"Ride him, cowboy, ride him!" No longer on earth he'll hear. So bury his rope beside him, His saddle and other gear; For the Indians do so-fashion Whenever they plant a brave And the broncho-busting passion May last him beyond the grave! For he was a hard-boiled buster Who'd tackle the worst; who knew Each trick that a horse could muster, Each stunt that a bronch could do. His trade was rough and chancy, His ridin' would raise your hair And I can't exactly fancy Him twangin' a harp up there. He wouldn't like life seraphic Somewhere on a golden cloud With angels directin' traffic And saints in a holy crowd. Nope, now that his job has wound up I reckon the thing he'd prize Would be a heavenly round-up A rodeo of the skies! Then bury his gear beside him So he won't need to change When "Ride him, cowboy, ride him!" Resounds on the ghostly range. He ain't the guy to psalm it Hemmed in by no golden bars, But he'll rope him a bucking comet And ride it among the stars! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WIND IN A FROLIC by WILLIAM HOWITT WINTER EVENING by ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN THE HAND OF LINCOLN by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN TO MR. BOWRING ON HIS POETICAL TRANSLATIONS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD WORTH FOREST by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |