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 do n'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 do n'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 do n'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’.