that I was wearin 
 19
 
 Twas t long till we had got where talkin ends, 
 
 And he et his illbred chat, with a sauce of derby hat, 
 
 While my merry pardners entertained his friends. 
 
 Sing er out, my buckeroos ! Let the desert hear the 
 
 news. 
 Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty 
 
 down. 
 We re the fiercest wolves a-prowlin and it s just 
 
 our night for howlin 
 When we re ridin up the rocky trail from town. 
 
 Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan 
 
 range in halves, 
 
 Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn t fight, 
 Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years 
 
 crop of calves 
 
 And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night, 
 There has been a taste for battle mong the men 
 
 that follow cattle 
 
 And a love of doin things that s wild and strange, 
 And the warmth of Laban s words when he missed 
 
 his speckled herds 
 Still is useful in the language of the. range. 
 
 Sing er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and 
 
 leather throats, 
 
 For we wear the brand of Ishm el like a crown. 
 We re the sons o desolation, we re the outlaws of 
 
 creation 
 
 Ee yow! a-ridin up the rocky trail from town! 
 20

 
 A COWBOY S PRAYER 
 
 (Written for Mother) 
 
 Oh Lord. I ve never lived where churches grow. 
 
 I love creation better as it stood 
 That day You finished it so long ago 
 
 And looked upon Your work and called it good. 
 I know that others find You in the light 
 
 That s sifted down through tinted window panes, 
 And yet I seem to feel You near tonight 
 
 In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. 
 
 I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well, 
 
 That You have made my freedom so complete; 
 That I m no slave of whistle, clock or bell, 
 
 Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street. 
 Just let me live my life as I ve begun 
 
 And give me work that s open to the sky; 
 Make me a pardner of the wind and sun, 
 
 And I won t ask a life that s soft or high. 
 
 Let me be easy on the man that s down; 
 
 Let me be square and generous with all. 
 I m careless sometimes, Lord, when I m in town, 
 
 But never let em say I m mean Or small! 
 Make me as big and open as the plains, 
 
 As honest as the hawse between my knees, 
 Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains, 
 
 Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze! 
 
 21
 
 Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget. 
 
 You know about the reasons that are hid. 
 You understand the things that gall and fret; 
 
 You know me better than my mother did. 
 Just keep an eye on all that s done and said 
 
 And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside, 
 And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead 
 
 That stretches upward toward the Great Divide. 
 
 22
 
 THE CHRISTMAS TRAIL 
 
 The wind is blowin cold down the mountain tips 
 
 of snow 
 
 And cross the ranges layin brown and dead; 
 It s cryin through the valley trees that wear the 
 
 mistletoe 
 
 And mournin with the gray clouds overhead. 
 Yet it s sweet with the beat of my little hawse s feet 
 
 And I whistle like the air was warm and blue, 
 For I m ridin up the Christmas trail to you, 
 
 Old folks, 
 I m a-ridin up the Christmas trail to you. 
 
 Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the 
 
 Spring 
 
 Had wheedled me to hoppin of the bars, 
 And livin in the shadow of a sailin buzzard s wing 
 
 And sleepin underneath a roof of stars. 
 But the bright campfire light only dances for a 
 
 night, 
 
 While the home-fire burns forever clear and true, 
 So round the year I circle back to you, 
 
 Old folks, 
 Round the rovin year I circle back to you.
 
 Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer 
 
 sun 
 
 Had shot a charge of fire through my veins, 
 And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin 
 
 and the fun 
 Mong the other mav ricks drifted from the 
 
 plains. 
 Ay! the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I d 
 
 forgot, 
 And the devil smacked the young blood in his 
 
 stew, 
 Yet I m lovin every mile that s nearer you, 
 
 Good folks, 
 Lovin every blessed mile that s nearer you. 
 
 Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall 
 
 When the clouds of bawlin dust before us ran, 
 
 And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin of 
 
 us all 
 
 To a stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man. 
 But the pride sort of died when the man got weary 
 
 eyed; 
 Twas a sleepy boy that rode the night-guard 
 
 through, 
 And he dreamed himself along a trail to you, 
 
 Old folks, 
 Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you. 
 
 24
 
 The coyote s Winter howl cuts the dusk behind the 
 
 hill, 
 
 But the ranch s shinin window I kin see, 
 And though I don t deserve it and, I reckon, never 
 
 will, 
 
 There ll be room beside the fire kep for me. 
 Skimp my plate cause I m late. Let me hit the old 
 
 kid gait, 
 
 For tonight I m stumblin tired of the new 
 And I m ridin up the Christmas trail to you, 
 
 Old folks, 
 I m a-ridin up the Christmas trail to you.
 
 A BORDER AFFAIR 
 
 Spanish is the lovin tongue, 
 
 Soft as music, light as spray. 
 Twas a girl I learnt it from, 
 
 Livin down Sonora way. 
 I don t look much like a lover, 
 Yet I say her love words over 
 
 Often when I m all alone 
 
 "Mi amor, mi corazon." 
 
 Nights when she knew where I d ride 
 
 She would listen for my spurs, 
 Fling the big door open wide, 
 
 Raise them laughin eyes of hers 
 And my heart would nigh stop beatin 
 When I heard her tender greetin , 
 
 Whispered soft for me alone 
 
 "Mi amor! mi corazon!" 
 
 Moonlight in the patio, 
 
 Old Senora noddin near, 
 Me and Juana talkin low 
 
 So the Madre couldn t hear 
 How those hours would go a-flyin ! 
 And too soon I d hear her sighin 
 
 In her little sorry tone 
 
 "Adios, mi corazon!" 
 
 26
 
 But one time I had to fly 
 
 For a foolish gamblin fight, 
 And we said a swift goodbye 
 
 In that black, unlucky night. 
 When I d loosed her arms from clingin 
 With her words the hoofs kep ringin 
 
 As I galloped north alone 
 
 "Adios, mi corazon!" 
 
 Never seen her since that night. 
 
 I kaint cross the Line, you know. 
 She was Mex and I was white; 
 
 Like as not it s better so. 
 Yet I ve always sort of missed her 
 Since that last wild night I kissed her, 
 
 Left her heart and lost my own 
 
 "Adios, mi corazon!"
 
 THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA 
 
 Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out, 
 Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout, 
 For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is 
 
 on the plain, 
 But we ll cut the chimney s moanin with a livelier 
 
 refrain. 
 
 Shinin J dobe fireplace, shadows on the wall 
 
 (See old Shorty s friv lous toes a-twitchin at the 
 
 call:] 
 It s the best grand high that there is within the 
 
 law 
 When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the 
 
 Straw." 
 
 Freezy was the day s ride, lengthy was the trail, 
 Ev ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail, 
 But we held em and we shoved em, for our longin 
 
 hearts were tried 
 By a yearnin" for tobacker and our dear fireside. 
 
 Swing er into stop-time, don t you let er droop! 
 (Yoi/re about as tuneful as a coyote with the 
 
 croup!} 
 Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the 
 
 draw, 
 But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in 
 
 the Straw." 
 
 28
 
 Snarlin when the rain whipped, cussin at the 
 
 ford 
 
 Ev ry mile of twenty was a long discord, 
 But the night is brimmin music and its glory is 
 
 complete 
 When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o Shorty s 
 
 feet! 
 
 Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots! 
 (Don t he beat the devil s wife for jiggin in is 
 
 boots?} 
 Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he 
 
 was raw, 
 But tonight he s done forgot it prancin "Turkey 
 
 in the Straw." 
 
 Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, 
 Livin is a luxury that don t come high; 
 Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck 
 
 allow, 
 For we all must die or marry less than forty years 
 
 from now! 
 
 Lively on the last turn! lope er to the death! 
 
 (Reddy s soul is willin but he s gettin short o 
 breath.} 
 
 Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks 
 his paw 
 
 When we have an hour of firelight set to "Tur 
 key in the Straw." 
 29
 
 THE OUTLAW 
 
 When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old, 
 
 By the foot or the neck or the horn, 
 He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white 
 
 But I ll throw him as sure as you re born. 
 Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string 
 
 And the latigoes creak and strain, 
 Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer 
 
 And I ll tumble him on the plain. 
 
 For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast, 
 
 And the man is the boss of the herd. 
 And each of the bunch, from the biggest to 
 
 least, 
 Must come down when he says the word. 
 
 When my leg swings cross on an outlaw hawse 
 
 And my spurs clinch into his hide, 
 He kin r ar and pitch over hill and ditch, 
 
 But wherever he goes I ll ride. 
 Let im spin and flop like a crazy top 
 
 Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, 
 But he ll know the feel of my rowelled heel 
 
 Till he s happy to own he s broke. 
 
 For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute, 
 And the hawse may be prince of his clan 
 
 But he ll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot 
 And own that his boss is the man. 
 30
 
 When the devil at rest underneath my vest 
 
 Gets up and begins to paw 
 And my hot tongue strain? at its bridle reins, 
 
 Then I tackle the real outlaw. 
 When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild 
 
 And my temper is fractious growed, 
 If he ll hump his neck just a triflin speck, 
 
 Then it s dollars to dimes I m throwed. 
 
 For a man is a man, but he s partly a beast. 
 
 He kin brag till he makes you deaf, 
 But the one lone brute, from the west to the 
 east, 
 
 That he kaint quite break is himse f.
 
 THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL 
 
 At a roundup on the Gily, 
 
 One sweet mornin long ago, 
 Ten of us was throwed right freely 
 
 By a hawse from Idaho. 
 And we thought he d go a-beggin 
 
 For a man to break his pride 
 Till, a-hitchin up one leggin, 
 
 Boastful Bill cut loose and cried 
 
 "I m a on ry proposition for to hurt; 
 
 I fulfill my earthly mission with a quirt; 
 I kin ride the highest liver 
 Tween the Gulf and Powder River, 
 
 And I ll break this thing as easy as I d 
 flirt." 
 
 So Bill climbed the Northern Fury 
 
 And they mangled up the air 
 Till a native of Missouri 
 
 Would have owned his brag was fair. 
 Though the plunges kep him reelin 
 
 And the wind it flapped his shirt, 
 Loud above the hawse s squealin 
 
 We could hear our friend assert 
 
 "I m the one to take such rakin s as a joke. 
 Some one hand me up the rnakin s of a 
 smoke! 
 
 32
 
 // you think my fame needs bright nin 
 W y, I ll rope a streak of lightnin 
 And I ll cinch "im up and spur "im till he s 
 broke." 
 
 Then one caper of repulsion 
 
 Broke that hawse s back in two. 
 Cinches snapped in the convulsion; 
 
 Skyward man and saddle flew. 
 Up he mounted, never laggin , 
 
 While we watched him through our tears, 
 And his last thin bit of braggin 
 
 Came a-droppin to our ears. 
 
 "If you d ever watched my habits very 
 
 close 
 You would know I ve broke such rabbits 
 
 by the gross, 
 
 I have kep my talent hidin ; 
 I m too good for earthly ridin 
 And I m off to bust the lightnin s 
 Adios!" 
 
 Years have gone since that ascension. 
 
 Boastful Bill ain t never lit, 
 So we reckon that he s wrenchin 
 
 Some celestial outlaw s bit. 
 When the night rain beats our slickers 
 
 And the wind is swift and stout 
 And the lightnin flares and flickers, 
 
 We kin sometimes hear him shout 
 33
 
 "I m a bronco-tiuistin wonder on the fly; 
 
 I m the ridin son-oj -thunder of the sky. 
 Hi! you earthlin s, shut your winders 
 While we re rippin clouds to flinders. 
 
 If this blue-eyed darlin kicks at you, you 
 
 Stardust on his chaps and saddle, 
 
 Scornful still of jar and jolt, 
 He ll come back some day, astraddle 
 
 Of a bald-faced thunderbolt. 
 And the thin-skinned generation 
 
 Of that dim and distant day 
 Sure will stare with admiration 
 
 When they hear old Boastful say 
 
 "I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed. 
 Now I m last of all rough riders, and the 
 
 best. 
 
 Huh! you soft and dainty floaters, 
 With your a roplanes and motors 
 Huh! are you the great grandchildren of 
 the West!" 
 
 34
 
 THE TIED MAVERICK 
 
 Lay on the iron ! the tie holds fast 
 
 And my wild record closes. 
 This maverick is down at last 
 
 Just roped and tied with roses. 
 And one small girl s to blame for it, 
 Yet I don t fight with shame for it 
 Lay on the iron; I m game for it, 
 Just roped and tied with roses. 
 
 I loped among the wildest band 
 
 Of saddle-hatin winners 
 Gay colts that never felt a brand 
 
 And scarred old outlaw sinners. 
 The wind was rein and guide to us; 
 The world was pasture wide to us 
 And our wild name was pride to us 
 
 High headed bronco sinners! 
 
 So, loose and light we raced and fought 
 
 And every range we tasted, 
 But now, since I m corralled and caught, 
 
 I know them days were wasted. 
 From now, the all-day gait for me, 
 The trail that s hard but straight for me, 
 For down that trail, who ll wait for me ! 
 
 Ay ! them old days were wasted ! 
 
 35
 
 But though I m broke, I ll never be 
 
 A saddle-marked old groaner, 
 For never worthless bronc like me 
 
 Got such a gentle owner. 
 There could be colt days glad as mine 
 Or outlaw runs as mad as mine 
 Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine, 
 But never such an owner. 
 
 Lay on the iron, and lay it red! 
 
 I ll take it kind and clever. 
 Who wouldn t hold a prouder head 
 
 To wear that mark forever? 
 I ll never break and stray from her; 
 I d starve and die away from her. 
 Lay on the iron it s play from her 
 And brand me hers forever!
 
 A ROUNDUP LULLABY 
 
 Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine, 
 
 Coyote yappin lazy on the hill, 
 Sleepy winks of lightnin down the far skyline, 
 
 Time for millin cattle to be still. 
 
 So o, now, the lightnin s far away, 
 
 The coyote s nothin skeery ; 
 
 He s singin to his dearie 
 Hee ya, tarnmalalleday ! 
 
 Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin . 
 
 Nothin out the hazy range that you folks need, 
 Nothin we kin see to take your eye. 
 
 Yet we got to watch you or you d all stampede, 
 Plungin down some royo bank to die. 
 
 So o, now, for still the shadows stay; 
 
 The moon is slow and steady ; 
 
 The sun comes when he s ready. 
 Hee ya, tammalalleday ! 
 
 No use runnin out to meet the mornin. 
 
 Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim, 
 
 Dreamin of a land too far to see. 
 There, you dream, is wavin grass and streams that 
 brim 
 
 And it often seems the same to me. 
 
 37
 
 So o, now, for dreams they never pay. 
 The dust it keeps us blinkin , 
 We re seven miles from drinkin . 
 
 Hee ya, tammalalleday ! 
 
 But we got to stand it till the mornin . 
 
 Mostly it s a moonlight world our trail winds 
 through. 
 
 Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns. 
 Always far away is misty silver-blue; 
 
 Always underfoot it s rocks and thorns. 
 
 So o, now. It must be this away 
 The lonesome owl a-callin , 
 The mournful coyote squallin. 
 
 Hee ya, tammalalleday! 
 
 Mocking-birds don s sing until the mornin . 
 
 Always seein wayoff dreams of silver-blue, 
 Always feelin thorns that slab and sting. 
 
 Yet stampedin never made a dream come true, 
 So I ride around myself and sing. 
 
 So o, now, a man has got to stay, 
 
 A-likin or a-hatin , 
 
 But workin on and waitin. 
 Hee ya, tammalalleday! 
 
 All of us are waitin for the mornin .
 
 THE TRAIL O LOVE 
 
 My love was swift and slender 
 
 As an antelope at play, 
 And her eyes were gray and tender 
 
 As the east at break o day, 
 And I sure was shaky hearted 
 
 And her flower face was pale 
 On that silver night we parted, 
 
 When I sang along the trail: 
 
 Forever forever 
 
 Oh, moon above the pine, 
 Like the matin birds in Springtime, 
 
 I will twitter while you shine. 
 Rich as ore with gold a-glowin , 
 Sweet as sparklin springs a-ftowin , 
 Strong as redwoods ever growin , 
 So will be this love o mine. 
 
 I rode across the river 
 
 And beyond the far divide, 
 Till the echo of "forever" 
 
 Staggered faint behind and died. 
 For the long trail smiled and beckoned 
 
 And the free wind blowed so sweet, 
 That life s gayest tune, I reckoned, 
 
 Was my hawse s ringin feet. 
 
 39
 
 Forever forever 
 
 Oh, stars, look down and sigh, 
 For a poison spring will sparkle 
 
 And the trustin drinker die. 
 And a rovin bird will twitter 
 
 And a worthless rock will glitter 
 And the maiden s love is bitter 
 
 When the man s is proved a lie. 
 
 Last the rover s circle guidin 
 Brought me where I used to be, 
 
 And I met her, gaily ridin 
 With a smarter man than me. 
 
 Then I raised my dusty cover 
 
 But she didn t see nor hear, 
 
 So I hummed the old tune over, 
 Laughin in my hawse s ear: 
 
 Forever forever 
 
 Oh, sun, look down and smile 
 If the snow flake specks the desert 
 
 Or the yucca blooms awhile. 
 Ay! what gloom the mountain covers 
 Where the driftin cloud shade hovers! 
 Ay! the trail o parted lovers, 
 
 Where "j or ever" lasts a mile! 
 
 40
 
 BACHIN 
 
 Our lives are hid; our trails are strange; 
 
 We re scattered through the West 
 In canyon cool, on blistered range 
 
 Or windy mountain crest. 
 Wherever Nature drops her ears 
 
 And bares her claws to scratch, 
 From Yuma to the north frontiers, 
 
 You ll likely find the bach , 
 You will, 
 
 The shy and sober bach ! 
 
 Our days are sun and storm and mist, 
 
 The same as any life, 
 Except that in our trouble list 
 
 We never count a wife. 
 Each has a reason why he s lone, 
 
 But keeps it neath his hat; 
 Or, if he s got to tell some one, 
 
 Confides it to his cat, 
 He does, 
 
 Just tells it to his cat. 
 
 We re young or old or slow or fast, 
 
 But all plumb versatyle. 
 The mighty bach that fires the blast 
 
 Kin serve up beans in style. 
 The bach that ropes the plungin cows
 
 Kin mix the biscuits true 
 We earn our grub by drippin brows 
 And cook it by em too, 
 
 We do, 
 We cook it by em too. 
 
 We like to breathe unbranded air, 
 
 Be free of foot and mind, 
 And go or stay, or sing or swear, 
 
 Whichever we re inclined. 
 An appetite, a conscience clear, 
 
 A pipe that s rich and old 
 Are loves that always bless and cheer 
 
 And never cry nor scold, 
 They don t, 
 
 They never cry nor scold. 
 
 Old Adam bached some ages back 
 
 And smoked his pipe so free, 
 A-loafin in a palm-leaf shack 
 
 Beneath a mango tree. 
 He d best have stuck to bachin ways, 
 
 And scripture proves the same, 
 For Adam s only happy days 
 
 Was fore the woman came, 
 They was, 
 
 All fore the woman came.
 
 THE GLORY TRAIL 
 
 Way high up the Mogollons, 
 
 Among the mountain tops, 
 A lion cleaned a yearlin s bones 
 
 And licked his thankful chops, 
 When on the picture who should ride, 
 
 A-trippin down a slope, 
 But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride 
 
 And mav rick-hungry rope. 
 
 "Oh, glory be to me," says he, 
 "And fame s unfadin flowers! 
 
 All meddlin hands are far away; 
 
 I ride my good top-hawse today 
 
 And I m top-rope of the Lazy J 
 Hi! kitty cat, you re ours!" 
 
 That lion licked his paw so brown 
 
 And dreamed soft dreams of veal 
 And then the circlin loop sung down 
 
 And roped him round his meal. 
 He yowled quick fury to the world 
 
 Till all the hills yelled back; 
 The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled 
 
 And Bob caught up the slack. 
 
 "Oh, glory be to me" laughs he. 
 "We hit the glory trail. 
 
 43
 
 No human man as I have read 
 Darst loop a ragin lion s head, 
 Nor ever hawse could drag one dead 
 Until we told the tale." 
 
 Way high up the Mogollons 
 
 That top-hawse done his best, 
 Through whippin brush and rattlin stones, 
 
 From canyon-floor to crest. 
 But ever when Bob turned and hoped 
 
 A limp remains to find, 
 A red-eyed lion, belly roped 
 
 But healthy, loped behind. 
 
 "Oh, glory be to me," grunts he. 
 
 "This glory trail is rough, 
 Yet even till the Judgment Morn 
 I ll keep this dally round the horn, 
 For never any hero born 
 
 Could stoop to holler: Nuff! " 
 
 Three suns had rode their circle home 
 
 Beyond the desert s rim, 
 And turned their star-herds loose to roam 
 
 The ranges high and dim; 
 Yet up and down and round and cross 
 
 Bob pounded, weak and wan, 
 For pride still glued him to his hawse 
 
 And glory drove him on. 
 
 44
 
 "Oh, glory be to me" sighs he. 
 
 "He kaint be drug to death, 
 But now I know beyond a doubt 
 Them heroes I have read about 
 Was only fools that stuck it out 
 
 To end of mortal breath." 
 
 Way high up the Mogollons 
 
 A prospect man did swear 
 That moon dreams melted down his bones 
 
 And hoisted up his hair: 
 A ribby cow-hawse thundered by, 
 
 A lion trailed along, 
 A rider, ga nt but chin on high, 
 
 Yelled out a crazy song. 
 
 "Oh, glory be to me!" cries he, 
 
 "And to my noble noose! 
 Oh, stranger, tell my pards below 
 I took a r ampin dream in tow, 
 And if I never lay him low, 
 
 I ll never turn him loose!" 
 
 45
 
 BACON 
 
 You re salty and greasy and smoky as sin 
 
 But of all grub we love you the best. 
 You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin 
 
 And helped us win out in the West. 
 You froze with us up on the Laramie trail ; 
 
 You sweat with us down at Tucson; 
 When Injun was painted and white man was pale 
 You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail 
 
 And load up our Colts and hang on. 
 
 You ve sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain 
 
 Over campfires of sagebrush and oak; 
 The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main 
 
 Have carried your savory smoke. 
 You re friendly to miner or puncher or priest; 
 
 You re as good in December as May; 
 You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased 
 And the rough course of empire to westward was 
 greased 
 
 By the bacon we fried on the way. 
 
 We ve said that you weren t fit for white men to eat 
 
 And your virtues we often forget. 
 We ve called you by names that I darsn t repeat, 
 
 But we love you and swear by you yet. 
 Here s to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin , 
 
 All the westerners join in the toast, 
 From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine, 
 From Canada down to the Mexican Line, 
 
 From Omaha out to the coast! 
 46
 
 THE LOST PARDNER 
 
 I ride alone and hate the boys I meet. 
 
 Today, some way, their laughin hurts me so. 
 I hate the mockin -birds in the mesquite 
 
 And yet I liked em just a week ago. 
 I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares! 
 
 The bird songs make me sore. 
 I seem the only thing on earth that cares 
 
 Cause Al ain t here no more! 
 
 Twas just a stumblin hawse, a tangled spur 
 
 And, when I raised him up so limp and weak, 
 One look before his eyes begun to blur 
 
 And then the blood that wouldn t let im speak! 
 And him so strong, and yet so quick he died, 
 
 And after year on year 
 When we had always trailed it side by side, 
 
 He went and left me here! 
 
 We loved each other in the way men do 
 
 And never spoke about it, Al and me, 
 But we both knowed, and knowin it so true 
 
 Was more than any woman s kiss could be. 
 We knowed and if the way was smooth or rough, 
 
 The weather shine or pour, 
 While I had him the rest seemed good enough 
 
 But he ain t here no more! 
 
 47
 
 What is there out beyond the last divide? 
 
 Seems like that country must be cold and dim. 
 He d miss this sunny range he used to ride, 
 
 And he d miss me, the same as I do him. 
 It s no use thinkin all I d think or say 
 
 Could never make it clear. 
 Out that dim trail that only leads one way 
 
 He s gone and left me here! 
 
 The range is empty and the trails are blind, 
 
 And I don t seem but half myself today. 
 I wait to hear him ridin up behind 
 
 And feel his knee rub mine the good old way. 
 He s dead and what that means no man kin tell. 
 
 Some call it "gone before." 
 Where ? I don t know, but God ! I know so well 
 
 That he ain t here no more!
 
 GOD S RESERVES 
 
 One time, way back where the year marks fade, 
 God said: "I see I must lose my West, 
 
 The prettiest part of the world I made, 
 The place where I ve always come to rest, 
 
 For the White Man grows till he fights for bread 
 
 And he begs and prays for a chance to spread. 
 
 "Yet I won t give all of my last retreat; 
 
 I ll help him to fight his long trail through, 
 But I ll keep some land from his field and street 
 
 The way that it was when the world was new. 
 He ll cry for it all, for that s his way, 
 And yet he may understand some day." 
 
 And so, from the painted Bad Lands, way 
 To the sun-beat home of the Pache kin, 
 
 God stripped some places to sand and clay 
 
 And dried up the beds where the streams had 
 been. 
 
 He marked His reserves with these plain signs 
 
 And stationed His rangers to guard the lines. 
 
 Then the White Man came, as the East growed old, 
 And blazed his trail with the wreck of war. 
 
 He riled the rivers to hunt for gold 
 And found the stuff he was lookin for; 
 
 Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts 
 
 And gashed through the hills with railroad cuts. 
 49
 
 He flung out his barb-wire fences wide 
 
 And plowed up the ground where the grass was 
 high. 
 
 He stripped off the trees from the mountain side 
 And ground out his ore where the streams run by, 
 
 Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar, 
 
 And the White Man was feelin at home once more. 
 
 But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things 
 
 That gall and grate on the White Man s nerves, 
 
 Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs 
 And guarded the lines of God s reserves. 
 
 So the folks all shy from the desert land, 
 
 Cept mebbe a few that kin understand. 
 
 There the world s the same as the day twas new, 
 With the land as clean as the smokeless sky 
 
 And never a noise as the years have flew, 
 
 But the sound of the warm wind driftin by; 
 
 And there, alone, with the man s world far, 
 
 There s a chance to think who you really are. 
 
 And over the reach of the desert bare, 
 
 When the sun drops low and the day wind stills, 
 
 Sometimes you kin almost see Him there, 
 As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills, 
 
 A-thinkin of things that s beyond our ken 
 
 And restin Himself from the noise of men.
 
 THE MARRIED MAN 
 
 There s an old pard of mine that sits by his door 
 
 And watches the evenin skies. 
 He s sat there a thousand of evenin s before 
 
 And I reckon he will till he dies. 
 El pobre! I reckon he will till he dies, 
 
 And hear through the dim, quiet air 
 Far cattle that call and the crickets that cheep 
 And his woman a-singin a kid to sleep 
 
 And the creak of her rockabye chair. 
 
 Once we made camp where the last light would fail 
 
 And the east wasn t white till we d start, 
 But now he is deaf to the call of the trail 
 
 And the song of the restless heart. 
 El pobre! the song of the restless heart 
 
 That you hear in the wind from the dawn! 
 He s left it, with all the good, free-footed things, 
 For a slow little song that a tired woman sings 
 
 And a smoke when his dry day is gone. 
 
 I ve rode in and told him of lands that were strange, 
 Where I d drifted from glory to dread. 
 
 He d tell me the news of his little old range 
 And the cute things his kids had said! 
 
 El pobre ! the cute things his kids had said ! 
 
 NOTE. "El pobre," Spanish, "Poor fellow." 
 51
 
 And the way six-year Billy could ride! 
 And the dark would creep in from the gray chap 
 arral 
 And the woman would hum, while I pitied my pal 
 
 And thought of him like he had died. 
 
 He rides in old circles and looks at old sights 
 
 And his life is as flat as a pond. 
 He loves the old skyline he watches of nights 
 
 And he don t seem to care for beyond. 
 El pobre! he don t seem to dream of beyond, 
 
 Nor the room he could find, there, for joy. 
 "Ain t you ever oneasy?" says I one day. 
 But he only just smiled in a pityin way 
 
 While he braided a quirt for his boy. 
 
 He preaches that I orter fold up my wings 
 
 And that even wild geese find a nest. 
 That "woman" and "wimmen" are different things 
 
 And a saddle nap isn t a rest. 
 El pobre! he s more for the shade and the rest 
 
 And he s less for the wind and the fight, 
 Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows rise 
 And I m tired from the wind and the sun in my 
 eyes, 
 
 I wonder, sometimes, if he s right.
 
 I ve courted the wind and I ve followed her free 
 
 From the snows that the low stars have kissed 
 To the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea, 
 
 Yet I reckon there s somethin I ve missed. 
 El pobre! Yes, mebbe there s somethin I ve missed, 
 
 And it mebbe is more than I ve won 
 Just a door that s my own, while the cool shadows 
 
 creep, 
 And a woman a-singin my kid to sleep 
 
 When I m tired from the wind and the sun. 
 
 53
 
 THE OLD COW MAN 
 
 I rode across a valley range 
 
 I hadn t seen for years. 
 The trail was all so spoilt and strange 
 
 It nearly fetched the tears. 
 I had to let ten fences down 
 
 (The fussy lanes ran wrong) 
 And each new line would make me frown 
 
 And hum a mournin song. 
 
 Oh, it s squeak! squeak! squeak! 
 
 Hear em stretchin of the wire! 
 The nester brand is on the land; 
 
 I reckon I ll retire. 
 While progress toots her brassy horn 
 
 And makes her motor buzz, 
 I thank the Lord I wasn t born 
 
 No later than I was! 
 
 Twas good to live when all the sod, 
 
 Without no fence nor fuss, 
 Belonged in pardnership to God, 
 
 The Gover ment and us. 
 With skyline bounds from east to west 
 
 And room to go and come, 
 I loved my fellow man the best 
 
 When he was scattered some. 
 
 54
 
 ., 
 "^ " 
 
 R
 
 Oh, it s squeak! squeak! squeak! 
 
 Close and closer cramps the wire. 
 There s hardly play to back away 1 
 
 And call a man a liar. 
 Their house has locks on every door; 
 
 Their land is in a crate. 
 These ain t the plains of God no more, 
 
 They re only real estate. 
 
 There s land where yet no ditchers dig 
 
 Nor cranks experiment; 
 It s only lovely, free and big 
 
 And isn t worth a cent. 
 I pray that them who come to spoil 
 
 May wait till I am dead 
 Before they foul that blessed soil 
 
 With fence and cabbage head. 
 
 Yet it s squeak! squeak! squeak! 
 
