Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp

of how that smart chap
Done me up w’en I thought I had sich a soft snap,
Done me up on a race with remarkable ease,
An’ lowered my pride a good many degrees.
Did I give him the hoss? W’y o’ course I did, boss,
An’ I tell you it warn’t no diminutive loss.
He writ me a letter from back in the East,
An’ said he presented the neat little beast
To a feller named Pope, who stands at the head
O’ the ranch where the cussed wheel hosses are bred.

Anonymous.

Riders of the Stars

Twenty abreast down the Golden Street ten thousand riders marched;
Bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time;
And the Angel Host to the lone, last ghost their delicate eyebrows arched
As the swaggering sons of the open range drew up to the throne sublime.

Gaunt and grizzled, a Texas man from out of the concourse strode,
And doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle head;
The sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage glowed;
“Marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here,” he said.

A hush ran over the waiting throng as the Cherubim replied:
“He that readeth the hearts of men He deemeth your challenge strange,
Though He long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not walk but ride,
Oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range!”

Then warily spake the Texas man: “A petition and no complaint
We here present, if the Law allows and the Marster He thinks it fit;
We-all agree to the things that be, but we’re longing for things that ain’t,
So we took a vote and we made a plan and here is the plan we writ:⁠—

“ ‘Give us a range and our horses and ropes, open the Pearly Gate,
And turn us loose in the unfenced blue riding the sunset rounds,
Hunting each stray in the Milky Way and running the Rancho straight;
Not crowding the dogie stars too much on their way to the bedding-grounds.

“ ‘Maverick comets that’s running wild, we’ll rope ’em and brand ’em fair,
So they’ll quit stampeding the starry herd and scaring the folks below,
And we’ll save ’em prime for the round-up time, and we riders’ll all be there,
Ready and willing to do our work as we did in the long ago.

“ ‘We’ve studied the Ancient Landmarks, Sir; Taurus, the Bear, and Mars,
And Venus a-smiling across the west as bright as a burning coal,
Plain to guide as we punchers ride night-herding the little stars,
With Saturn’s rings for our home corral and the Dipper our water hole.

“ ‘Here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long gone by,
And our singing it doesn’t fit in up here though we tried it for old time’s sake;
Our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that’s why
We ask you, Marster, to turn us loose⁠—just give us an even break!’ ”

Then the Lord He spake to the Cherubim, and this was His kindly word:
“He that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go;
Turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd;
My glory sings in the toil they crave; ’tis their right. I would have it so.”

Have you heard in the starlit dusk of eve when the lone coyotes roam,
The Yip! Yip! Yip! of a hunting cry and the echo that shrilled afar,
As you listened still on a desert hill and gazed at the twinkling dome,
And a viewless rider swept the sky on the trail of a shooting star?

Henry Herbert Knibbs.

Lasca

I want free life, and I want fresh air;
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
The crack of the whips like shots in battle,
The medley of hoofs and horns and heads
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger, and life and love⁠—
And Lasca! Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side,
With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or creeds;
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;
Little she cared save to be at my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba’s shore to Lavaca’s tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow:
From her little head to her little feet,
She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
She would hunger that I might eat,
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once, when I made her jealous for fun
At something I whispered or looked or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,
To a glorious girl in the Alamo,
She drew from her garter a little dagger,
And⁠—sting of a wasp⁠—it made me stagger!
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
And I shouldn’t be maundering here tonight;
But she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound
Her torn rebosa about the wound
That I swiftly forgave her. Scratches don’t count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown⁠—a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
She was alive in every limb
With feeling, to the finger tips;
And when the sun is like a fire,
And sky one shining, soft sapphire
One does not drink in little sips.
⋮
The air was heavy, the night was hot,
I sat by her side and forgot, forgot;
Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,
Forgot that the air was close oppressed,
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
In the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon;
That, once let the herd at its breath take fright,
Nothing on earth can stop their flight;
And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
That falls in front of their mad