We are up in the morning ere dawning of day
And the grub wagon's busy and flapjacks in play;
While the herd is astir over hillside and swale
With the night-riders rounding them into the trail.
Come, take up your cinchas
And shake up your reins;
Come, wake up your bronco
And break for the plains;
Come roust those red steers from the long chaparral,
For the outfit is off for the railroad corral!
The sun circles upward, the steers as they plod
Axe pounding to powder the hot prairie sod
And, it seems, as the dust turns you fuzzy and sick
That you'll never reach noon and the cool, shady creek.
But tie up your kerchief
And ply up your nag;
Come, dry up your grumbles
And try not to lag;
Come, larrup those steers from the long chaparral,
For we're far on the way to the railroad corral!
The afternoon shadows are starting to lean
When the grub wagon sticks in a marshy ravine,
And the herd scatters further than vision can look,
For you bet all true punchers will help out the cook!
So shake out your rawhide
And snake it up fair;
Come, break your old broncho
To taking his share!
Come, now for the steers in the long chaparral,
For it's all in the drive to the railroad corral!
I But the longest of days must reach evening at last,
When the hills are all climbed and the creeks are all passed
And the tired herd droops in the yellowing light;
Let them loaf if they will, for the railroad's in sight!
So flap up your holster
And snap up your belt;
Come, strap up the saddle
Whose lap you have felt;
Good-by to the steers and the long chaparraJ!
There's a town that's a trump by the railroad corral!
By courtesy Leslie's Weekly, Joseph Mills Hanson. Copyright, Leshe-Judge Company.