 Far and farther crawls the wire. 
 To crowd and pinch another inch 
 
 Is all their heart s desire. 
 The world is overstocked with men 
 
 And some will see the day 
 When each must keep his little pen, 
 
 But I ll be far away. 
 
 55
 
 When my old soul hunts range and rest 
 
 Beyond the last divide, 
 Just plant me in some stretch of West 
 
 That s sunny, lone and wide. 
 Let cattle rub my tombstone down 
 
 And coyotes mourn their kin, 
 Let hawses paw and tromp the moun 
 
 But don t you fence it in! 
 
 Oh, it s squeak! squeak! squeak! 
 
 And they pen the land with wire. 
 They figure fence and copper cents 
 
 Where we laughed round the fire. 
 Job cussed his birthday, night and morn, 
 
 In his old land of \]z, 
 But I m just glad I ivasn t born 
 
 No later than I was!
 
 THE PLAINSMEN 
 
 Men of the older, gentler soil, 
 
 Loving the things that their fathers wrought 
 Worn old fields of their fathers toil, 
 
 Scarred old hills where their fathers fought 
 Loving their land for each ancient trace, 
 Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face, 
 
 Such as they never can understand 
 
 The way we have loved you, young, young land ! 
 
 Born of a free, world-wandering race, 
 Little we yearned o er an oft-turned sod. 
 
 What did we care for the fathers place, 
 Having ours fresh from the hand of God? 
 
 Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you 
 
 When from the unreckoned miles of you, 
 Thrilling the wind with a sweet command, 
 Youth unto youth called, young, young land? 
 
 North, where the hurrying seasons changed 
 
 Over great gray plains where the trails lay long, 
 
 Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged, 
 Setting our days to a saddle song. 
 
 Through the icy challenge you flung to us, 
 
 Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us, 
 Following far as the rainbow spanned, 
 Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land ! 
 
 57
 
 South, where the sullen black mountains guard 
 Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun, 
 
 Over blinding trails where the hoofs rang hard, 
 Laughing or cursing, we rode and won. 
 
 Drunk with the virgin white fire of you, 
 
 Hotter than thirst was desire of you ; 
 
 Straight in our faces you burned your brand, 
 Marking your chosen ones, young, young land. 
 
 When did we long for the sheltered gloom 
 Of the older game with its cautious odds? 
 
 Gloried we always in sun and room, 
 
 Spending our strength like the younger gods. 
 
 By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us, 
 
 By the pain that tested the man in us, 
 
 By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand, 
 You were our true-love, young, young land. 
 
 When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane 
 And our graves grow weeds through forgetful 
 Mays, 
 
 Richer and statelier then you ll reign, 
 
 Mother of men whom the world will praise. 
 
 And your sons will love you and sigh for you, 
 
 Labor and battle and die for you, 
 
 But never the fondest will understand 
 
 The way we have loved you, young, young land.
 
 THE WESTERNER 
 
 My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains, 
 
 And each one sleeps alone. 
 Their trails may dim to the grass and rains, 
 
 For I choose to make my own. 
 I lay proud claim to their blood and name, 
 
 But I lean on no dead kin ; 
 My name is mine, for the praise or scorn, 
 And the world began when I was born 
 
 And the world is mine to win. 
 
 They built high towns on their old log sills, 
 
 Where the great, slow rivers gleamed, 
 But with new, live rock from the savage hills 
 
 I ll build as they only dreamed. 
 The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies, 
 
 Till the rails glint down the pass; 
 The desert springs into fruit and wheat 
 And I lay the stones of a solid street 
 
 Over yesterday s untrod grass. 
 
 I waste no thought on my neighbor s birth 
 
 Or the way he makes his prayer. 
 I grant him a white man s room on earth 
 
 If his game is only square. 
 While he plays it straight I ll call him mate; 
 
 If he cheats I drop him flat. 
 Old class and rank are a wornout lie, 
 For all clean men are as good as I, 
 
 And a king is only that. 
 59
 
 I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state 
 
 That will spoon me out my food. 
 A stout heart sings in the fray with fate 
 
 And the shock and sweat are good. 
 From noon to noon all the earthly boon 
 
 That I ask my God to spare 
 Is a little daily bread in store, 
 With the room to fight the strong for more, 
 
 And the weak shall get their share. 
 
 The sunrise plains are a tender haze 
 
 And the sunset seas are gray, 
 But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze 
 
 Over me and the big today. 
 What good to me is a vague "may be" 
 
 Or a mournful "might have been," 
 For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn 
 And the world began when I was born 
 
 And the world is mine to win. 
 
 60
 
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