Through cloudy gloom, through pale moonlight, Two men still press along. Not hiding, as the wolf and hind, From blinding snow and bitter wind Nor, like the Indian, crouching low Above a brush-fire's feeble glow But, vigorous and strong, Hasting their bidden task to close Whate'er obstructions interpose And parrying Fortune's adverse blows Right gaily, with a song. Plains of the mighty, virgin West, Plains in cold, sterile beauty dressed, Your time of fruit draws near! Creatures of thicket, vale and shore, Tribes of the hills, your reign is o'er, The conquerer is here! His footprints mark your secret grounds, His voice upon your air resounds, His name, unto your utmost bounds, Is one of strength and fear. The magic of his virile powers Shall change your desert wastes to bowers, Your nakedness to shade; Shall stretch broad, rustling ranks of corn Along your stony crests forlorn And wheat-fields, dappling in the sun, Where your mad autumn fires have run. The trails your bison made Shall grow beneath his hurrying feet To highway broad and village street, Along whose grassy sides shall sleep Meadows and orchards, fruited deep; Homesteads and schools and holy fanes To prove that all these fertile plains Are turned by God's eternal plan To serve the onward march of man, Which sweeping down the vale of time With gathering strength and hope sublime Is never checked nor stayed. COWBOY SONG |WE are up in the morning ere dawning of day And the grub-wagon's busy and flap-jacks in play, While the herd is astir over hillside and swale With the night-riders rounding them into the trail. Come, take up your cinches 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 Are pounding to powder the hot prairie sod, And it seems, as the dust turns you dizzy 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, now for the steers in 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 in your bronco To taking his share! Come, now for the steers in the long chaparral, For it's all in the drive to the railroad corral! [Illustration: 065] 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;