_There's land where yet no ditchers dig_ _Nor cranks experiment;_ _It's only lovely, free and big_ _And isn't worth a cent._ 80 _Born of a free, world-wandering race_ _Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod._ 82 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-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'._ [Illustration: "_When my feet is in the stirrups And my hawse is on the bust._"] THE SONG OF THE LEATHER 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._"